In Spartakhori, there is a crowd outside the little church. The people mill around the courtyard, a polished, black coffin lid propped up against the whitewashed wall.
We walk along the road, joined by a small cat, and look out across the bay.
Rod Heikell, in his Ionian pilot book, describes the place where we are moored as an enchanting spot.
‘Deep cobalt blue water, steep slopes planted with olives or covered in maquis, and the winding road shaded by cypress and pine leading to the village.’
From here you can see the Onassis island, Skorpios, with its flat-top helipad and the little Cyclades-style beach house where Jackie O found solitude away from prying eyes.
We walk on, the daemon cat that was once at our heels now in a stand-off with a large black feline guarding a plot of land on which there are some olive trees, three motor boats, an old shack, a dozen hens and three arrogant cockerels.
After the rain, the sun comes out and tinkling bells of sheep and goats sound like a babbling stream.
The melon man, usually announcing his wares on the loudspeaker at the front of his van, drives slowly by, a coffin in the back and groups of mourners walking slowly behind, chatting in groups and flicking their rosary beads and smoking, on their way to cemetery.
The cockerels in their enclosures call out across Meganisi, their cries echoing across the valley to the next bay.
That's about it.
Love Maddie x