It was now October. I knew the warm weather would not last much longer, that my journey around the islands was almost at an end. I stared balefully at my luggage. My case was so heavy that its handle had broken after a few weeks, so heavy that I was tempted to stay in sub-standard places rather than lift it, so heavy that I inevitably arrived at my destination tired, trembling and prey to anyone who offered to carry it for me. Gallingly, I knew all about the advantages of travelling light; but the pressure of time had turned me into a fool.
		Before leaving Australia, I had been too busy to pay attention to what I packed and so had crammed absurd, extraneous items into my case: two left thongs, heavy books, winter suits. I had abandoned some items in Athens; some, I had posted home; others, I had dumped. Even so, a millstone remained. I mentally rehearsed the routine ahead: dragging my case onto the bus to Skala Eresou, dragging it off again, and then dragging it to my hotel room. This protracted folly - my clumsy metaphor for an overloaded life - had gone on for long enough. I brushed away my tiropita crumbs and fear of driving, and decided to hire a car.