Sons Of Selina - The Bistro, Rhyl

 

It only took four years, three singles, one album, and a Radio One session before Sons of Selina finally played our first hometown gig. People always asked: why not sooner? The truth is I never wanted to get caught up in the local band mentality that swirls around Rhyl like bad weather. Every town has it — the rivalries, the gossip, the back-slapping with knives hidden behind backs — but when it’s your own patch it feels toxic. We kept our distance. We avoided the sycophantic local press. We didn’t want to be part of that small-town scene. The only local band I’d seen and genuinely enjoyed recently were The Fluff.

Still, sooner or later you’ve got to face your own doorstep.

A few days before the gig I’d floated the idea of projecting a video I’d put together with Dave the Rave (ex-PSST) over the stage while we played. On a Delerium Records budget it was wishful thinking. Luckily, Bonehead came up with a cheaper, brilliantly daft alternative: six TV sets wired up behind the stage, all running the same footage. With Roger Bickley’s (ex-ZODIAQUE UK) handy wiring skills and a £37 booster amp, it worked. A DIY multimedia extravaganza.

Steve Jones (of White Tygerz, Heroes on a Beach, Picture House, and nearly SOS himself at one point) handled the PA. We’d finished soundcheck by 9pm, but weren’t due on for another two and a half hours. That gap worried me. Robin was on his second pint, and I couldn’t shake the memory of the infamous PSST incident that ended in him facing seven charges. So I did the only sensible thing: I marched the lot of them back to mine to kill time.

When we returned to The Bistro the place was heaving — over 250 people, jammed into every corner. At £2 a head, that’s about £500 through the door, with £170 making its way into our pockets and the rest lining the Trehearns’ tills. Whatever my misgivings about playing Rhyl, that sight of the room buzzing with our people, our town, was special.

The set blurred past in a rush of noise, screens flickering behind us, all of us throwing ourselves into it. This was the Sons of Selina line-up in full: me on vocals, Robin, Martin and Bonehead wielding three guitars between them, Ken Maynardis on bass, Steve on keyboards, and Cumi on drums. It felt like a proper homecoming, even if it had taken us years to get there.

The next morning there was no time to bask in it. Delerium hauled us out of bed for a photo shoot, and those bleary-eyed pictures are now plastered all Kerrang!. Around the same time, the NME ran an ad for us in their small-ads section:

SONS OF SELINA: AVAILABLE FOR WEDDINGS, FUNERALS & CHILDREN’S PARTIES (WE NEITHER).

It still makes me laugh.

Sons Of Selina - The Archway Tavern, Islington

 

It was one of those nights that made me wonder what the fuck we were doing. Just a few weeks earlier we’d blasted through a live Radio One session, going out to millions. Now here we were, Sons of Selina, driving five hours down the M6 / M1 in a battered rental van that had cost us £127 in hire, deposit and diesel, only to end up playing to about 30 punters in a pub in Islington.

On the way home Martin missed the M6 turn-off and said, deadpan: “The other bands didn’t want to know us and we didn’t want to know them.” He was right. From the moment we walked into the Archway Tavern it felt like we’d wandered into someone else’s party uninvited. The other bands kept themselves to themselves, and so did we.

The set-up was odd. The pub had two bars, and while we were playing most of the regulars stayed in the other one, uninterested. We were hammering out our noise to a thin line of faces who didn’t quite know what to make of us. But gradually — maybe halfway through the set — a few heads started turning. By the end, people drifted in from the other bar, craning to see what the racket was, realising something was happening. We might have only had thirty new friends by the time we packed up, but they were our thirty.

As for the other bands — Mantaray weren’t bad, very Jam-influenced at the time, though I’ve since heard they morphed into an Oasis-type affair. Spitbaby, on the other hand, were unlistenable, so we sat in the bar while they did their thing and counted that as a tactical retreat.

The Sons’ line-up was in flux then: me on vocals, Robin and Martin on guitars, Bonehead on a third guitar, Ken Maynardis on bass, Cumi on drums, and Steve on keyboards, who gave the whole thing its oddball edge. We were a strange beast, half-punk, half-psychedelic, with too many guitars and too much beer, but we made it work.

On the long drive back north, slumped in the van, I asked myself out loud: “Was it really worth it? Worth the money, the miles, the effort to play to 30 people?” And then I answered myself: yeah. Because those 30 people got something real, and for an hour we made London ours. Besides, we even got paid £20 for it — so I guess we’re big-time now.

Live at the BBC: Sons of Selina Take on Studio 3

 

Martin, Steve Bonehead, Robin, Cumi, Ste Sync, myself and Ken

After weeks of waiting, the day had finally arrived. At 2pm, Steve Bonehead picked me up, and so began the chaotic dance of assembling people, instruments, and nerves for the 1 hour 15 minute drive to Manchester. Our destination loomed in the skyline — the unmistakable BBC building on Oxford Road, casting its shadow over us like a headmaster waiting to judge a late homework assignment.

We checked in, got our ID passes, and before heading into battle, made a quick dash across the road to Amigo’s, the overpriced Mexican place, for some food. I thought I was feeling the nerves — until I clocked Martin, who looked like he was ready to dissolve into his fajitas. True to form, ten minutes before we were due to go live, Martin quietly disappeared to the toilet, following Steve, who’d already made his own nervous pilgrimage just five minutes earlier.

Inside the BBC, I was pleased to see that the Sons of Selina sticker I’d slapped in the studio loos on a previous visit (back in September) was still stuck fast. It had since been joined by a proud colony of new ones — quiet, sticky proof of our ongoing guerilla marketing campaign.

We were ushered into Studio 3, also known as the Drama Studio, where we began the ritual of set-up with our sound engineers, Tony and Dave. Over the next hour and a half, mics were tested, cables untangled, and the three guitarists did their best to channel the spirit (and noise level) of Jimi Hendrix’s ghost. Eventually, we pulled it together and ran through the four tracks we’d be playing live on air that night.

Tony - the engineer

10:20pm — go time. You could practically hear seven sphincters tighten in unison as the red light went on. I had a quick on-air chat with Mark Radcliffe about Welsh football (as you do), took a cheeky dig at Delerium for being "chickenshits" about not releasing our first live track, and then — boom — we launched into Climb. Fueled by adrenaline, it was blisteringly fast — probably twice the speed it was supposed to be — but it was the best version we’d ever played. Every note was dead on. Honestly, that rush should be bottled and sold to junkies. We were flying.

About 45 minutes later, Radcliffe introduced Of The First Water, with Bonehead opening on the mellow guitar line. Again — perfect. After that came a longer interview segment, full of piss-taking and ridiculous banter. I even got Radcliffe squirming for cueing up Gamoto Manopano wrong the night before. Steve Sync and Lard then treated the nation to a bizarre monosynth duet, before we ripped into "For Want of a Better Name", which Radcliffe proudly called “blistering.”

Just before our final song, we heard that listeners were phoning in, trying to work out what “Sons of Selina” is an anagram of — no one got it (and no, I’m still not telling). Then came Terminus, just after 11:35pm. Midway through, Martin hit the wrong chord. It threw me, briefly — I was singing the line "Soon all the day of the imperial haze will be lost in the dark of the past" while inside my head was spiraling: Have we blown it? Was this the moment it all unravelled? But I pulled it together — told myself to snap out of it — and we powered through to the end.

After we’d gone off air, Rachel Elmet walked in and said, “That was brilliant. Did you say fucked?” Cue a room full of raised eyebrows. Apparently, the producer had rung down from upstairs, convinced someone had sworn live on Radio One. The engineers were all exchanging looks too. Turns out, they misheard the line “It’s a sad fact…” in "Terminus". I had to do some serious convincing that I hadn’t just dropped an F-bomb on national radio. For the record: I said fact, not facked. Only cockneys say that!

All in all, an incredible night. Pure energy. Live music how it’s meant to be — full of mistakes, adrenaline, banter, and magic.

The Reign of Janet & Dave

Every workplace has its villain. Ours was Janet.

Janet wasn’t just unpopular; she was a full-time dispenser of misery. She strutted around with this pig-headed arrogance, convinced she was management material when in reality she was just management’s headache. If something went wrong — and it usually did — it was never her fault. She’d just turn on the waterworks, mutter something about “pressure,” and somehow make herself the victim. Classic Janet.

Then came the masterstroke: she got her husband, Dave, a job with us.

Now, Dave was a wagon driver — but not just any wagon driver. He was a connoisseur of lay-bys. To him, the open road wasn’t about destinations or deadlines. No, it was about spotting that perfect patch of tarmac where he could pull over, recline the seat, and lose three hours in blissful slumber. If you were looking for Dave, you wouldn’t find him at the depot, you wouldn’t find him on schedule — you’d find him halfway up the A55, parked in a lay-by, surrounded by crisp packets and the faint hum of Radio 2.

Janet and Dave together were a double-act of dysfunction. She’d storm about the office, belittling anyone within range, while he perfected the art of doing bugger-all in scenic roadside locations. Bonnie and Clyde, if Bonnie wore cheap perfume and Clyde was welded to a cab seat.

The rest of us could only watch in disbelief. She thrived on creating chaos, he thrived on avoiding work, and somehow the pair of them managed to make life harder for everyone else. She’d stir things up inside the building, he’d grind operations to a halt outside it. A real tag team of torment.

Still, in a way, they were unforgettable. If you’ve ever seen a wagon parked smugly in a lay-by for the fifth time that week, you’ve seen Dave’s true genius. And if you’ve ever had your day ruined by someone pretending to be your superior while actually knowing less than you do, you’ve met your own Janet.

We carried on, grumbling, laughing bitterly, and praying for retirement. Because, in the end, the one thing Janet and Dave gave us — apart from ulcers — was a shared enemy. And in an office like ours, that was almost worth it.

Ludicrous Lollipops come to Rhyl

Spent the day prepping video stuff shooting footage around town then got ready to play at Rhyl with the Ludicrous Lollipops and the Psycho Sexual Sex Terrestrials. About 130 people showed up, which was pretty decent. Gotta say, this was our best performance so far—got a brilliant response from the crowd. Wayne was filming the whole thing, so hopefully we’ve got some good footage.

Our set went down well: LIAR, BEIRUT IN RHYL, JOHNNY BARNES, PERSONAL WARS, KENNEDY, POWERFUL PETE, £2.17, LIFE GOES ON, STUART, FATAL ATTRACTION, then finished with KENNEDY again. Felt tight and energetic, the kind of night where everything just clicks.

The Ludicrous Lollipops were great too. For anyone who doesn’t know, they’re a Nottingham band — tight, melodic indie stuff with a solid fanbase. Their set was really well done and well supported by the crowd. Only hiccup was when Paul’s “lady of the moment” got on stage and shouted that the Lollipops were shit, telling them to get off so PSST could play. The vocalist handled it brilliantly though — he told everyone, “This is my mum, she always does this. Fuck off mum.” The crowd loved that.

Later on, Paul gave Chunky a hard time for buying a Lollipops T-shirt, insults were traded including “Scouse cunt” and “roll on the 3rd Reich”. Just shows how petty band politics can get, and Chunky's not even in the band!

After the gig, I headed up to the Bistro for some beers to get away from all the drama. Nice to chill and enjoy the buzz from a great night of music.

Full PSST set here

Psycho Sexual Sex Terrestrials live at Rhyl Bus Station (Outdoor)

Woke to the sound of rain hammering the window and figured there was no way Paul and the rest would go through with an outdoor gig in this weather. But sure enough, by 2pm the Psycho boys were set up opposite Rhyl bus station—my 75th performance—standing in the cold February drizzle with the wind cutting through us.

We were basically outside The Mermaid pub, plugged into the mains courtesy of their socket, and facing the bus station proper. Buses trundled in and out, passengers gawping through steamed-up windows at the sight of a band belting out three-chord rubbish to a crowd of about 50 hardy souls. Rain or not, it was great fun—exactly the kind of daft, one-off spectacle you don’t see every day… or any day, come to that.

Aubyn couldn’t make it, so we ploughed through the set: Liar / Happy as Larry / Beirut in Rhyl / Kennedy / Powerful Pete / £2.17 / Fatal Attraction / Man’s Best Enemy, then, because why not, ran most of them again—Liar / Happy as Larry / Beirut in Rhyl / Kennedy / Powerful Pete.

Among the sodden but smiling faces were Anna, Wayne, Robin, Adam, and Cumi’s Jane, plus forty-odd curious locals who stuck around instead of catching the next bus. The sound was surprisingly good considering the conditions, and by the end everyone seemed impressed—perhaps by our music, perhaps by our sheer lunacy.

To top it off, Bob Kelly offered to cover £125 of our £250 bill for a 24-track studio session, which he’s booking for the end of March. Not bad for an afternoon spent getting soaked and entertaining Rhyl’s public transport clientele.

Psycho Sexual Sex Terrestrials / Jon Bon 10p at Wrexham Cartrefle College

Between three battered cars, every scrap of PSST gear was wedged in with human cargo, and the convoy rolled east to Wrexham. Along for the ride were Chunky, Rob Snapshot, and Scott (who was way OTT tonight). Back at the House of Crud, Wayne and Robin stayed behind painting until Anna and Sian swung by to collect them at 8pm.

Soundcheck was the usual scramble of wires, amps, and expletives. Iwan from the Student Union had us written-off before a note was played—handing over our massive £15 “expenses” as if to say, that’s all you’re worth, lads. The place was dead (well, it was a Sunday night), so Dean, Tommy, and the roadies went prowling the campus like door-to-door lunatics, dragging in anyone who’d listen. Somehow, they swelled the numbers to about forty.

Time to thaw the room. Cue Jon Bon 10p—me and Robin’s comedy double act, which exists purely to take the piss. A million miles from our more serious psyche-punk project Sons of Selina, we launched into a shambolic Floral Dance / Imagine / Last Dance medley, ad-libbing through the parts we’d forgotten and cracking ourselves up in the process.

PSST’s actual set got off to a wobbly start—not musically, but in spirit. The first three songs landed flat with the crowd, our stage energy about as electric as a wet towel. Then Robin and Chunky whipped out their big ‘CLAP’ and ‘LAUGH’ signs, Dean and I started bouncing off each other with quick-fire quips, and the room loosened. Suddenly it was a gig:

Liar / Happy as Larry / Beirut in Rhyl / Man’s Best Enemy / Kennedy / Powerful Pete / £2.17 / Life Goes On / Fatal Attraction / Kennedy (yes, twice).

By the end, they wanted more—so much so that we got invited back for rag week in a fortnight. Not bad for a night that started like a wake.

Not everything was smooth sailing. I lost my rag at Dean for taking the piss out of a Rasta by calling him “Bob.” He got defensive, I got angrier, and that was that—point made.

Anna drove Sian, Wayne, Robin, and me home. I flogged 15 copies of Crud #7 along the way—proving once again that a gig’s worth isn’t just measured in applause, but in how many fanzines you can shift before the amps are back in the van well, cars.

Sons of Selina – Mixing “Anxiety” in the Summerhouse

 

Six hours straight in Robin’s summerhouse-studio in Colwyn Bay, and we emerged battered, knackered but victorious. The “studio” was really the converted summerhouse at the back of his parents’ garden — a space barely big enough for a desk, a bed, a rack of gear, and the tangle of leads that seemed to grow overnight. Robin also lived there, so the smell of instant coffee, cigarettes and stale chip-shop wrappers hung in the air alongside the hum of synths.

We were mixing Anxiety for our burgeoning Sons Of Selina project, and it was heavy going on a Tascam 4-track. The recording was a dense sonic jigsaw that needed constant 'bouncing down' to make space to record more: two rhythm guitars, a slide guitar, bass, sequenced drums, organ, a string pad, mono synth solo, and enough vocal trickery to keep any engineer sweating. Delay on every vocal line’s end, reverse cymbals with a seven-second delay opening the song, reverse reverb on the first three cymbal crashes (with a sneaky extra delay on the third), dry vocals for verse three, a subtle guitar delay on the final note, chorus on the solo backing vocals, double vocals to close verse three, triple vocals for the final chorus run, and a few extra cymbals hammering the first four beats for good measure.

The summerhouse would shake each time we pushed the faders. Robin hunched over the desk in his wool jumper, cigarette dangling, muttering about “getting the stereo image just right.” I perched by the tiny heater, notebook in hand, making sure each mad production decision was locked in before fatigue wiped our memories.

By the time we bounced the final mix, it felt like we’d built a small sonic cathedral in that cramped garden room. Outside, the January cold bit hard — inside, the air was thick, warm, and buzzing with the hum of cables and the satisfaction of a job well done.

(In other news, the Rhyl Journal had a PSST photo running that week, advertising for a new drummer — Jon had buggered off to Canada with my ex-girlfriend. I guess bands, like songs, are always in a state of remix and mixing girlfriends eh!.)

Psycho Sexual Sex Terrestrials – Live at Mold Sureways

 

My 72nd gig

After nearly eighteen months away from a full live set, stepping back onto the stage at Mold Sureways felt both alien and familiar. The Psycho Sexual Sex Terrestrials were never about complexity—three or four chords, often in the same order—but about attitude, noise, and the peculiar thrill of being in a band. The setlist was a blast through the core of PSST’s repertoire: Liar, Beirut in Rhyl, Life Goes On, Kennedy, Fatal Attraction, £2.17, Death on the Motorway, Scared, the instrumental Happy as Larry (with Paul on bass), and Melanie-Jane.

Off-stage, the mood was less harmonious—Jon’s prattish antics during soundcheck and Paul’s subsequent sulking stirred memories of difficult 4Q gigs. Yet when the lights dimmed and the first chords rang out, the frustrations fell away. The room, crammed with what felt like hundred bodies, vibrated with the raw energy of a band leaning into its own ragged edges. It wasn’t perfect, it was a bit shit, but was good fun (I think)

PSST gig and arrests are made

 

I had just come back from three months working in Greece. No sooner had my feet touched Rhyl soil than I found myself back in the chaos — onstage with Psycho Sexual Sex Terrestrials at the Bistro.

The band were already in bits before I even walked in. Robin was pissed, Paul was pissed, Jon and Scott were pissed. Dean, ex–Dam Yankee, was holding it together on rhythm guitar, while Hot Scott was doubling up on bass. I clambered up and joined them for Kennedy and Distance, hammering the bass and generally wrecking the place. The set was a shambles — Robin broke two strings and just carried on regardless, Dean stopped mid-song to bollock Scott for fucking up, and I threw myself into what a reviewer described as a typical demonic Crud performance.

But the gig was a blast. A sweaty, chaotic mess of music, broken strings, shouting, and laughter. It was also the last time the Bistro allowed live music for quite some time. We burned it down in spirit, if not in flames.

The after-show was pure carnage. Paul was trying to juggle not one but two girlfriends — both sat at the same table, glaring daggers, while one of them, soon to be his wife and mother of his child, tried not to combust. The whole band was spiralling into chaos, fuelled by drink and bravado.

Leaving the gig, things got darker. Dean was assaulted outside, which sent Paul, Robin, and Jon — who doubled as a Special Constable — into vigilante mode. Dean spotted one of the culprits, so Jon screeched his car to a halt, leaving the engine running and doors wide open, Robin drunk in the back seat. Dean, Paul, and Jon bolted after the lad, Jon arresting him in full Special Constable glory.

But when they returned to the car, it was gone. Vanished. Robin, in his drunken wisdom, had decided to “help” by moving it out of the road to avoid an accident. Unfortunately, he moved it straight into the path of a police car.

The cops saw he was pissed and hauled him out. Robin, furious at not being recognised as the upstanding citizen he believed he was, kicked off. He lashed out at the officers, smashed the windows of their van, and earned himself seven charges: assault, destruction of police property, drunk driving, no insurance — the full house.

The entire band somehow ended up in the police station, joined by one of Paul’s girlfriends who had just discovered the other one existed. She was screaming, “I hope you catch fucking AIDS!” at the top of her lungs while Robin raged in his cell. The police even tried to confiscate the video of the gig to use as evidence. They didn’t get it.

By some miracle — maybe because Jon was a Special Constable, maybe because Robin had some kind of luck lodged in his bones — he walked away lighter than he should have.

It was a hell of a welcome home for me. Three months in Greece, then straight back to Rhyl, straight into the heart of the storm.

Day 78: Frankfurt to Paris - Training Thoughts

 

Train journeys are strange social experiments — quiet, confined hours spent in close proximity to total strangers, where everyone pretends not to be watching everyone else.

But of course, everyone is watching.

It’s the ritual of the observer: staring discreetly at the person opposite, then darting your eyes away the moment they make contact. It’s a subtle dance — as much a part of train travel as the ticket punch or the low rumble of the wheels.

Say what you will about the continent, but at least European trains run on time. They're clean, punctual, and notably free of graffiti like “MUFC 4EVA” or “Shaz 4 Darren” scratched into the toilet mirror. The air doesn’t reek of stale lager, and there's no sticky floor beneath your boots.

And the fares? Mercifully cheaper than back home.

Leaving Frankfurt, I settled in for the long haul to Paris — a journey made bearable by what I like to think of as seat-side theatre. You don’t need a book when the carriage offers an entire cast of characters.

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The People-Watching Game

Across from me sat a middle-aged German woman, travelling with a small group who spoke in that soft-yet-stern tone peculiar to those born under heavy Teutonic skies. What fascinated me wasn’t what she said — I understood almost none of it — but her face.

Her neck was so broad that it was difficult to tell where her chin stopped and her face began. Even more captivating: at some point in her life, she had taken the time to painstakingly pluck every individual eyebrow hair… and then drawn them back on with all the elegance of a geometry set. Thin, arched, deliberate — like twin commas hovering above blank expression.

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🎒 Enter the English

Around 25 people boarded with me in Frankfurt — all of them in hiking boots and ridiculous matching yellow hats, the kind children wear on school trips to make them easier to count.

They shuffled along the corridor, chirping their beige little sentences at each other.

“What time does the train leave, Roger?”

“Isn’t this a beautiful station?”

Ah yes, I thought — only the English could look that daft abroad. And sure enough, I picked up the accent as they passed.

Still, they were right about the station. Frankfurt Hauptbahnhof is nothing if not beautiful — all steel, glass, and sweeping arches. A far cry from the grime of Rhyl or the existential despair of Crewe.

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Roland’s Germany

Earlier in the day, Roland (my German acquaintance with something of a vendetta against his homeland) had said to me with venom:

“Welcome to Germany. Look at all the nice people in their nice cars. Look how everything has to be in order. Not a thing out of place.”

To him, Germany’s obsession with order was suffocating.

To me, coming from the grey sludge of British public spaces — broken ticket machines, gum-stained pavements, bins overflowing with chip wrappers — it was reassuring.

You begin to notice just how filthy some parts of Britain are only after you leave them.

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🎫 The Journey

There’s something therapeutic about a long train ride across Europe. The world rolls past your window like a slow film. Forests become suburbs, suburbs fade into farmland. People board. People leave.

And all the while, you're sitting there — between languages, between countries, between lives — pretending not to stare at the woman with the marker-pen eyebrows while quietly judging people in yellow hats.

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Next stop: Paris.

Let’s hope the eyebrows stay behind in Germany.

Day 77: Ancona - Innsbruck - Bad Kissengen

 

After crawling through customs at the port of Ancona, I found myself once again at a crossroads — quite literally. With no onward ticket, no plan other than to head to Paris, and no real idea which direction to walk, my first task was to find north. The hope, as always, was to hitch a lift. I gave it a long hour by the roadside, standing in the Italian dust watching indifferent Fiats and overloaded lorries fly past. Just as I was ready to admit defeat and trudge back to the station in search of a train, fate intervened.

A VW campervan pulled up beside me. Inside were Roland and his girlfriend, Jutla — total strangers — who saw me stranded and took pity. Not just a short ride up the road, but all the way to Bad Kissengen in North Bavaria.

I climbed in, grateful and slightly dazed, and off we went — up the spine of Italy, across the Alps, and into Germany.

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☁️ The Road North: Ravioli, Radios and the Return of Cold Air

We lunched on ravioli, shared stories, and cruised to a soundtrack of decent music. As the day wore on, we approached the Italian–Austrian border, stopping briefly to change money — where, for the first time in nearly three months, I felt the cold.

After a Greek summer of sweat, sun, and dust, that crisp alpine air was almost a shock. We passed through Brenner Pass, the mountains folding up around us, and caught sight of the massive Europabrücke (Europe Bridge) just before Innsbruck — an epic, sky-slicing piece of engineering, stretched above valleys and treetops. Roland pointed out a castle nestled at the foot of the mountains: once the only access through the Alps during winter, before motorways and flyovers came along.

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🍺 A Bavarian Detour and a Pub Full of Cowboys

By 9 pm we reached a junction, and Roland turned to me and asked, “Left or right?” I shrugged and said left, and off we went — a spontaneous detour to Nusdorf, deep in southern Bavaria.

We parked up and headed into a local pub. It was packed with loud, beer-throated Bavarians — and when we walked in, it was like a Western: everyone stopped talking and stared at us. Roland leaned over and muttered, "That’s just how Bavarians are..."

The place was brilliant. Proper food, deep wooden booths, and best of all — real beer. Not the bottled Amstel I’d been drinking in Kythera for the past three months, but deep, earthy Bavarian lager. The kind that tastes like someone actually cares about it.

“More beer?” Roland asked after our first pint, and it didn’t take much convincing. Four pints later, I fell asleep in the back of the van, full, warm, and happily worn out.

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🌧️ Nuremberg, Rain & a Midnight Rescue

We made a brief stop in Nuremberg, then continued north as night fell and the rain came down. Sometime in the early hours, Roland and Jutla gently woke me. We’d reached Bad Kissingen, a spa town in northern Bavaria. They didn’t want to leave me on the side of a motorway in the cold and dark, so they put me up at their flat, insisting I sleep properly.

We arrived at 4:30 in the morning, the kind of hour where streets are empty and the world feels paused. I crawled onto their comfy couch, grateful beyond words.

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🧭 From Coastline to Castles

In a single day and night, I’d gone from Mediterranean coastline to alpine valleys, from staring hopelessly at a road in Ancona to sipping Bavarian beer in a pub where the walls practically smelled of history.

It’s the kind of journey you can’t plan — the kind that only happens when you’re travelling light, saying yes, and following strangers into the next story.

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📍 Route:

Italy: Ancona → Bologna → Brenner Pass

Austria: Innsbruck

Germany: Nusdorf → Nuremberg → Bad Kissingen

Day 74: Leaving Kythera

 

The wind howled across Kythera this morning, the kind of gale that shakes shutters and whips the sea into a frenzy. For a while I thought it was fate’s way of keeping me anchored to the island, perhaps for another week. The ferries rarely challenge such weather, and with the island battered from all sides it felt like the Aegean itself wanted me to stay.

I hitched first to Potamos and then on to Agia Pelagia, expecting to find the port in lockdown, no boats daring to brave the waves. But at the Martha booking office the young woman behind the desk reassured me with a smile—it wouldn’t be Pelagia today but the more sheltered harbour at Kapsali. A ferry would leave at 5:30 p.m. Hope restored, I had a few hours to gather my scattered belongings and say my farewells.

Up at the Vouno I collected my pack, said goodbye to Cheryl, and left a note for Wayne before taking the winding road back down to Pelagia. I lingered there over lunch with an Australian teacher, though her conversation never strayed far from smoking joints and late nights. The sort of girl, I thought, you’d fall into bed with at a party and slip away from before morning.

The road carried me onward. Two Aussies gave me a lift as far as Aroniadika, then a Greek driver took me further—his car enlivened by an unlikely passenger: a London rasta with a Jamaican lilt and his Oxford-based girlfriend. Strange combinations, chance encounters; it seemed fitting as my Kytherian chapter closed.

At 6:15 p.m. the ferry pulled away from Kapsali. I stood on deck as the whitewashed villages and craggy hills slipped into the distance, swallowed by the dusk. Did I regret leaving? I wasn’t sure. Three months of steady work, food, and a bed had given me comfort and routine—but comfort can quickly turn to confinement. Out there lay uncertainty, hunger, nights without shelter… and freedom.

By the time we docked at Neapoli I had company again: the rasta, whom I dubbed “Peter Tosh,” and Marie, his girlfriend. They’d just been searched by the police and assumed it was racial harassment. But minutes later I was pulled aside too—their real quarry, it seemed, was a German causing trouble somewhere in town.

The night ended not with triumph but with fatigue. Hitching toward Sparti was hopeless; no cars stopped. I bought some bread and cheese and made do with a corner of an unfinished hotel as my bed. The stone was cold, the air damp, but I had crossed the water.

800 drachmas lighter, but one island heavier in memories, I had left Kythera.

Day 69: Kythera - Jackhammers, Postcards & Soviet Breakups

 

Location: Kythera, Greece

Some days on Kythera unfold gently — those extremely strong and sweet Greek coffees in the sun, a breeze from the sea, a bit of hitchhiking to somewhere stunning. Today was not one of those days.

By 7am, I was back on the building site, bleary-eyed and barely functional. My shift ran through to 2:30pm and concluded with a solid 45 minutes wrestling with three donkeys. They were only marginally more cooperative than the tools.

Not an hour after regaining consciousness from a sleep that almost took me to the other side, I found myself clutching a pneumatic jackhammer, cracking through rock under the already punishing sun. Kythera may be a Greek island paradise, but today it felt more like a quarry and "Trial by Heatstroke." But shit happens, and I know you lose pieces of yourself — and find new ones too.

The jobsite is ruled (if that’s the word) by Dieter, the mad German who looks more alarmingly like the Kaiser everyday and acts like someone with a nervous breakdown permanently pending. Today’s drama? Lambraki (Λαμπράκης) — one of the local lads — made a major construction blunder. Fortunately, Dieter spotted it just as the day ended, narrowly sparing us his full Teutonic fury.

Still, it's only a matter of time. The man is juggling too much, barking orders, flying off the handle, and generally spiralling. If anyone's going to spontaneously combust out here, it’s him. In a strange way, I almost admire the spectacle.

On the gentler side of life: I got a lovely postcard from Mum and a letter from Nain and Bob — always a boost. There’s something grounding about seeing handwriting from home when you're thousands of miles away swinging jackhammers. 

Wayne, meanwhile, received a copy of the Daily Telegraph in the post. Holding a British broadsheet in the middle of the Aegean felt surreal — like a telegram from another planet. But it’s good to get some context about the wider world again, albeit from a right wing perspective.

🌍 Elsewhere in the World

History's in motion:

Six republics of the Soviet Union have now declared independence — Estonia, Latvia, Lithuania, Armenia, Azerbaijan, and Ukraine. Even on a small island like Kythera, the tremors of global change are being felt. It feels like the world is shifting, and here I am up a mountain with a hammer, dirt in my lungs, and sweat in my eyes. 

💸 Island Finances & Currency Shenanigans

I'm trading 15,000 drachma for $100 AUD with Martina — a cheeky little exchange rate hack that nets me the equivalent of £4. Not much, but here, every drachma counts. Between beers, bread, and borrowed time, we live off scraps and sunshine.

Sitting at Cafe Faros this evening, I heard English accents, very uncommon in these parts. I didn't latch on that I could speak their language, but ear-wigged their conversation;:

“I think feminists are women who can’t achieve orgasm.”

Ha ha - Everyone’s got a theory when the beer’s cold and the sun’s set.

My hair is now so full of dust it's forming natural dreadlocks. I might be mistaken for a Rasta if not for the accent (when I'm not pretending to be Greek) and industrial boots.

Emotionally, the homesickness creeps in quietly. I’ve made my decision not to return to Wales — at least not right away — but there’s a pull. I miss the family, especially little Daniel.

And in a final note of schadenfreude: Rupert Murdoch reportedly lost £187 million last year through his newspaper empire.

Ha ha ha.

There’s something soothing about rich people losing money while I count drachmas and barter my way through the Aegean summer.

Day 41: Kythera - Hard Labour, Cold Beers, and Long Walks

 

The alarm dragged me out of a restless sleep at 5:25am — the kind of sleep where you’re never fully under, just hovering in half-dreams. I threw on my raggy shorts and even raggier t-shirt, grabbed two big tomatoes for breakfast, and climbed the path to wait out on the main road in the faint pre-dawn light. After a long while, just as I was starting to think I’d been stood up, Kostas finally appeared around 6:30am, pulling up on his 600cc trial bike. I climbed on, and we set off.

He took me to Fatsidika — a village inland from Agia Pelagia, somewhere in the heart of Kythera’s rugged hills. I'd never been before, but it was a working place, not a tourist stop — raw and sunbaked, with the smell of cement and dust in the air. My task for the day? Unload 89 sacks of cement off a wagon, and then feed them one by one into the beton machine (I’m still not sure if “beton” is just the Greek word for cement or something slightly different — either way, it was heavy).

By 3pm I was ready for food, and the work was done and I was paid 10,000 drachmas — not bad for a day’s graft. We all sat down for a proper meal together — meat, bread, and cold beer, the best kind after a hard day in the heat. One of the many Nikos (they’re everywhere here) gave me a lift back to Pelagia, and cranked up a mix tape for the ride: The Doors, The Stranglers, and Echo & The Bunnymen blaring out of the speakers as we wound our way through the dusty roads. Perfect soundtrack.

Later that afternoon I walked down into the village and met up with Wayne. We took a swim in the sea — part wash, part cool-down — and were heading back up the hill when we bumped into Céline and Agnes, literally just as we were about to go looking for them. They were starving and there was no food at the shack and they had no money, so we convinced them to walk all the way back down the hill with us for a meal at Cafe Faros (and, naturally, beer).

Wayne stayed down in the village for the night (sleeping on the beach) — he’s working for Dieter tomorrow (traitor!). The rest of us trudged back uphill to Kalamitsi, slowly, legs aching. Céline and Agnes are leaving tomorrow — heading off to meet Philippe, Steffan, and Marie before making their way back to Paris.

I talked with Wayne about going home to Wales for a couple of weeks in September. There’ll be some challenges, for sure — the usual balancing act. But as long as I can keep working here regularly, I’ll manage. Maybe I can even stretch to a flight from Athens, if the drachs keep rolling in.

Day 39 – Kythera: Chasing Sun, Postcards, and Paprika

"Wake up, you lazy bastards!"

That was our alarm call this morning, courtesy of Wayne and his special brand of sunrise motivation. It did the trick — within minutes we were up and hitchhiking, pairing off to make our way to Potamos.

📍 Potamos – Our Postal Lifeline
Potamos is about 12 km north of Agia Pelagia — not far, but on Kythera, hitching is often the only way to get around. We go there regularly, drawn by the small thrill of eating hot bread from the bakery and checking for mail. Without a fixed address here, we rely on the Poste Restante system — a lifesaver for travellers like us. Basically, it's a service where the post office holds your mail until you come to collect it. Today, Wayne scored a postcard from his folks.

🏖️ Paleopoli & Avlemonas
After Potamos, we hitched down to Paleopoli for the third time this week. It's hard to resist — the beach there is wide, sun-drenched, and perfect for lazy sunbathing and great swimming. Once our limbs had absorbed enough Vitamin D, we headed east to Avlemonas, a tiny and stunning fishing village that looks like it was plucked from a postcard.

The road from Paleopoli to Avlemonas curves inland before dropping toward the coast again. It’s not a long ride — maybe 6 km — but we’re always at the mercy of passing cars. Today, luck was on our side.

🍅 Choriatiki & Beers by the Sea
In Avlemonas, we treated ourselves to a choriatiki (Greek village salad — tomatoes, cucumber, olives, onions, feta, all drenched in olive oil) and a cold beer. Simple, perfect, and part of my calorie controlled diet. We lingered, savouring both the food and the view, before starting the return journey home.

🚗 Hitchhiking Back – A Waiting Game
Celine and I got lucky again and scored a lift straight back to Potamos, but then wasted an hour and a half waiting for Wayne and Agnes to catch up. Hitchhiking: part travel method, part social experiment.

📉 Island News – Work Woes and Surprises
The mood shifted slightly when Wayne found out that Taso doesn't want him to work for the season. Not ideal. Meanwhile, I found out that Costas does want me to start work — at 7am on Friday. 

🌶️ The Paprika Incident
Back at the shack, we cooked up a vegetable dish that should’ve come with a warning label. I don’t know what we were thinking — maybe we underestimated the paprika, or maybe it was a different kind entirely — but within two bites we were all frantically gulping water, eyes wide, noses running. A fiery end to a long, sun-drenched day.

Day 27 – Kythera: Blood, Sweat & Bush

Agia Pelagia, Kythera

My fingers are absolutely wrecked today — six and a half hours of swinging a pickaxe at solid rock will do that to you. I must’ve shifted half a mountain into that wheelbarrow, and all for 500 drachmae an hour. Slave labour? Pretty much. It’s fine when I’m shovelling pig shit for 20 minutes — not exactly glamorous, but doable. But breaking rock for hours on end? That’s another level.

I’m seriously beginning to question the value of my time and my back. Cheryl muttered something about “writing down another hour” when I finished at 1pm. The so-called policy seems to have become a 2pm finish. But since when was that ever mentioned out loud? Tomorrow’s payday, and I’m going to have a quiet word. If they sack me, so be it. Let’s see them find another mug willing to do this kind of work for those wages. I’d actually be okay with 4,000 drax a day if the hours matched the job — it’s the imbalance that stinks.

Meanwhile, Mickey reckons he might have a better gig lined up — same sort of work, but 10–12k drax for seven hours. Now that’s a conversation I want to have.

And speaking of imbalance, there was a bit of a diplomatic riot in Athens last night. Six hours of chaos to “welcome” George Bush to the country. Nothing like a bit of molotov diplomacy. I need to find out more, but it sounds like the Greeks gave him the warmest possible anarchist greeting. Yeah!

Oh, and the alarm clock’s gone on strike again. Second morning in a row. Still, I was up on time, even the Greek Clock Gods can't stop me.

Later in the day, I tried to get cracking on some beach-cleaning work for Taso. Showed up at 3pm, but he wasn’t around and I didn’t have the tools to start. I finally bumped into him at 4:30, and he gave me the old “Where were you at 3?” line. Absolute tosser. Whatever — I’ll do it Sunday morning, properly.

Rounded the day off with a siesta on the beach — not bad, actually. Sun in my face, waves in the background, and two stunning French girls sunbathing topless fifteen feet in front of me. Life has its moments.

A quick swim, cold shower, then back to Mickey’s.

Kythera continues to grind and glow in equal measure.

Day 8 - Crete to Thessaloniki

For the first time in days, I almost managed a full night’s sleep. The sun woke me at 6.30am, and for once the mosquitoes had given up tormenting me. Instead, drunk Germans had provided the hassle, stumbling over Wayne and me as we slept on the beach. Wayne was still curled up in his sleeping bag as I tried to shoo them away with half-awake diplomacy.

By 9.30am we left Stalida—Crete’s answer to Rhyl—and, once again against the advice of my ever-patient guidebook, tried hitching the hundred miles across the north coast. Wayne and I agreed to split up and try our luck solo, arranging to meet later at Hania bus station.

My thumb was barely ten minutes into its shift before a Scottish couple pulled over, beginning what turned into a four-hour patchwork journey. They told me, quite casually, that civil war had just broken out in Yugoslavia. I blinked. Yesterday I was battling mosquitoes and elephant-foot toilets; today whole nations were imploding.

As we drove, I chewed over the madness of it. Why is it humans keep fighting over scraps of land, religion, or oil? Cats scrap over alleys, fair enough, but people? I pictured a BBC newscaster announcing: “Today, the Revolutionary People’s Army of Yorkshire lay siege to Manchester…” Ridiculous. Yet elsewhere, entirely real. It all came down to influence, conditioning: what you’re told to hate, who you’re told to fear. In Wales we were taught to hate the English enough to torch their holiday homes—though not quite enough, in my case, to bother with the matches.

The Scottish couple dropped me outside Iraklio, Greece’s third biggest city. I watered a bush in one of the countless half-built skeleton buildings (seemingly a national pastime: build half, then lose money, interest, or both) before sticking my thumb out again. A taxi screeched to a halt. I shook my head, turned my pocket inside out, but the driver waved me in anyway.

His cab was no Rhyl Skoda rattler—red leather seats, mahogany dash, BMW badge. He chattered in Greek, gesturing at landmarks and women, while I nodded “neh, neh” like a trained parrot. My eyes strayed nervously to the meter ticking up drachma. At 950 I panicked, grunted, and pointed. He laughed, flicked it to zero, and repeated “dhen pirasi” (doesn’t matter). Seventy-five kilometres later, I gave him 1,000 drachma (£3), thanked him with my best “efharisto poli,” and staggered out in Rethimno. In Rhyl, £3 wouldn’t get you into the cab, never mind halfway across North Wales.

From there, it was back to thumbwork: a motorbike ride, a farmer in silence, more long trudges through the heat. I sweated up hills, entertained myself by imagining the road as a lava river and the ants as alien “biological mechanisms” on a distant planet. At one point, I burned my leg on a motorbike exhaust. At another, I nearly kissed a farmer for pulling over, but settled for a polite “Hania?” and silence all the way.

By the time I limped into Hania, I’d been hitching five and a half hours. I bought bread, fruit, and cheese, and perched on the Venetian harbour wall to eat, refusing the shallow grins of waiters who looked like double-glazing salesmen begging me to sit down. A full English breakfast was my dream meal, but my wallet said otherwise.

By five, I dragged myself back to the bus station—grim, red benches back to back, the air heavy with exhaust fumes. Two Greek girls sat opposite, whispering and glancing at me. Attractive, though one was short with that sexy type of bulging body, the other, very pretty if a little under-nourished. They broke the ice in classic fashion: asking me to watch their bags while they both went to the toilet together (an international female ritual I’ve never understood).

Their names were Eleni and Nikola, both seventeen, both chewing gum like it was an Olympic sport. Eleni did all the talking—university in Iraklio, summers in Thessaloniki with her uncle, then on to Bulgaria to see her grandmother. They hated the American army base, hated smoking ads that promised “SMOKE A FAG AND GET A SHAG,” and were horrified when I admitted to having only £160 in travellers cheques and 10,000 drachma. “Very little in Greece,” Eleni scolded.

We talked until 6.45pm, and then Eleni, after a huddle with Nikola, turned to me and said: “Would you like to come with us?”

I blinked. “Where? Bulgaria?”

“Yes.”

It was insane, but tempting. They even offered to pay three-quarters, “our parents are very rich.” My brain whirred: was this a prank? A trap? A cosmic gift? And what about Wayne? Would I be betraying him? No. He’d have done the same if the roles were reversed.

So at 7.30pm, I was waving goodbye to Crete from the militarised port of Soudha, clutching an 8,200 drachma ticket for a coach to the port, a boat to Piraeus, then a coach to Thessaloniki. Only once onboard did the girls casually mention that I wouldn’t be able to stay with Eleni’s uncle (“he is very strict”)—but not to worry, “Granny in Bulgaria is fun.”

Was I being played for a fool? Possibly. Was it reckless? Definitely. But you only live once. Before leaving Hania I left Wayne a note, sellotaped to a bench:

WAYNE – GONE TO ATHENS, THESSALONIKI, AND BULGARIA! HONEST! WORK?

And with that, I was off—destination unknown, companions questionable, but adventure guaranteed.

Day 7 - Crete

After three days of broken sleep on ferry floors, and a grand total of about two and a half hours’ rest, I found myself slumped on yet another bus—this time rattling from Kastelli to Hania. The plan was simple: catch a bit of kip between potholes. The execution, however, was sabotaged by a man four rows ahead who clearly thought he’d been born to broadcast.

He began in Greek, but soon switched to an excruciating American drawl. “Greece,” he declared, “is the same size as the United States.” When his audience didn’t bite, he raised the stakes: “The map makers are liars, they just want to ridicule the Greeks! I can prove it. It took me the same time to drive from New York to San Francisco as it did from Thessaloniki to Neapoli!”

And on and on he went, like a scratched record nobody wanted to own. I considered explaining that America is roughly 3.5 million square miles compared to Greece’s 60,000, but in my current state I couldn’t decide whether to deliver this information with words or a size-12 trainer to his jaw. In the end, I chose the only sane option: ignore him and drift into fantasies of sleep.

Breakfast was hardly worth the name—bread, crisps, melon—and Wayne and I scribbled postcards home in the classic traveller’s style: “Sorry can’t write much, in a hur...” Enough to let everyone in Wales know we were alive, if not entirely well.

The next bright idea was to hitch across Crete to Malia, ignoring the sage warnings of my guidebook. We shouldered our rucksacks and trudged out of Hania. After 5 kilometres, 85°F heat, and a steady waterfall of sweat down my back, we descended into that familiar travelling mood: the blame game.

“You bastard, Wayne, this is all your fault.”

“It was your idea to hitch, dickhead.”

“No it wasn’t, I thought you’d have the Greeks sussed by now.”

“The Cretans are different, you long-legged wanker. And the book said get the bus.”

So we got the bus.

First to Iraklio, which from my initial impression should really have been named “Excrete.” I’ve never come to terms with Mediterranean elephant-foot toilets—squat, aim, and pray for accuracy. Judging by the stench and the splattered misses, elephants had clearly been testing them before us. Give me a quiet hedgerow any day.

From there, we caught another bus to Malia, only to overshoot and trudge back to Stalida. This, apparently, was where our friends Andy Fatman and Jane were holed up. Malia itself could have been Rhyl-on-the-Med: British lager louts everywhere, hardly a Greek face in sight, while the locals kept wisely to the shadows.

Finding the Stallos Hotel was an odyssey in itself. When we finally arrived, sweaty and sunbaked, I tried to stride in confidently. But the owner blocked me with a palm to my bare chest.

“No English,” he barked.

“Not English,” I protested, “I’m Welsh, here to see my friends.”

He shook his head, immovable. “It is policy. No English.”

“I’m Welsh!”

Still nothing. His palm didn’t move, his face didn’t flicker. No English, full stop. Twice in one day the Greeks had made violence feel like an attractive option—but I swallowed it down.

We never did find Andy or Jane. Instead, Wayne and I cooked aubergine, courgettes, and onions on the beach, and slept there under the stars. The views, I have to say, were decent—particularly the liberated German women who seemed determined to redefine topless sunbathing for the reunified Fatherland.

Been feeling a little pissed off today, probably due to the lack of sleep over the past week. In a bit of a dilemma over what to do next.

The Ruthin Misadventure

It was John’s brother’s stag night, so of course we were duty-bound to paint Ruthin red. We did the traditional pub crawl, one slow pint at a time, before staggering into the Seven Club. Inside, the night took a surreal turn: I bumped into Lindi Punk, who hadn’t seen me in years, greeted me like a long-lost lover, and promptly kissed me. Not long after, I spotted Maria—who, astonishingly, still looked exactly the same as she had eight years earlier. It was as if Ruthin preserved people in formaldehyde.

While I was chatting with some strangers outside, John suddenly strolled past with a girl in tow. He gave me a cheeky wave and called out, “See you later, Neil!” as if he was off to the shops, not sneaking away from his own stag party arrangements. I stood there stunned, muttering something along the lines of, Well, that’s a family drama I didn’t sign up for.

With nowhere else to go, I headed back to his brother’s house, which hadn’t changed one bit since the last time I’d been there. The same faces were slumped around the room, smoking the same spliffs, producing the same silence that passed for conversation. I was offered a drag but declined—too much beer had already turned my stomach into a washing machine. I lasted all of ten minutes before deciding I needed to escape.

So I hit the Denbigh Road, weaving along like a man trying to remember which way gravity worked. I flagged down London-style black cab, it stopped some 20 metres past me. Unfortunately, my coordination was about as reliable as my dignity by that point. I broke into a heroic sprint… only to misjudge the distance entirely and headbutt the back of the taxi.

The next thing I knew, I was flat on the tarmac, dazed and seeing stars, while the taxi driver hauled me up by the arm like a parent dealing with a wayward toddler. I explained, in the slurred tones of a man who thought he was speaking Queen’s English, that I only had a fiver. Generously, he took me as far as Trefnant.

Stranded, bruised, and slightly less sober than I thought I was, I phoned John's soon to be sister-in-law. She was shocked to hear from me—especially at that hour—but still kind enough to drive all the way from Llandudno to rescue me. I told her I’d “lost John outside the club” and “couldn’t find the house,” carefully omitting the part where I’d assaulted a stationary taxi and the bit about her brother in law.

And that’s how John’s brother’s stag night ended: with John disappearing, his brother’s house frozen in a haze of smoke, me concussed on Denbigh Road.