ALEXANDRA SHULMAN: I wanted to treat a group of friends to a glorious Greek holiday. But then our phones began to ping with storm alerts. And it was all downhill from there…

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Back in February, it had seemed like an excellent idea to rent a house on the Greek island of Evia for the last two weeks of September.

My partner, David, and I had stayed there a few years earlier and knew what a special place it was — a stylish, open-plan living space with white cube bedrooms dotted around the terraced garden.

There was a pool with a shady pergola, several large dining spaces, an area for playing boules — and it was only a 15-minute walk to the glittering sea below.

All in all, the perfect spot for us to repay the hospitality of friends over recent years.

Yes, David was concerned that hosting would not be as restful a holiday as he might wish — we were to have a rolling cast of 16 guests over the two weeks. But I was determined: we were going to do this.

David and I had stayed there a few years earlier and knew what a special place it was

David and I had stayed there a few years earlier and knew what a special place it was

There was a pool with a shady pergola, several large dining spaces, an area for playing boules — and it was only a 15-minute walk to the glittering sea below

There was a pool with a shady pergola, several large dining spaces, an area for playing boules — and it was only a 15-minute walk to the glittering sea below

The house is on a steep dirt track high above the main road, the hillside behind pockmarked by burnt remnants of pines from a fire two years ago, while the terraces in front are filled with newly planted olive trees, herbs and floral shrubs.

The first week was everything you could wish for. A merry band of eight guests who, while not knowing each other, appeared to enjoy each other’s company. We lolled on the chic blue-and-white-striped mattresses by the pool, visited local tavernas, baked in the sun and cooked up a storm.

The second week? Well… not so idyllic.

Six new guests arrived late on Saturday evening after the three-hour mountain drive from Athens airport over the single bridge that connects Greece’s second largest island after Crete to the mainland.

They were all old friends — one couple straight off a boat from Turkey; another a photographer with his opera designer wife; the third our neighbours in London.

They joined us and another pair who had originally introduced us to the house — Melissa, a successful florist, and her husband Charlie, a historian.

By the second day, it was still warm and sunny but rain was forecast — possibly even a thunderstorm.

We all started scrolling through various weather apps on our phones — when I didn’t like what I saw, I’d decide that app was clearly useless and consult another.

It was, we all agreed, quite normal to have a spot of rain in the Med in September and nothing to worry about. So all ten of us headed out for lunch while the weather held, ordering jugs of white wine and delicious Greek salads.

Afterwards, some of us went to the beach for a swim and an afternoon laze on the sunloungers. The beach was quiet. Perhaps, in retrospect, too quiet. All the umbrellas were shut, as was the bar where we had enjoyed many pre-lunch beers listening to The Doors and Bob Marley on a looped soundtrack.

Was everything suddenly shut because it was the end of season (a little unlikely as it had been packed the previous day)? Or because the usual beach crowd, locals rather than tourists, knew bad weather was on the way?

Unnervingly, all of our phones began to ping with official bad weather warnings.

An hour or so later, it started. Never, ever, have I experienced such a storm. Pictured: Cars tied to a tree get covered with mud after storm 'Elias' swept across the Agria area of Volos

An hour or so later, it started. Never, ever, have I experienced such a storm. Pictured: Cars tied to a tree get covered with mud after storm ‘Elias’ swept across the Agria area of Volos

A car covered with mud and stones after storm 'Elias' swept across at Agria area of Volos, Greece, 29 September 2023

A car covered with mud and stones after storm ‘Elias’ swept across at Agria area of Volos, Greece, 29 September 2023

The next day there was still no sign of rain and we decided we had been making a fuss about nothing… until early evening, when we gathered on the terrace, having changed into smart clothes for pre-dinner drinks.

There, looking across the wide bay to the mainland was a light show to rival anything by Coldplay or U2. Sheets of lightning were flashing across the horizon, followed by the distant, but unmistakable sound of thunder.

As the hours passed, the gaps between the flashing and the thunder claps became ever-shorter. The storm was heading our way.

But, lulled into a pleasurable sense of comfort, we chattered the evening away, most of us convinced it would blow itself out before it reached us.

After midnight, we closed the metal doors and windows and retired to bed.

An hour or so later, it started. Never, ever, have I experienced such a storm. Our bedroom was the only upstairs room, and all night the thunder crashing and the wind howling made me fear the ceiling would fall in.

As the metal shutters rattled, then banged open and shut, the heavy stone in place to keep one closed crashed to the floor inside and the rain began to leak in.

I dashed downstairs to check all the doors and, as far as I could make out in the darkness, although it was pouring with rain, nothing catastrophic was happening. How wrong could I have been?

As we emerged pyjama-clad from our rooms in daylight, the apocalyptic weather event was still in progress. Storm Elias had carved rivers of mud into the steep hillside above us; they were gushing in a fierce torrent down to the house and towards the various bedroom blocks.

Amazingly, the couple lowest down the hill only realised that their room was flooded with six inches of water, and their private terrace knee deep in thick mud, when they got up.

They had to wade through the mud with their belongings held high and move into an unoccupied room equipped with children’s bunk beds.

The sea below our house and all along our stretch of coast was now a violent orange colour from the mud, and trees lay in piles across the road

The sea below our house and all along our stretch of coast was now a violent orange colour from the mud, and trees lay in piles across the road

The other bedrooms, including ours, were in better shape, but all had water leaking through windows and doors and — most frighteningly — the mud was piling higher by the minute, forming a wave against the large glass doors and walls and threatening to invade the main house.

Crucially, the track to the house was impassable by any vehicle but a hefty 4×4 or tractor, the already rocky path a mass of huge boulders and mud. We had all arrived in small hire cars, utterly incapable of movement in these conditions. We were well and truly stuck.

Charlie, the historian, clad in one of the only waterproof jackets, began the search in the heavy rain for any blocked drainage outlets that might allow the muddy water to escape. My partner, David, rushed around filling empty bottles with rainwater in case the electricity failed.

Bare feet, or Crocs, became the footwear of choice as the rest of us dashed between the rooms, mopping and sopping up. It was a Sisyphean task, since no sooner was a patch dry than it was soaked again. But it made us feel as though we were at least doing something while the storm raged.

That first day, marooned on the hill, we were a relatively cheerful bunch. One guest, in an attempt to normalise the situation, stared out over the storm-laden vista and announced that it looked just like the view from her family’s place in Scotland.

We hauled the terrace tables indoors, took it in turns to cook, and drank our way through cases of the local wine. We built a cheerful fire that evening with logs still miraculously dry enough to use. While some played endless Scrabble, others followed news of the situation on Facebook.

There was even something a touch exciting about learning we were in the eye of the island’s weather drama — at the centre of Storm Elias, which was dumping a month’s worth of rain over central Greece in 24 hours.

It was so bad, the Greek military had been drafted in to boost flood defences on the mainland, while the fire service was busy evacuating thousands from at-risk homes.

We learned that a nearby town, Rovies, was a disaster zone, with houses reduced to rubble because, as the mayor explained to local Press: ‘The entire mountain has cascaded into the settlements.’

The sea below our house and all along our stretch of coast was now a violent orange colour from the mud, and trees lay in piles across the road.

Then the electricity did indeed fail and would continue to do so intermittently for days, leaving us without the fridge, cooker, water pumps and wifi.

By the second day, not only Storm Elias but group anxiety began to dig in.

Then Kostis, a local fixer and friend of Charlie and Melissa’s, appeared like a vision from the local town, Limni, in his Jeep, offering to take us down for supplies. He also brought the news that the main road crossing from the mountains to the mainland bridge was unusable and might well be for days. The road in the other direction, he told us, was flooded and our own rocky road utterly impassible for our small hire cars.

Our flights home had been booked from the next day on, but if it were him, he concluded, looking very gloomy indeed, he would reschedule his flight immediately. No way was anyone leaving in a couple of days.

Our stiff upper lips began to tremble. While none of us wanted to look namby-pamby, it was obvious everyone was very reluctant to be stuck here together and miss their flight home.

The previous day we had been pretty united, but at that moment a certain ‘all men for themselves’ mentality crept in.

Residents climb over rubble on a destroyed road after storm 'Elias' swept across the region, Volos, Greece, 29 September 2023

Residents climb over rubble on a destroyed road after storm ‘Elias’ swept across the region, Volos, Greece, 29 September 2023

Piles of destroyed furniture and items in the street at Keramidi village, Karditsa, Greece, 29 September 2023, after storm 'Elias' swept across the region

Piles of destroyed furniture and items in the street at Keramidi village, Karditsa, Greece, 29 September 2023, after storm ‘Elias’ swept across the region

When the house’s owners (continually being WhatsApped by us for help) said, of course, we could stay on until the situation improved, David and I and another couple immediately changed our flights to three days later — at considerable cost.

The rest, though, were less certain what to do.

While we maintained a carapace of good humour, tension grew between couples over what action to take. As the rain continued to pour down relentlessly, ‘I’ll just do what you decide to do’ could be frequently heard from couples in a huddle, leaving the one who had to make the decision in a fury they’d been left with the responsibility.

It was salutary to realise that no amount of money or influence we might scrape together could get us out of the place, which was becoming increasingly claustrophobic as the hours passed.

One of our guests was an industrialist used to running some of the biggest companies in the UK, but he, like the rest of us, was impotent. Weather is a great leveller.

As a group we were divided into two camps: those who accepted the situation with a certain equanimity and those who were desperate to do something . . . anything.

I was surprised to fall into the former group — perhaps because, unlike some of the others, I had no pressing plans to get home for. No crucial meeting like the opera designer, or vital grandparent duty like another guest. As journalists, David and I could both work from anywhere for a few days.

There was a brief, crazy plan to charter a boat — a plot that was immediately dumped when it was clear there was nowhere for a boat to moor on this storm-hit coast.

Then there was the possibility of escaping by ferry from the other end of the island — but how to get out of the house with the cars undrivable?

As the host, I was miserable that I had inflicted such misery on our guests. They had signed up for a week of luxuriating in the sun, looked after by us. And what had they got? Half the holiday confined in horribly wet, mud-soaked conditions with patchy electricity and the hum of constant anxiety and low-lying fear.

Although everyone kept assuring me it wasn’t my fault, the feeling I had let them down was inescapable. The best I could do was to remain relatively cheerful myself.

Eventually, after 48 hours, the storm passed and thanks to the heroic efforts of the local services, the mountain road opened.

But with no tumble dryer everything was still soaked, the track to the house was a wreck and getting away still a real problem.

The house’s guardian managed to make the journey from his own flooded home with more dire information, including the news, which was never verified, that dead bodies were making the sea unswimmable. (I have learned that Greek men generally possess Cassandra-like tendencies — predicting the very worst.)

A truckload of stones is used to fill a road that has been washed away after storm 'Elias' swept across the region, Volos, Greece, 29 September 2023

A truckload of stones is used to fill a road that has been washed away after storm ‘Elias’ swept across the region, Volos, Greece, 29 September 2023

Fortunately, we were rescued by the trusty Kostis, who acted as a courier to take most of the guests down to waiting taxis on the main road to begin the long drive to the airport. Their hire cars had to be abandoned at the house.

As the sun came out, the ground dried and the soaked towels and sheets could be hung out to dry. Only the mud-baked terraces were there to remind us of the nightmare of the previous days.

Then the pool man brought news that the pool had to be drained immediately, since the water had become toxic from the debris.

It was the final straw. The sight of this empty concrete basin was too bleak. We decided it was the cars’ undercarriage or our sanity, and the next day risked the road to drive to Athens airport.

A holiday like this certainly shows who your real friends are. Back in the safety of our homes, there have been lots of jokes and anecdotes, but the adjective most used in the thank-you-for-the-holiday emails is… ‘memorable’.






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