As the pandemic moved into its second year, hopes of travelling very far faded. Lockdowns and confusing half measures merged into a confused delirium. The days got longer but the UK temperature remained cool, feeding a mood of depressed desperation to move on and start living again. Travel plans came and went and the bleakness of the year meant that I did not pick up my cameras for almost nine months. Odd really, as a Leica CL that Alison bought me for my 60th birthday did nothing to rekindle my enthusiasm, other than to take a few shots to ensure it functioned correctly. With all travel plans cancelled we took a gamble on a possible two week holiday to Zakynthos and watched nervously as countries shifted in a confused fog of red, amber and green alerts, the colours smeared by any additional layer of tones from the same indecisive government spray gun.
But travel we did, and our trip to Zakynthos happened. And, while it was far from being traditionally Greek, we had a jolly old time living more or less on a diet of Retsina and Moussaka. The real Greece was harder to find here than we were used to. But legwork, bicycles and car hire allowed its discovery that was at once cathartic, rekindling the photographic flame within.