Postcard from Chania

Here I am in Chania, Crete, outside the Diporto Guesthouse and the ceramics shop next door. This is the site of the renowned/infamous To Diporto (Two Doors) restaurant, where I worked, forty-five years ago, as the restaurant’s sole waiter, an experience I drew upon for my novel Deep Hanging Out (2007). The restaurant was named ‘Two Doors’ because it had two entrances: this one on Bettolo Street, and the main one on Skridlof, the street lined, then as now, with shops selling leather goods. 

It was one of the weirdest jobs I’ve ever had, taking orders from the most diverse clientele imaginable: stoned hippies on their way back from India; no good boyos on the run from Thatcher’s Britain; prostitutes and their pimps from the nearby red light area; young Greek naval recruits doing their obligatory three years of military service, and (mostly black) crewmen from the U.S. Sixth Fleet stationed at nearby Souda Bay. Oh, and a smattering of bewildered regular tourists who tended not to return. Since the owner and chef — a stocky, mustachioed Cretan named Michalis — know no foreign languages, my job was (a) to transcribe orders onto a pad in Greek with a pencil that I kept behind my ear, and (b) attempt to keep some kind of order when trouble broke out, as it frequently did, between mutually hostile groups of punters.

It was hard work, and long hours, but no doubt it was also character-building. Among the more memorable customers, two stand out: the artist John Craxton, who lived nearby, in an old house behind the Venetian harbour — always polite, but possessed of a withering sense of humour; and a German man in his sixties, an ex-parachutist who had been a part of the invasion force that landed in Crete in May 1941, and who had subsequently been sent off to fight on the eastern Front. The man had enjoyed his first posting so much more than the second that he had started coming back for holidays. Given the brutality of the Nazi occupation, his nostalgia was, let’s say, a little tone-deaf. But since the theme of this year’s Festival was ‘Worlds in Conflict’, this memory seems apposite.

Being invited to participate in the 5th Chania Book Festival was a genuine pleasure. I took a writing workshop with the Syrian/Palestinian poet Ghayath Almadhoun on the theme of Conflict, chatted about ‘Minotaurs crossing the sea’ with Greek author Christiana Lambrinidi and spoke about my translations of Latin American poetry on a panel exploring the theme of translation and gender. But, as the photo suggests, the trip also allowed me to connect with my Cretan past, proving that yesterday usually comes back round, in some form or other.

Richard Gwyn, June 2026

Postcard from Kolkata

Sonali’s laying out her wares on the pavement at Kalighat Bazar. Kali’s silver temple is set against celestial blue, its eight gabled roofs trimmed with stripes of red, blue and yellow, its walls a chessboard of green and white diamonds. The bazar, itself a kaleidoscope of colour, lies all around it, selling all your needs, body and soul: Dashakarma vermilion, flashy hibiscus garlands and shiny brass trinkets; there are the earthy tones of red lentils, green peas, beige rices and ochre spices, bright-and-beautiful Bengali cups and plates, as well as rows upon rows of Kolkata’s technicolour sweetmeats: saffron-yellow rajbhog, creamy white kalakand, deep orange gulab jamun. 

The place is one riot of colour. Bikash in flamingo-pink is having his hair cut. Koushik, dressed in royal blue, sits at his wheel peeling sugarcane. Prabir’s emerald green shirt reflects the skin of fresh coconuts piled high on the back of his tricycle. An egg yolk-yellow Ambassador taxi suddenly emerges from the crowd, only to vanish again, pursued by a garish tuk-tuk. Hundreds of pilgrims in their rainbow saris and T-shirts bind together temple and bazar, as they browse the market’s offerings for the triple-eyed black goddess with the golden lolling tongue. The more vivid the colour, the deeper the fervour. And the money’s rolling in. 

But in this thrilling, blinding, overwhelming visual tapestry weaving together earth and heaven, it’s Sonali’s humble stall that catches my eye. Not even a stall, in fact – just a square of cotton cloth spread out along the kerbside. Sonali, dressed in a modest navy blouse and turquoise Tant sari, lays out her fruit and veg there. One of each. One by one. A maroon begun. A pure-white mulo. An amber kumro. A rich brown yam. A scarlet tomato. And one bright green papaya, as shiny as malachite. Each one polished in turn, then laid down with care, no speck of dust to taint its natural shade of perfection.

Sonali then sits back, squatting, barefoot, to watch the crowds rush past. She’s unconcerned by their pretermission. Her wares are not for sale. I watch her raise her chin, her gaze thrown once or twice towards the silver temple and its gaudy bazar, then coming back to rest, quiet, upon her own still pageant. The square of cotton cloth at her bare feet. The earthly fruits she grew. Their pure intensity of colour. Sonali’s offerings, laid out in consecration on a Kalighat kerb, to the divine unseen.

Angharad Price, January 2026

Postcard from Riga

Poet Marged Tudur was invited to Page Break Festival in Riga in April 2025.

Paldies Riga

Before I set off to go to Riga, I was asked to list three things I connected with Latvia. My answer? The Baltic Sea, forests and Black Balsam. To my great shame, I knew little beyond superficial, stereotypical knowledge. A few days before leaving, I stumbled from one website to another trying to absorb as much information as possible, scrolling through photos, swiping fingers along maps, practicing greetings on my Latvian learning app.

But as I stood outside the hotel on a Sunday morning waiting for a lift back to the airport, I realised that nothing could have prepared me to be part of Page Break, the international poetry festival organised by Madara Gruntmane, Efe Duyan and Kaspars Bērziņš. I never imagined that I would be able to take to this clean, kind, gentle, unasssuming city within just six days. Three weeks later, I can still see the old town and its rounded stone streets as I close my eyes, still feel the unexpected passion of 16-year-old students for Welsh poetry and poems, still hear voices and accents from all over the world getting closer in the small hours.

I'm not exaggerating when I say that I gasped out loud at seeing who the poets were who would be part of the festival. Yes, a few names were new to me, and a few others were poets I've admired for many years and read their poems over and over again. Meeting everyone and getting to know them, getting to hear their poems and stories, being able to share a stage with them, having chats and discussions was a thrill I will never forget.

'My mind has been opened, stretched so wide. Like I've just opened a map and spread it across the table and I see uncharted territory in front of me – places waiting for me to find them, lanes that call my name, paths that give me itchy feet, names that dance on my lips, people smiling at me kindly.'

Those were some rough sentences in my phone notes at 4.37am on the last Saturday in Riga. Yes, I saw the Baltic Sea and felt its chill on my cheeks, I gazed at the endless forests from the airplane window and a small bottle of Black Balsam came back in the bag with me. But Riga means a great deal more than that to me now. Madara, Efe and Kaspars have undoubtedly created something very special and I am extremely grateful to the three, to the poets, to Riga and its people and to Literature Across Frontiers for the opportunity. Paldies.

Marged Tudur, April 2025