Maison Nuits Blanches

To Nikos and Katarina for luncheon and swim.

Their coastal hideaway is a "national heritage", being a perfect example of Venetian architecture untouched since whenever.

Joke is, it started as a freeze-hole punishment post for some luckless watchpoint, alert to invaders.

Over the years it was developed and perfected until I came into Niko's family's hands.
Gorgeous place, declared a national treasure and not for bungling with, which is exactly what will *not* happen, thanks to the current owners' impeccable taste and equally impeccable wallet.

I've more pics and more text to add but I'll settle for this brief memory of that day, for which you had to be there to fully appreciate the guffaw: one of the owners lived there with his mother, who became fed up with nothing but views and being so far from town and her pals. So, devoted son set mater up in Corfu central in a plush apartment and all mod cons of the day.

As is the fate of faithful caring sons (hint nudge), the myth took flight that he actually booted poor momma out and she had to settle for some slum dwelling where she competed with the local rodents for her gruel and water. Indeed, this is part of the commentary of the tourist boats as they swing by.

The day we were lunching, just such a boat came round and there indeed was some rasping estuary accent booming out the tale.

Nik has a bullhorn on the patio for summoning the tender to take him to his yacht or warning tourist trash bathers not to come to close lest they supplement the dogs' nosh.

I blame the excellent Armagnac on my boldness in seizing the foghorn and, as the idiot drew breath, booming out in my most Oxonian accent:

"You there on the Adriadne tourist caique - you're being fed absolute codswallop! Dunno *where* your guide is getting this claptrap from, but if this is the level of commentary you're being fed, you deserve your money back.

Mr Bidwell caved into his whining mum to let her join the jetset in downtown Kerkira and forked out a tidy sum to set her up in a divine pad in Capodistriou street, complete with MTV and broadband. So there."

Stunned silence, followed by bullhorn query from the captain to which N replied in such a fashion that drew howls of laughter and applause from the Greek crew.

"Christopher, my friend," rasped Niko, "your mother whispered in my ear that you are driving and that the Armagnac does not travel to your end of the table. I beg to differ. That has made my day."

B'boum.