Since I got here I’ve walked to the west of Chania every morning, along a coastline dotted with hotels and restaurants. In front of some there’s a long but very narrow strip of beach, a thin ribbon of sand, where racks of sun beds lie waiting for hotel guests, who flop in to them when they’ve had their breakfast. I go on a bit further to another beach, which is much bigger, have a swim and a coffee, and walk back after an hour or so.

By the time I pass by on my way home the racked ones are starting to cook, some turned to make sure both sides are done. That’s how you sun bathe, I know, I’ve done it. But all racked up on that thin ribbon they look just like sausages on a BBQ grill and it always makes me chuckle. I’ve spared you a photo; it’s not a pretty sight.

A bit further on there’s an avenue of trees and plenty of shade, on a road where tour buses unload day trippers from somewhere. That’s where I met Sophia, pictured above, who sits there quietly with a plastic cup in her hand on a wall in the shade, right where they pull up. Most of the day trippers, who tumble out on to the pavement all excited and chattering in various languages, seem to march on by, following their tour guide, who holds up a clip board so none peel off and get lost.

I dropped some change into Sophia’s cup the first morning. On the second she smiled, putting her cup aside and wishing me a good morning, as if to say you don’t need to give today, which seemed a bit daft, given that I was a safe bet. I wished her a good morning too, commented on how hot it was and asked if I could sit down for a minute. She brushed the wall with her hand and said ‘Κάτσε κάτω’: sit down.

We chatted for a while in my inadequate Greek, although I’ve just enough to get by. She told me her name and how hard it was to live on her meagre pension. Her husband had died, hence her widow’s weeds, and I knew from having looked it up the night before that there have been continuous cuts to the pension system. Greece’s ever decreasing GDP has devastated its population of pensioners, with an estimated 1.5 million falling below the poverty line. That’s roughly 15% of the country’s entire 10.3m population. They’ve endured a total income loss of 70% and some, like Sophia, have resorted to the humiliation of the cup.

Sophia has the sweetest smile. After a bit of small talk she asked me how it was that I spoke Greek. I explained that I’d worked in Chora Sfakion on the south coast, many moons ago, and she told me that a relative had lived there. Then she asked me if I’d any children and along it came: ‘where is your wife?’ I explained and she clasped her hand to her heart saying something that I didn’t really understand, although I knew what she meant.

We sat there for a while doing widow small talk, at least I think we did, and were both smiling as I got up to leave and another coach load pulled up. I wished her good luck (καλή τύχη) and dropped some money in her cup. For all I know she slips off her weeds and jumps in a Tesla round the corner when she’s done, but I don’t think so. The humiliation of pride abased is a tough one to mimic.