Helen and Elina found the first tracks of the season whilst on beach patrol this morning. They called Manu and swung by the villa and woke the rest of us up and drove us down the to beach. Turns out it was a false crawl. The turtle came up on the beach but didn't lay any eggs. Perhaps she didn't like the sand consistency or thought she was in danger. The chances are highly likely that we'll find a nest in the next few days as once the eggs are fertilized the female only has a limited time to lay them.

Rain fell throughout the night but cleared in the early morning. I woke just after six to soft blue sky. It was probably the clearest it's been since we've been here as I could distinctly discern the undulating shape and mottled green and brown landscape of the island of Zakynthos south across the sea. Bree and I had morning patrol. Jean and Helen left with Manu to check out another nest beach west of Katelios called Korione. As we were still without rubbish back we would just do a patrol of the beach to look for turtle tracks. The Mounda Beach as it is called is 2.8 kilometer stretch of sandy beach. It's gentle slope, sand consistency make it ideal for loggerhead nesting as does the shallow shelf structure off shore. It is also not overly developed or traveled. On the morning patrol we're looking for any sign of nesting as the season usually begins in late May or early June. We didn't find any turtle tracks but we did manage to drag a very heavy, half buried

The rain continued throughout the morning yesterday and finally cleared around noon. Jean and I had been intending to do a bit of shopping as supplies were low but time was getting tight considering the siesta time starts around 2pm. I decided to try out one of the bikes parked on the side of the villa. There were two to choose from but they looked about the same. Both had rusted seat posts preventing me from raising them at all. The tires were inflated and the brakes seemed to be in working order which was good considering the the declines I would be traversing in the 3-4km to Katelios and back again. With my empty rucksack I headed out. The hill from the volunteer villa to the center of Ratzkali is a pretty good grade somewhere in the the 20-30° neighborhood. It's kind of like trying to cycle up Enchanted Rock . I quickly discovered that the gear shifting ability of my steed was lackluster. I made it about 100 meters up the hill and had to walk it the next 100 meters to where

Yesterday, we met up with Bree a little after 4pm to walk over to the center. The volunteer villa as I think I'm going to start calling it is not actually in Katelios. It's in another little village that I can't remember the name of, separated from Katelios by a good sized hill. We hiked up and over via a relatively wide two lane road overlooking the bay. The sun had come out but a steady breeze kept it cool. We arrived in the environmental center a quarter of an hour before five. It's a one room affair with a play scape out front. Inside there are various displays concerning the flora and fauna of the area. A preserved male and female loggerhead are the highlight of the displays. There was also a lot of good information. However, the majority of the pictures were faded and washed out. A British couple came in just after we opened. Manu arrived towards six and gave us a rundown and some history. The center had been an abandoned school house that the founders of the

We arrived in Katelios yesterday evening after a 7 hour bus trip combined with a ferry across the Ionian Sea. The ferry arrived in the port of Poros on the island of Kefalonia at half past six. Steep green mountains rose dramatically up around the small town. After a few minutes our bus rolled out from the bowels of the immense white ferry. The driver got out started directing unloading for the passengers departing in Poros. During a lull I approached the gray haired gentleman, begged his pardon and in Greek, I said that we would like to go to Markopoulo. I had rehearsed the phrase for the better part of three quarters of an hour on the ferry, however his brow furrowed mystified and he hailed a bald, bearded man who spoke English. He relayed to the driver our intended destination and we were off. The road from Poros was steep and winding with many a blind turn. The hills were lush and green and dare I say again, dramatic. The bus trolled up the switch backs and through sleepy t

Jean and I have had extremely fortunate lives. Lately, this has been especially evident in the weather patterns surrounding our recent travels. In the week previous to our departure from United States airspace of Europe was completely closed due to the ash cloud from Iceland. It reopened the day before we flew. We were scheduled to fly to Athens out of Heathrow airport in London on Monday at 11:50am. This past weekend the airports in Ireland and Scotland were closed due to continued volcanic activity. As the ash cloud moved south across the British Isles, the London airports ground to halt Sunday night. Gatwick, another London area airport announced it would not resume flights until Monday afternoon.  Heathrow offered nothing definitive We got up early Monday to find that Heathrow planned to reopen at 7am. Colin and May drove us to the airport where we breezed through security and got into Athens exactly as planned and booked in at the Best Western. We spent most of today of doin

After an unseasonably cold and damp week, Saturday morning broke without a cloud in the sky and the forecast was calling for highs in the mid - 60's (~17° C?). This was most fortunate as we had planned a picnic and ramble(hike) in the countryside with family and friends as a precursor to the evening's festivities. The picnic and walk were set to take place in the Ashridge Estate near Jean's parent's home in Berkhamsted. The Ashridge Estate is about 5000 acres of woodlands. At one time it was the property of the Duke and Earls of Bridgewater but now belongs to the National Trust and is a park and greenbelt. There's a visitor centre, cafe loads of walking paths and an observation tower monument built to commemorate the 3rd Duke of Bridgewater, Francis Egerton, who pioneered canal building mania in the 19th century. We rolled into the car park near midday. A few cloud masses had gathered throughout the morning but the sun still shone brightly and the day had

The story of Peter the Wild Boy has intrigued generations of visitors to Northchurch. The simple tombstone immediately in front of the church porch, with the curious inscription: PETER the Wild Boy 1785 It tells nothing of the life of the person buried there. Inside the church, on the south wall of the nave, there is a brass tablet, which relates something of the strange history of the Wild Boy, as well as providing a portrait of Peter as an old man. The inscription reads: To the memory of Peter, known as the Wild Boy, having been found wild in the forest of Hertswold near Hanover in the year 1725. He then appeared to be about 12 years old. In the following year he was brought to England by the order of the late Queen Caroline, and the ablest masters were provided for him. But proving himself incapable of speaking, or of receiving any instruction, a comfortable provision was made for him at a farm in this parish, where he continued to the end of his inoffensive life.

We attended World War II V-E Day festivities in Hughenden. Part of those festivities included a puppet show featuring Mr. Punch, a traditional English puppet show character who first entered the stage sometime in the late 1600s. This particular story went something like this. After beating his wife Judy to death over a domestic dispute concerning some sausages Mr. Punch is forced into the military by a mustachioed, beret wearing Scottish special forces officer. Punch ends up just outside Berlin where he is narrowly escapes death at the jaws of Adolph Hitler's pet crocodile. After slaying the beast he decides to take a nap and wakes up to find the crocodile's enraged Austrian owner. A slap fight ensues. Punch enlists aid from the kids in the audience to wrap the sausages around the Fuhrer's neck and with a shove ends World War II. Punch returns home to find his wife very much alive and still very displeased.

02 May 2010 Over the bank holiday weekend we visited Nat and Rose in Cardiff, Wales were we witnessed the reenactment of the liberation of the fictional medieval Welsh village of Cosmeston. YET again the Lord of Cosmeston Manor is to be found upsetting his neighbours! As he feasts and carouses, stopping only to punish some of his less well behaved peasants he little realises that in the surrounding woods and glades the Welsh are preparing for war. Owain Glyndwr has raised the men and women of South Wales to fight against their despised overlord. They have had enough of Cosmeston's lord and intend to attack the village. At a Chinese Food Restaurant in Cardiff with Rose, Nat and Nat's Parents In the park near Nat and Rose's House