So, I had arrived in Rafina! A gale blasted the shoreline; the sea lashed the front and seethed out in the deeps.

Darkness was starting to envelop the place, and so I paid the taxi driver and braved the zither of the wet wind, its voice singing eerily, like a psychotic siren, through the telegraph wires and poles.
The Avra, the best and friendliest hotel in Rafina, was closed for refurbishment. In the past I had done battle with starving kamikaze mosquitoes in the height of the summer at this place, but that was before air conditioning and insect-repellent plugs. Things had improved considerably in the Avra, but so too had the price. Now, it was winter, anyway. I battled against the wind and rain and stumbled across the square to the Krystali. This cheap hotel was run by a fierce-looking man whose moustaches would have made him a good bit-part actor in a film about the Klephts. He grimaced at me as I came in. He was as welcoming as the photograph of his father on the wall which glowered at you as if daring you to cross swords with the Klephts.
"Yes?"
"Do you have a room for the night?"
"Yes."
He took me to my room. It was a single room, without a shower - a rare sight in Greek hotels even then.
"Here," he said, "shower's at the end of the corridor," and left me to my thoughts. I sat down on the damp, lumpy mattress, took out a book about the Greek islands, and tried to concentrate.
I could no more concentrate than do battle with an army of Klepht ghosts. I walked out. A family sat huddled around a brazier in the floor lobby. I joined them for a moment, and we made polite conversation. It turned out that they were Andriots who had been shopping in Athens and visiting relatives there. Now they were waiting for the storm to subside so that they could return to their island.
"They say it will all be over tomorrow," said the man.
"I hope so," I said.
I went to bed early, as there was nothing else to do. As I got into bed, I got a shock as I lay down. Like a Klepht's knife, something jabbed me in the back. A rogue spring had pierced the upholstery of the mattress. I sighed, put the light back on again. Struggling, I turned the mattress around, removed the sheets, and found myself in an entanglement of linen. But it was no good. There was another rogue spring doing its evil work on the other side, too.
More cunningly, this one had not pierced the upholstery but had created a large bump in the middle of the mattress. making sleep on that side difficult, but not impossible.
I put on my jumper and walked down to the receptionist.
"Could I have another room please?"
"We're full," he said.
So, I made do with one of the rogue springs. An upholstered jab was preferable to an unupholstered one. I could manoeuvre my body into a position that could negotiate the spring without touching it and thereby sleep, albeit stiffly. Anything was preferable to a wearisome search for another hotel, which probably wouldn't be open anyway, in this gale. I slept fitfully, expertly avoiding the malicious spring, and only half-oblivious to the poltergeist rattling of the windows.
By the time I had dragged myself out the next day, the storm had subsided. I walked out of the hotel and had some breakfast - yogurt and honey - in a local cafe, which was absolutely delicious. I was feeling decidedly better. When I returned to the reception desk, the owner had disappeared. There was no one else standing or sitting around. I waited for five minutes, and nothing happened. Ten minutes passed by. Still no one at the reception. It really was as if a poltergeist was running the hotel. Ah well, better get my things and come down again. Maybe in another ten minutes the owner would be back. So, I went up to my room, gathered my things, and went back down to collect my passport and leave. No one was skulking at the desk.
This hotel ought to be called the Greek Flying Dutchman, I thought. After twenty more minutes, it had become absolutely clear that he had not gone to answer the call of nature or to buy a razor-blade to shave off the moustaches from the kiosk oppposite.
Ah! The kiosk. I walked across and talked to the man sitting in there. He was reading a book.
"Er .. excuse me. Have you seen the hotelier?" I asked. "He's gone and I want my passport."
"Ah! Well, you see, he always visits his mother-in-law at this time of the day."
"And he leaves no one else at reception?" I asked.
The kiosk owner shrugged his shoulders. "No thieves at this time of the year here." He was obviously used to it. "Don't worry. I'll ring him now and tell him you're going. The boat doesn't leave for another few hours, you know."
"I know. But I want to take a stroll, have some lunch in one of the tavernas down on the front."
"Okay. As you wish."
He rang the owner. About ten minutes later, I could see the man marching down the hill above the square.