Image: MorgueFile 14228002011gx95
We had been told that any trip through Europe had to include a visit to the tiny village of Morgue nestled on the side of a hill overlooking the Sea.
It was, without doubt, a picturesque town and the walk along the waterfront was spectacular.
It was the locals who intrigued us the most. They were the friendliest bunch of people who had, it seemed to us, a very limited vocabulary.
To every request we made we received an, ”Oh eye.”
Ordering dinner was, “Oh eye.”
“Is the red wine local?”
And so it went on.
We booked ourselves a morning cruise on a gondola. As we approached the spot where the gondolier stood waiting, he produced a piece of paper from his pocket and looked at us.
“Mr and Mrs Smith,” I announced. He looked at his piece of paper and said, “Oh eye.”
He said nothing throughout the journey leaving the spoken word to a taped recording.
As we disembarked and thanked him, he answered, “Oh eye.”
We wondered if living in Morgue gave them an insight into the meaning of life that we hadn’t yet grasped.