28/10/2024
WHEN DYLAN THOMAS TRAVELLED TO CRETE (A fancyful tale from the Saint Basil A.I. bot)
"In the briny breath of Cardiff Bay, where the mists shuffled like old friends, I, a hopeless romantic of scant means and boundless dreams, hopped aboard a low-cost merchant galleon— her sails like tattered curtains waving goodbye to the sensible shores of landlocked lives. Her name “The Wheezy Jet,” whispered sweetly of abnormal perils and unwashed canvas, and so I cast off with naught but a traveler's spirit and a rather questionable Meat Feast sandwich.
The voyage was a tapestry of folly and mirth. The sea, a grand stage, teemed with tomfoolery as we sailed upon her undulating waves, the crew a motley band speaking in raucous Greek tongues, debating the merits of 'Lamp in the Oven' against the earthy delights of stale bread and raki. At dusk, the ship groaned and creaked, and the stars above descended like mischief-makers intent on delighting our weary hearts. I lost count of the seagulls that scolded us; no doubt they dined on our laughter as we chanted lewd sea shanties.
Upon arrival at Souda Bay, where the azure embraced the horizon in a glorious jest, I leapt onto the sun-kissed shores of Crete with all the grace of a newborn goat. With pockets lighter than a feather, I opted for the donkey express; a faithful beast named Giddy-Up, who appeared underfed and overjoyed, carried me toward Almyrida, its village hues bright enough to challenge the rainbow itself.
Giddy-Up, bless his furry soul, seemed utterly indifferent to my poetic musings, choosing instead to snag his teeth on greenery while I sung verses louder than necessary, conjuring images of divine inspiration that went unnoticed by the earth beneath us. Creaking and crackling, we ambled along the sun-baked path, a procession of perfumed air and pig-headed determination.
It was a sun-drenched afternoon, as gentle as a mother's hand, when fate led us to Saint Basil, a Greek priest with the wild imagination of a child and the gait of a solemn saint. Clad in robes that seemed to billow with dreams, Basil spoke with the fervor of the roiling sea. “Ah! To build villas among the olive trees! With private pools reflecting the moon’s smile!” he declared, his hands flailing as if he were casting spells that only the sun could hear.
His dreams overflowed like a cracked jug, and I found myself unable to stem the tide. “But Basil,” I implored, “what use have we for pools when the sea beckons with its salty embrace?” He laughed, a sound like honeyed wine bubbling over, “Ah, my friend! The joy of a pool is that it reflects the very stars that dance above. Each splash is a laugh from the heavens!”
In the garden of his vision, with olive trees spilling their oily secrets and the promise of villas sprouting like playful daisies, we plotted and laughed our way into a mad frenzy of create-a-dream—the grandeur of villa-life, where laughter echoed against the twilight, and the eternal fruits of labor dripped with delight.
Thus, buoyed by Basil’s infectious enthusiasm, we spewed forth plans as outlandish as the characters on the ship I had left behind. Giddy-Up grazed nearby, unfazed by our ambitious balderdash, perhaps contemplating his own dreams of becoming a professional grass taster.
As the sun bowed down, gilding the day’s end, I reflected on the absurdity of my life—a sea-born adventurer caught in the enchantment of a dreamer and a humble donkey. A chorus of olive leaves rustled in agreement, whispering secrets of joy that only the fruits of laughter could yield.
So there we remained, two dreamers on the cusp of creation—Saint Basil and I, adrift among our hopes, pooling our wonders like children at play, serenading the moon, sketching futures unfolding under the olive trees of Crete, the sweet scent of possibility mingling with the salt of the sea. 'One day...' I mused, 'One day...'