A chubby man called Manolis leads us to a tiny red Micra. My suitcase struggles against stones on the ground and on noticing, Manolis picks it up with a chubby hand, as if filled with feathers.
”This is your car. And this is for you,” he presents my father with a bottle of red wine, a product of Crete of course. After loading our suitcases into the car boot Manolis hands us his mobile number on a scrap of paper and insists that we call him if we need anything at all during our stay. He then bumbles into the distance of the pitch black airport car park.
My father starts the car and the stereo comes alive with bouzouki and cheery Greek song. He dances in the driver’s seat in excitement of the week to come and off we go to find our hotel, a good 45 minute drive away.
Crickets line the roads and sing their hearts out, rasping in arid grasses. The unmistakable perfume of pine resin floats in the humid air and a huge orange crescent moon hangs low in the night sky, its reflection splayed on the sea to our left.
Families dine on terraces by the dim light of lanterns. Huge insects crash and die on our windscreen. The music plays on, familiar words and rhythms lament.
I have that feeling in my belly the one I get every time I am here, not Crete, but here in the Mediterranean. A feeling of excitement and homecoming. I am about to fall in love all over again.
After a heat induced slumber, we awake to a searing morning on the coastal town of Herssonisos. I open the door and window to let some air through our room and am greeted with moderate september waves thrashing against red rocks. As anyone English can empathise, my immediate thought was ‘BEACH!!!’
Lifting my hand to alleviate the tickling sensation on my head I feel something hard and foreign scuttling around my crown! It is promptly thrown across the room as I let out an almighty shriek. A maid rushes in ready for action, but saves the button sized bug instead.
“Her name is Vermosa. Her smile is not pretty but she is not so bad.” She shows me the creature now safely snug in a cloth.
Tucking into a breakfast of cucumber and fragrant tomatoes on the restaurant terrace I feel a tapping at my ankles. There, below a swaddling of table cloths, lay a tiny kitten ready to play. He quickly becomes my friend as I sneak him scraps of bacon from my Dad’s plate. Then I notice he is all alone in the world and bullied by a big ginger tom cat, who steals his scraps. I go to fetch more cucumber but come back with a plate piled high with rose-pink watermelon and loukoumades – fried dough balls drenched in syrup and smattered with sesame seeds and cinnamon. Drat, this health kick is clearly not going to work!
After the first few days tanning under a scorching sun, we ventured into Herssonisos town. My disappointment at seeing a plethora of Fur shops aimed at rich Russian tourists did not cease throughout my stay. The shops were perhaps the first thing I noticed on the dusty stretch of highway between Heraklion to Herssonisos. Huge posters of glamorous women donning fur coats are signed in Russian, confusing any tourist who passed as they sweltered in 30+ degree heat. My annoyance is futile; it’s the way of the world now and there is little to be done about it until the Russians follow the fashion of Europe and go bust.
Herssonisos starts with Eucalyptus lined streets. If you’re lucky you can find a local man selling grapes in their shade perched on the periphery of the town. In the centre of town pubs and restaurants come alive and Herssonisos becomes like any other tourist hotspot. I find Mastic gum in a local supermarket and buy a pot. It’ll bulk up my tiny baggage allowance but hey, it’s not every day you can come across ingredients like that! I have no idea what to do with it so if anyone can suggest a good recipe using it, I’ll be grateful. We stop for a Greek Coffee and our waiter replys to me in English. Oh well, at least I tried. My Greek lessons were useful to some degree. I can order a coffee, greet people, and say I love you – these are some of the most important things to communicate in life, aren’t they? If all else failed I’d use my hands and speak in a mix of Italian and Turkish hoping for the best.
Piskopiano and Koutouloufari are two small and very traditional villages rising above Herssonisos at the foot of an illuminated rock face. We first stop in a family run taverna called David Vegera where mezze cost from 1 Euro. Stuffed courgette flowers (dolmades) and Fava bean pure are brought to our table with plenty of bread, along with a massive greek salad, boiled mountain greens and calamari. For dessert, Galaktoboureko (Milk pie and oh my goodness, its good!). A small carafe of wine and some raki later our bill arrives. 20 Euros. If I think what 20 euros can buy me in London, I want to cry.
A short tour of Piskopiano leads us into a church square. A family of Albanians dine on their terrace nearby. They offer us Raki and something to eat with a hand-on-heart gesture on hearing my father speak Italian. Part of me wishes we had taken up the offer just for the experience (think of the photo opportunities!) but we politely decline not wanting to impose.
Strolling down the road to Koutouloufari a buzz of life becomes us. There are busy tavernas, numerous gift shops and bars. Yet in between the new builds and touristic venues are doorways leading to courtyards cushioned by plush purple Bougainvillea. Yiayias and Papous (grannies and grandpas!) sit together outside to enjoy fresh evening air. The Papous calmly play with Komboloi (Prayer Beads) while the Yiayia’s natter.
“Kalispera” One says noticing me spying on them through rickety blue gates.
“Kalisperasas,” I answer, remembering to address them formally.
I wonder around a gift shop unable to put down the five sets of komboloi I have firmly in my grasp while other tourists pick up soap and ceramics.
“Komboloi!” The shop keeper declares at the check out. “You look like your father.” he adds. His heavily pregnant wife smiles at us both while she caresses her swollen belly. I like this village.
The next morning I decide to go for a run on a road at the back of the hotel which is sandwiched between the beach and a string of complexes.
“Kalimera!” An elderly man hosing down some thirsty bushes calls out.
“Kalimera!” I reply.
I see a squashed baby tortoise and morbid fascination gets the better of me; I stop to inspect it wishing I hadmy camera with me. The ginger tom who bullies my kitten wanders up to have a look too. He brushes past my legs a few times and when I sit on a bench nearby he follows me and hops onto my lap. Curling up he isn’t bothered by a local man driving past beeping furiously on his horn. Another jogger stops to look at us.
“It looks like you have made a friend there,” he says as he reaches down to pat the tom cat. The tom cat moved his head out of the way and takes a swipe at the man’s hand. “He obviously doesn’t like other men!” he adds before jogging on. The cat, feather light in comparison to my own cat back home, looks up at me just inches away from my face and still curled up on my lap, then flips over to welcome strokes to his skinny belly.
Then I hear other miaos from across the road. Under the upturned roots of a lone olive tree is a handful of tiny kittens; some pounce and some snuggle with their mummy. The tom hops off and heads overlooking back at me as if to say “Come and meet the family!”. I make a few trips back to see the litter, with scraps of meat of course.
Spiros and Vasilis, the Hotel restaurant managers, greet us daily with handshakes. They always make sure we get a table on the terrace over looking the pool with a sea view.Vasilis grabs my arm and comes closer to whisper something terribly secret.
“I never tell guests this, only friends. You should visit Rogdia, a small traditional town outside Iraklio. About 5km outside the city, you will see a sign for Rogdia. Ro-gd-ia OK? There you can eat the traditional Cretan food and see all of Iraklio. I take my wife there.” Traditional? Cretan? Panoramic views? Great!
“Any particular taverna?”
“They’re all good.”
We reached a Convent and a ranch twice by accident and couldn’t drive any higher on crumbling mountain tracks with sheer drops. After heading so high that we were blessed with air was so watery thin as Heraklion below sweltered, with each bend a breathtaking view popped in and out of our vision. Luckily we find a make shift petrol station at the foot of the village.
“Taverna?” we ask the ancient attendant. He starts to ramble in Greek. We take his hand’s advice and just follow the road straight. We seemed to drive though Rogdia five times, swerving to avoid numerous hobbling Yiayias before we found an open taverna.
Another family run affair, the taverna offered fresh fish, handmade mixed greens pies and dakos, a traditional rusk topped with tomatoes, cheese and olives much like southern Italian Freselle.
“Una Faccia Una Razza!” My father says before tucking in. One face, one race – a favorite saying of mine referring to the similarities of Italians and Greeks. It seemed true in so many ways; they both talk with their hands for a start.
We were the only people dining in the taverna as the rest of the village slept. Me and my father we were perched so high on a mountain side that the view of Heraklion below seemed unreal. The family sit around another table close to us and ate grilled fish. Read more about Rogdia and surrounding villages here.
Heraklion’s core feels ancient. It has that buzz of chaos and beauty most Mediterranean port towns hold; it dazzles with its’ dirt and charms with its’ character. After a visit to the Church of St Titos, patron saint of Crete, we follow the crowds and head to the bazaar. Bustling shops with outdoor stalls line the streets. Here everything produced in Crete was available. Tourists grabbed products made of olive wood, ouzo and natural sea sponges. I bought (as is my tradition!) an Evil Eye charm from a Byzantium Jewellery shop and some natural Cretan tea (Dittani leaves). But the best souvenirs for me are the experiences and their memories. Stopping at Cafe Kalogerou, we had another sweet Greek Coffee (Kafe Metrio) and some Ouzo. There were no signs in English to lure in passing tourists here, it was a thoroughly Greek experience surrounded by Komboloi yielding locals whetting their appetites and twidling moustaches. I spy an eatery on the opposite side of the street which serves only Loukoumades.
“Just wait,” Instructs my father when he notices me salivating. Then as appetite got the better of us both he led us to a taverna (Agio Krani Aigo Thalassa) on the seafront. (It is near Hotel Kronos and the western most tip of the port on Leoforos Nerchou road.) Packed to the rafters we managed to snag a table and dined on Calamari, sautéed fresh anchovies, mezze and ouzo. After our meal was cleared away the waiter brings over a mountain of loukoumades and ice cream. The table next to us receives small plates of candied fruits in syrup. Gypsies begin to sing outside, one bizarrely has a Zara shopping bag dangling from his arm. Ahhhh the Med.
I start to doze as the heat makes my eye lids heavy but they’re soon revived by a strong smell of sage. An elderly man enters the restaurant selling his harvest from two laundry bags; sage, thyme, dill and lots of other herbs and edible weeds which I have never seen before. The battery in my camera has an untimely death and I can’t capture the moment. Double drat!
Another elderly man comes in selling lottery tickets, but profits from the bread basket instead as he stuffs his pockets. My dad gives him our bread too. He takes his hat off then leaves the restaurant.
Stopping off in Knossos my skin begins to burn in the scalding sun. It’s mid September and it seems summer refuses to die this year. We leave the car in taverna Pasiphae car park and not in the official one, saving us 4 Euros. In the short distance to Knossos entrance we notice a table just outside a gateway piled high with crates of figs. An elderly couple sit under the shade of the fig trees within the gated courtyard (I am falling in love with all the Yiayias and Papous here!). Beyond them is the prettiest of all shrines I have seen in my time in Crete. We ignore the touristic shops and buy jammy figs instead. I come away with a beautiful photo of that shrine and a sweet palate, much more precious than any mass manufactured ceramic plate.
Knossos is baking. Sun unleashes its fury on culture enthusiasts and I stay in my father’s shadow to avoid becoming beetroot. The crickets are again out in force, their song is at time deafening. I dread to think how big they are, monsters next to the tiny British ones who rasp rather pathetically in comparison! We stop at Pasiphae taverna for an awesome foamy Frappe under the shade of it’s olive trees. It’s a kind of make shift place where the food is authentic. Sacks of oranges rest against tree stumps and waiters sing a lot to Greek song. On our way out we’re held by (another) Vasilis and his small army of men at the car park entrance.
“Una Faccia, Una Razza!” he unknowingly shouts into the car window. My dad seems to always make friends everywhere he goes.
“Viva I Cretini! Cretani?” my dad shouts back at him and the men just over his shoulder who crowd the car with smiles.
“Dad, I think you just called them cretins rather than Cretans?”
During our weeks stay we neither want to tire ourselves out or laze around doing nothing so we decide to skip visiting Chania and decide to travel to Agios Nikolaos instead, a short drive east of Herssonisos. The road is well signed as we head east. We pass numerous shrines and I am intensely angered by failing to notice a beautiful monastery by the side of the road before it was too late to stop.
We pass Malia in an instant and before we know it we’re climbing high. I wonder how much higher there is to climb and look out the window at the towering rock face above the car. There, perched on a perilous rock ledge is a goat seemingly surveying Eastern Crete. He doesn’t look bothered about the height.
Agios Nikolaos is pretty and tame. The bay shelters numerous cafes and restaurants and the streets house gift and jewellery shops. Under the trees which line the main street sits a Yiayia patiently trying to sell her handmade lace. Tourists walk by her as if invisible and head for mass-produced tack. My Euros have by this point depleted and I cannot help her cause. Gutted! I manage to take her photo to ensure sure she can be seen. I have enough for a drink at least and when I refuse a plastic bag the shopkeeper looks at me with amazement.
“Save the planet!” He declares gravelly-voiced.
We take the coastal road north and after breathtaking views we stop off at a blue flag beach for a dip somewhere along the way. When we reach Elounda our bellies grumble calling for something wholesome. The town reminds me of Ischia’s main port town. Leaving our Micra at the port we head along the path which lead us to a tiny spate of restaurants. We can see Spinalong over a glassy slither of water, it’s crumbling Venitian fort blends in with the island’s shrubbed rocks.
Nothing inspires our palettes, but our eyes are dazzling when we reach traditional fayre on the sea perched terrace of Ergospasio restaurant.
“Please, it is better around the corner,” says a dark brooding man in his 30s, as he loads a snorkel and fishing equipment into a small boat. Embarrassed I have been spied posing on a chair for a photo, we follow him to the rest of the terrace which had been hidden from our view, then he slips behind the bar. Two men sit on stools at the bar nibbling on mezze and sipping Ouzo. They nod to greet us.
“Kalisperasas!” I say perhaps a bit too loudly.
“I’m Dimitris,” he said after placing two empty glasses on the bar . He extends a massive hand to my father and motions us to sit on the bar stools. With the other hand pours Barbayannis Ouzo into the glasses, a potent 46% alcohol brew. I quickly diffuse it’s strength with water turning the drink cloudy.
“This is the best Ouzo in all of Greece,” he adds.
Ergospasio restaurant is the type of place you stumble upon which encaptures the spirit of a place. The building used to be home to his forefather’s Carob molasses factory at a time where Olives and Carob were the only sustainable crops on Crete’s rugged terrain. Dimitris pours us two Ouzos while telling us about his place. A second man joins in, speaking in English with a German twang. He is in fact also Cretan, but living in Germany for the last X amount of years working as an MD for a global brand. It was the first day of his annual homecoming and here he was in shorts and flip-flops discussing Crete with two lost tourists who had wandered off the trail. The third man shys away from conversation but smiles anyway.
A plate of cured mackerel in lemon juice, bay and dill, grilled octopus and marinated anchovies is put in front of us. My gut tells me we may have been trapped unknowingly into a meal, but Dimitris’ smile puts us at ease. Soon another two plates appear; one of Dolmades and cheese and the other of fresh tomato so haphazardly sliced but juicy and perfumed. All accompanied of course by Cretan rusks and bread. Our glasses are refilled. The chatter is slow but deeply interesting as the man next to my father tells us about Cretan history and that the island we see behind us is accessible by car.
While my father is busy I take Dimitris aside and ask him for the bill. He looks deeply offended
“Please, this is from me.”
“Sorry?” My fathers ears prick and over hears.
“No… You must let us pay,”
“I insist. Please.” Dimitris is defiant and practically holds my father’s hands down as they begin to search his pockets. My father is shocked at the incredible hospitality. I feel a sudden lump in my throat but that may be the effects of the Ouzo. We bid farewell and take some photos, Dimitris then boards his boat and goes fishing on the calm waters. My father and I walk in silence back to the car, still in shock about the generosity.
We drive to that island, pass abandoned mills and start to climb narrow dusty tracks. Bushes are thick with milky dirt and Goats stand watching us, as sturdy as rocks. I have a heart attack when a caravan of cars suddenly becomes us and my father has to reverse 100 metres just inches from plunging into the sea. But, we are OK.
There are only thee signs of human life on this island. One is a chapel perched at it’s top and the other are the olive and pepper trees planted in some kind of chaotic order. The other, after parking on a clearing of rocks and a long (and I do mean long!) walk down a rocky trail, were grills perched on mounts by the sea. Grills, I can only assume, for passing fishing boats to cook their catch. The trail lead us to one of the most spectacular beaches I have ever had the fortune to be on. Water is crystal clear so I hang my things on a tree branch and cool off. Bliss. There are no signs on the island, what on earth is it called? Thank God for Google and Google Maps. Kolokithia is its’ name.
A warning though: Be absolutely sure of your route back! We found ourselves taking the coastal road instead of the highway. Great for exploring of course, but as the sun began to set fast and with very little petrol we ended up higher that wind turbines. My hands gripped the map so hard that my knuckles turned white. At least we got to see lots of Yiayias and Papous in the villages of Vroucas, Selles and Kourounes far from anywhere. We gingerly veered around bends with no barriers giving onto sheer drops, there are no goats at this height. Just before night drew in we thankfully rejoin the highway at Neapolis. Thank you Manolis, for such a loyal car!
Our last night took us back to Koutouloufari.
“Komboloi!” Exclaims the shopkeeper again, in my favorite gift shop To Kellari. Yes more Komboloi. Not quite sure how many I can hang around the home before the obsession is noted. At the back of the shop there are huge barrels of Raki, some plain, some flavoured with mountain herbs and honey. Lumbered with my bounty we wish the couple well with their new arrival and head home to pack.
A lady in a greengrocer’s next door waves at us. I’m not ready to leave, not yet. But then, I never am.