Faboulas Maroulas…

Note to self – in the morning I must remember to pick up the mail, put milk out for the cat and do the dishes. Doesn’t sound like much of a holiday. Until I expand that I’ll stroll to the local taverna in the town square, where the owners hold the mail of the village behind the bar, set a saucer of milk down next to the 15th century well in the charming courtyard where a small tabby kitten with the purr of a lion has stolen my heart, and tidy up the remains of the previous night’s roast lamb feast prepared and delivered to us by the town priest.

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