Greg Gibson

Location and Time: June ’77 Athens Greece

Prelude: Island hopping in the Cyclades (Paros, Naxos, Mykonos, Ios).

My travel companions were the two Pete’s (Irish and Pommy Pete). Friends I met while working at M.F.I. (a low budget Ikea Store in Wembley).

The trip to the islands was an incredible eye opening experience full of basking sun with incredibly clear skies, temperatures in the mid to high twenties. Delicious Mediterranean food with lashings of local produce and the customary bath in olive oil. I experienced the most breathtaking scenery I had ever witnessed in my whole trip overseas. The islands were idyllic. From a distance, pulling into each port it was as if a giant had thrown sugar cubes on the side of the hills. That is what the white houses looked like with their sea blue painted windows and doors. We island-hopped for three weeks taking in all of the wonderful sights and living out of our ruck sacks mostly camping on the beaches with the sea our front door.

I remember one day while walking through the hills on Ios I heard a little bell ringing in the distance. Eventually I came across a goat herder with his flock fitted with bells to keep away the prey. I saw two locals who were building a house made of home-made bricks. They made ten bricks at a time. There was no urgency to their work. A very laid back, stress free community. We met many travellers doing the same as us. Europeans, Scandinavians, New Zealanders and English men. The night life was vibrant and intoxicating. One morning I woke after a big night, on the beach surrounded by semi-clad sunbathers. I thought I was dreaming. I just shook off the sand and proceeded to my campsite.

When our trip was nearing the end we said goodbye to the islands and headed to Athens, docking at Piraeus, the main port. We secured a bunk at the local back packers hotel and settled in for the night. Money was getting a bit scarce. The local blood bank was offering cash for any donations. We visited the nearest blood bank not far from our digs. And alas, only Irish Pete had the type of blood they needed. So we stayed while he was escorted into another room to give his blood. When he returned some thirty minutes later he looked very unwell, staggering a little and very pale. We asked if he was okay. He said he was fine, so we started the return home but it wasn’t very long before poor Pete got worse. He eventually collapsed in the middle of a busy street so we carried him to our hotel room. After a while he looked a lot better. Meanwhile Pommy Pete and I counted the money we got from the blood bank and lavished ourselves on delicious cakes, baclava, and wonderful tasting coffee (then called Nescafe). All the time enjoying our treats. We did thank our mate who made all this possible. So we brought some treats for Irish Pete which he quickly devoured. We were eternally grateful for Irish’s blood money and expressed out thanks for his heroic efforts.

It was not until the trip home, back to England, that Irish Pete eventually told us what had happened at the blood bank. This is unbelievable but true! Irish Pete was escorted into a small room with a few chairs along the walls. Beside the chair there was an opening big enough to put your arm through. He was asked to put his left arm into this hole. He said that he didn’t know how much blood they extracted but I guess it may have been a maximum amount considering how light headed and dizzy he was after giving his blood. We were astounded at what he told us, but were very thankful that it all turned out for the better. Irish Pete recovered from his encounter at the blood bank. All ends well.

Copyright Greg Gibson, February 2025. All rights reserved; this intellectual property belongs solely to Greg Gibson.

About Greg Gibson

In my working life as a Draftsman: Commercial kitchen consultants and building supervisor. I have 3 wonderful children and enjoy a close relationship with my siblings and families. Love reading. At present “more please”, an incredible biography of Barry Humphries. More in tune with factual rather than fiction. Hence the love of biographies. Happily retired and currently living in Warracknabeal ( birthplace of my father).

Here is another travel story from Greg

Encounter with a Killer