Landlady: Danger Bottom

danger bottom

I’m sitting on the balcony of a boutique hotel in Southern Turkey. Directly in front of me, palm fronds gently sway and beyond them, the swimming pool, then the Mediterranean sea, out of which looms the Greek island of Symi, some 10 miles away. I’m so relaxed, that I forgot to write this column, and as I write with the clock ticking, The Small Daughter has been despatched to make me a coffee to shake off my drowsiness.

Feeling like a tramp had slept in my mouth we went up to the village where my house is

We’ve only been here for a week, yet have already spent a disproportionate amount of time in Danger Bar in the harbour. Danger Bar, for the uninitiated, is not the bar’s real name, but a name bestowed on it by those who, once they enter and have one drink, find it very difficult to leave. Namely, us. Therefore, two days ago, The Small Daughter and I went alone to Danger Bar and after a couple of hours listening to snatches of music emanating from the bar downstairs, decided that it was tempting, not to mention rowdy enough for us to pay a visit. Needless to say, after a very late night, peppered with several story-worthy encounters, we decided to name the bar underneath Danger Bar ‘Danger Bottom’.

The following day, feeling like a tramp had slept in my mouth, we decided to go up to the village where my (now rented) house is, where I would go and introduce myself to my tenant. She was a charming lady and, not that I can remember much, appeared to have made several improvements to the front yard. Better still, she had renovated my abandoned bicycle and added a new pink shopping basket to the back. I commented that I was pleased to see that she was continuing the tradition of beer drinking in the front yard….although the sight of alcohol did make me feel slightly ill.

Thanks Danger Bottom…

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