My historian sister Bettany and I made a pact. I, a blinkered ex-cricketer, would try to open my, and my three sports-obsessed children’s, eyes to Greek culture if she and her bookish family would indulge in some physical activity.
Our expedition to the Peloponnese began badly. I was arrested on the island of nearby Poros by a towering policewoman. My offence? Riding a scooter having misread — well, ignored — a sign restricting vehicle entry round the harbour.
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I feared spending my first night behind bars. But the duty officer couldn’t have been friendlier, expounding on the beauty and safety of Poros.