How dare they sell the beaches where I played as a child

 Porto Cheli

Nothing is moving, not a twig nor a leaf, and I find myself missing the cows, the mountains and the bad weather. The sun has become the enemy, a merciless foe who can be tolerated only when swimming, something I do for close to an hour a day. Nothing very strenuous, mind you, except for an all-out 50-stroke crawl towards the end. For someone who has swum every year since 1940, I’m a lousy swimmer. Not as bad as Tim Hanbury, who swims vertically rather than flat on the water, and who resembles a periscope, but I’m no Johnny Weissmuller, the late great Tarzan of the Forties. From the verandah of my house I look down on a beautiful bay and a private beach, which is no longer private. I don’t mind that at all, but I do mind that crooks like the Qataris can be allowed to buy the beaches where I played as a child, fill them up with rich scum of the Gulf persuasion and make it verboten

Is there no shame left? No divine punishment? How did it come to this?

for any poor Greek to refresh himself in his own sea.