Birvidik

In the dark ages it used to be fairy tales, legends and ghost stories that served to codify our deepest fears and inherited anxieties. Now it's Hollywood.

We had decided to revive the tradition of the bracing Boxing Day walk and to clear the mental cobwebs of the previous few days' overindulgence. So it was that six, city-slicker yotties piled into the campervan to experience the novelties and delights of rural Greece.

Separating Lefkas from the mainland is a flat, bleak area of salt marsh that gradually transforms into an equally flat and bleak patchwork of salt lakes and sand spits as it approaches the sea. At the northern, seaward end lies a three kilometre shingle and shell spit, dotted with scrub and the odd wind-blasted tree. Connection to the land was via a rickety wooden catwalk. This was our start point.

In Northern European countries such an environment, consisting of a salt-coated unstable substrate unencumbered by fresh water, electricity or mains drains, would either be uninhabited or populated solely by rows of twee beach huts each costing more than an entire housing estate in Stockton-on-Tees. Such huts being conspicuous by their absence we expected an isolated stroll through the beauties of nature. Then it started to get just a little bit weird.

Although there were no other people in evidence, we could see slightly disconcerting evidence of people. Mainly, and inexplicably, shoes.
Odd, discarded shoes.
Mostly trainers.
Then we started coming across the odd bone (Species indeterminate, but definitely mammalian).

Unease notwithstanding, we continued east, trudging laboriously through the loose shingle. After about half an hour we came upon signs, if not of civilisation, then at least of habitation. Dilapidated lean-tos of old planks and rusting corrugated iron nestled cheek-by-jowl with even more distressed ageing caravans propped up on bricks and old tyres. The steel sheets swung and creaked hauntingly in the light breeze. A disconsolate 4x4 lay forlornly at an angle in the salty mud. Deep, soggy ruts showed the route of its last journey. A half hearted attempt had been made to fence off some areas with an ad hoc mixture of concrete posts, reinforcing rods, baling wire and what looked like CSI tape nicked from the local plods. It had obviously all been just too much effort and had been abandoned to the elements.

It was at this point that a certain 1972 film started to impinge on the group's collective consciousness and banjo music began, faintly at first, to worm its way into our heads. The only question was whether I was Burt Reynolds and Brian was Jon Voight or vice versa. Ciaran was getting really worried, knowing, as he did, what happened to the Bobby Tripp character played by Ned Beatty. The duelling banjos tune in his head now battled for supremacy with the phrase 'Squeal like a pig'.

As for the female contingent, they weren't sure whether they were destined to suffer unspeakable degradation at the calloused hands of a bunch of in-bred retards or whether their husbands would run off like a bunch of girlies and leave them to the mercies of the local hillbillies. The smart money was on the latter. At best they would have to spend the rest of their lives dressed in gingham bib-overalls, wellington boots and straw hats, eviscerating livestock with their bare hands while clamping a corn-cob pipe between what would be left of their stained and crumbling teeth.

The pig-vs-banjo contest in Cisran's head was resolved by the real thing, appearing out of the scrub (a pig, that is - not a banjo. That would be just silly). The soil salinity may have precluded arable farming in any form, but whoever had colonised this God-forsaken corner of Greece had decided to bet large on animal husbandry. The place was awash with livestock - chickens, sheep and goats in large numbers, but most of all pigs. There was also a large dog, fortunately chained, but the one species not in evidence was Homo Sapiens. We suspected that they were crouched in a lean-to, sharpening their chain saws and salivating copiously while leering at us through knot holes in the weathered planking.

By this time we were over halfway through this little corner of Eden and the thought of turning round and going back held little appeal. We decided to press on and picked our way along an increasingly overgrown path on the general direction of what we hoped was civilisation. After delicately detouring around a couple of impressively horned rams we came to the uncomfortable realisation that we had gained an escort.

The mental film score now switched to Children of the Corn. The surrounding undergrowth swayed and twitched with the passing of unseen menaces. The odd rustle and grunt served only to heighten the expectation of being suddenly overwhelmed by a horde of machete-wielding pre-schoolers. By some act of the collective unconscious we bunched together and increased our pace, our pathetic attempts to look nonchalant betrayed by our frequent nervous glances at the undergrowth.

As the scrub thinned it became apparent that our escort was porcine, a large mottled boar, two hefty lactating sows and lots of little piglets of varying ages and sizes, more than enough to arouse some serious protective parental instincts. On top of this we saw no signs of troughs or recent feeding, and they all had a distinct air of peckishness about them.

The soundtrack to 'The Godfather' took over in our heads. Where the Hell did that come from? It just appeared out of nowhere like a large drinks bill. Then it clicked. The Mafia have a reputation for disposing of rivals and other impediments to their progress by feeding them to pigs. Sometimes while still alive. This was not an inviting prospect. I reckoned we might stand an outside chance if it was all six of us against a couple of the smaller piglets, but if Mum or Dad got involved we'd end up as pig poo. We bunched together even closer. Jill hid behind Liz on the grounds that Liz had a brolly and could fight them off with that. Who did she think had supplied the bloody thing - Q?

It was at this point that we realised that we had painted ourselves into a corner. The path petered out at the water's edge which left us with a choice of swimming or backtracking by running the gauntlet of the killer pigs. It was a tad cold, so we chose the latter. Grouped in tight formation like a Roman testudo we edged our way nervously through the serried livestock and made our escape, just managing to resist breaking into a run at the end.

It was a bloody good job that none of the locals saw us. What sort of a boost would that have given to our already precarious standing in the local community? Any Greek in the same position would have stridden confidently through and just kicked the boar out of the way if it got too close.

Probably to the soundtrack of 'Babe'.