Too Much of Nothing

After too much of not enough in Naxos I dropped by Paros for procrastination and a haircut and then headed overnight to Nistoros - a small volcanic island where everyone knows your name ... well everyone knows nickos' name at least. Nickos set himself up as the first hotelier on the island after a stint cabbing in the states - sitting outside his little cafe he was keen to discuss everything from the suicide of the local communist, the waste of the old ladies religiously baking cakes for the dead, the Hungarians failed bid to harness the power of the volcano and his dads history as a wrestler in Australia. At 3pm it was time for Nickos' to have a siesta and me to scoot to see my first active volcano crater. As advertised, the volcano was steaming and though apparently Sulphur dioxide is safe as long as you can smell it (knocking out your senses before killing you) - I was never convinced enough to breath deeply. I left for Rhodes feeling like I'd sucked a book of matches.

I steamed into Rhodes past the massive cruise ships and wankers on whiteboats (damn Jen and her friends), and grabbed a bed in the spectacular old town. The old town is a large fortress where wandering the moonlit cobblestones one could be forgiven for feeling like a crusader knight and, turning to his trusty steed only to smash a shin into the only vehicle in the place - a sharp reminder that the last ouzo was, perhaps, unnecessary. It seemed the other thing to do in Rhodes after having recovered from the shock that the

colossus of Rhodes no longer exists (and didn't even stand over the harbour anyway) was to hit the sunlounge encrusted beach for a bit of euro bathing. The beach, covered in equal proportions with wrinkled, overweight, underdressed, cruiseshippers and escapees from the teen model convention whose spray painted bikinis were simultaneously too much and not enough, is the perfect place to confuse bipolar friends. I couldn't decide whether to feel like a scrawny Greek god squeezed between the big pinks or feel like Matt at a dutch convention between the beautiful babies. I took some photos, grabbed a scooter and headed for the valley of the butterflies and some less crowded coastline.

The Valley of the Butterflies - or the Ranthambore of Rhodes - is essentially a lovely stroll spoiled by a false promise. I should have realised when I saw a tourist taking a photo of a small solitary butterfly that I had seen as many of the valleys namesakes as I was going to. At least this time I only had myself to blame as the tourist influx is

the official reason for the decline in numbers ... I have my suspicions

that they are all on the pinboards for sale at the entrance. "The valley of the occasional butterfly and cool lizard" would be a more apt but slightly too long title + it wouldn't attract as many tourists so the number of butterflies would increase again and they would have to revert to the original name - just another of the tough problems facing the Rhodes council. I left Rhodes for Turkey - home to another "valley of the butterflies" and another wonder of the ancient world - with lowered expectations.