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    A Greek Village Waiting For God
    A Greek Village Waiting For God
    A Greek Village Waiting For God
    Ebook50 pages47 minutes

    A Greek Village Waiting For God

    By Michael Saunders

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    About this ebook

    If you are lusting after Greece in books, then here is the beginning of a Greek village series – Greek fiction that is real laugh out loud comedy. Episkopi is a Greek village, waiting for God, which sets the scene on what happens next. Discover how the village humorously goes about bringing itself back to life. The Mynos Series encompasses traditional village life in Greece and the interaction of expats buying a home to live there. There’s a story behind every person who moves to the village and with each book you’ll discover their life experiences and discover how and why they made their move to a place in the sun.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherMichael Saunders
    Release dateSep 13, 2016
    ISBN9781370231133
    A Greek Village Waiting For God

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      Book preview

      A Greek Village Waiting For God - Michael Saunders

      A Greek village waiting for God

      By

      Michael Saunders

      Copyright @ 2016 by Michael Saunders

      Distributed by Smashwords. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without prior written permission of the author.

      This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

      The wave of tourism hasn't quite lapped as far as the tiny village of Episkopi in Mynos, an island set in the shimmering Aegean Sea. In the road up to the village old men tend their tomatoes, cucumbers and melons. A woman clothed in black leads her donkey home, weighed down with horta, while an old couple wave as they overtake her, chugging along at fifteen miles an hour in what seems a Heath Robinson contraption - half lawn mower, half buggy. Piled high behind them, huge water melons are perched precariously, ready to bombard any unsuspecting pedestrian whenever the vehicle lurches into a pot hole.

      The road continues through olive groves past a bullet riddled road sign heralding the entrance to Episkopi – a village being drawn inescapably ever closer to the day when nobody will live there and old buildings, ravaged by time, will begin to crumble. Two rusty oil drums lay on either side of the lane, where two huge snarling dogs are tethered. Resembling a scene from Greek mythology, guarding the gates of Hades, these animals make sure goats from the mountainside do not enter the village. Unfortunately, they also impair the arrival of hapless tourists. Those who chug up the mountain on their rented scooters have to run the gauntlet of snarling jaws snapping at their ankles if they fail to make the correct calculation and veer from the precise centre of the road. Conditions are even worse for intrepid walkers who brave the oxygen sucking, muscle cramping climb, rising to six hundred feet above sea level. Edging fearfully forwards, a pace to the left, or a step too far to the right can leave a pedestrian not well versed in judging distances having to limp back down the mountain.

      The sun rose lazily, flooding early morning sunshine into the village square - well it’s more of a triangle really - and a tiny one at that. Beneath the welcome shade of a tamarind tree, three old men are sat, idling away the day between themselves. Nothing much happens in Episkopi. During the summer the village attracts a few intrepid tourists - all coming to discover what lies at the end of the road on their map. Perhaps there’s some treasure to find at the end of the proverbial rainbow?

      No, not really, just these three old goats – namely Stelios, Giorgos and their friend Aristotle, who, as you might expect being named after the famous Greek philosopher, can always be relied upon to pontificate about anything and everything. The three are of an age when they don’t have much to do apart from sit in the square complaining about the world - or the world as they know it, which is no more than twenty kilometres from the village in any one direction. With much ado about nothing, memory cells discarded on a daily basis, and bodies no longer able to raise more than a momentary spark of activity, the three are always quite happy exchanging morose banter until the day they go to meet their maker.

      Giorgos, tall and in his seventies, with a bulbous, red, WC Fields' nose has a paunch which strains his shirt almost to breaking point. His straight black hair oiled tightly to his scalp and raven eyes, hidden by tinted glasses, give

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