I am not going to attempt to spoil your fun ahead of the almost imminent (self) publication of my best-selling (if I sell one copy, to myself, it will be a best seller) book about Corfu in winter, but I can report on my return to Kavos, the 24 hour party resort. The visit to Kavos, and to a number of places I toured in January 2015, has inspired me to add a postscript to my widely anticipated story, even though there was little of inspiration to be seen in Kavos during the morning.
I remain at a loss to understand the attraction of Kavos. This has a little to do with my old age, I know, but to be honest I was never much of a party animal. I much prefer a pint or two of Boston’s Old Thumper in some snug bar or other and some friendly banter, to a night dancing to music I can’t stand, drinking over-priced booze I don’t like in order to pull, as they say, young ladies who would only want to return to said club the following week.
In winter, Kavos resembles the scene of nuclear devastation but without the radiation. It’s a ghost town with good reason. Nothing is open, no one lives there; no one would want to live there. In summer, Kavos resembles the scene of nuclear devastation but with the radiation. Small groups of sunburned young boys and girls, plainly suffering from the fall out of the previous night. Most things were open but by midday there was next to nobody on the main strip.
Kavos prides itself in being a 24/7 resort and it’s true to the extent that some places are open 24/7. Most of the tourists are not out partying 24/7, though. What happens is that they go to bed as the dawn is breaking and get up in the middle of the afternoon. There is nothing to admire in the stamina of the young party-goers. They just live by a different clock, but broadly speaking with the same number of hours in it for sleeping and being awake.
I would say that, apart from the people who work there, that everyone in the resort is British. There is something uniquely British about getting totally wrecked day after day, being sick and never remembering anything about the holiday. It’s our culture, you see.
Kavos is also pretty well in the middle of nowhere and when the kids arrive, that’s where they stay for two weeks. The Corfiots like this, I suspect, because the rowdier elements are never seen by the vast majority of other tourists. Me? I just wish they’d tow the place to see and preferably sink it.
I’m afraid I did indulge myself in a Subway for lunch because it was just about the least English thing on sale – I really could not face the slap-up English fry up available in every single bar and cafe.
The best thing to come out of Kavos is the road back to Corfu Town. I would not recommend the place to my worst enemy (alright, that’s not quite true; I probably would) and I’ve now seen enough.
It’s back to the laid-back chilled-out ambience of Arillas for the last few days before we head back to the driving rain and storms in the UK, or summer as we call it. I’m knackered after all this relaxing. I think I need a holiday.
