In the main street, cars are not so much parked as abandoned near or on the kerb. While talking to a shopkeeper there was a loud whistle from the street, she looked at me, put her hand up and ran out of the shop. Five minutes later she returned and said, “sorry, I had to move my car.” She explained that the police don’t ticket badly parked cars they just blow a whistle calling the owner to move them – how unbelievably civilised?
The policeman went to school with half the town and is related to the other half, so as soon as he’s gone everyone puts their cars back where they were – the law is enforced, honour is preserved and everyone parks where they want - and everyone is content.
But the hilltop town of Kastro is a different world. It’s one of the islands jewels and is almost too pristine from the care that’s lavished on it. Gleaming white facades with vaulted arcades providing welcome shade and everywhere there are the scattered relics from a distant age. The houses were built backing defensively towards the sea as a fortification against marauding pirates and five gates give access to winding alleyways that lead back on themselves or into dead ends.