‘What is that place at the top of the hill, it looks like a prison?’

Josephine looked up and laughed. ‘No, it’s the Catholic monastery of St George. You can walk up there if you want, it’s beautiful inside.’

‘Quite a climb, though, perhaps I’ll save it for next time.’

The rest of the town displayed intense architectural contradictions. Majestic Venetian captains’ houses, and Cyclades white-cube dwellings complemented each other. A town of cathedrals, churches, and chapels of every size and colour from baroque to byzantine, neoclassical to modern. Yet between these painted walls of blue, yellow and white, there existed an air of harmony. Styles of great splendour or simplicity, stood side by side dominating an occasional scramble of vermilion bougainvillea. Each building appeared to have a unique view of the harbour and simply slotted into its own comfortable place.

Josephine and I hurried up and down the steep roads that were mostly steps. We admired the splendour and robust colours of Orthodox churches, and lit candles in ornately carved sand-troughs next to stout oak doors. At the entrance of the sombre Catholic church, we felt minute in the solemn vastness of the building. With no time to explore further, we hurried back down the perilous steps that led to the port and our ship.

*

From the stern railings, we took a last view of Syros. The ship pulled out of the harbour as the sun neared the horizon. From the high deck, we could see the entire amphitheatre that was the town. Now, from a distance, it became clear that the buildings were on two hills, each topped by the largest church in that area with the monastery being the crown.

‘What an enchanting place,’ I said. ‘One day I’m going to return and investigate Syros properly. Just this short glimpse has made me want to come back.’

‘Ah, nothing to do with Manno the mailman then?’ Josephine asked kindly, tilting her head to one side and, as I’d come to realise was her trait, narrowing her eyes mischievously.

*

Dinner was a simple affair: bully beef, boiled potatoes, and large, sweet processed peas. It smelled and tasted wonderful. I sat next to Nurse Josephine, on a table reserved for the medical staff. The surgeon and a relief doctor joined us and asked about the Britannic’s sinking. I remained quiet, my heart fluttering as Josephine filled them in with all she knew. There was no mention of portholes. To my enormous relief, everyone’s concern seemed to be whether a torpedo or mine sunk the ship that, like the Titanic, was deemed to be unsinkable.