Denniblog

Crete in spring recalls the flower meadows I played in as a kid. But childhood memories tend to be exaggerated. You would never get that many flowers blossoming all at the same time.

According to the guidebook, it is the climate that forces such an exuberance on the vegetation. The summers here are a mirror image of our winters. The relentless sun sucks the life out of the soil: trees drop their leaves, herbs lie dormant or dead. The flowers have to cram as much into the spring as possible before the land is becoming parched once again.

As a result, Crete in spring resembles a garden.

It is also deceptively quiet. By late April, visitors start to trickle back, but the majority of those who joined us on the boat from Sfakia were hillwalkers, making the most of the springtime beauty and relatively mild temperatures.

As we ferry-hopped across to Palaochora, we passed idyllic bays and villages which looked like an earthly version of paradise. However, the majority of the buildings are hotels. In the season, tourists can outnumber locals ten to one. Still, it takes nothing away from an idyll such as Loutro:

The walkers were disappointed to learn that, despite the mild weather, Samaria Gorge would remain closed until May 1st, but truth be told we were relieved. An 18 kilometre hike wasn’t on our agenda. However, the village of Ayia Roumeli—the final stop before the boat to Palaeochora—lies at the foot of the gorge and a little of the spectacular scenery can be found a short walk inland, which made me reconsider; perhaps we should visit when we return another time.

Walking along the pebble path, it became clear that—while Crete in spring may resemble a garden—it is anything but tame. In fact it can be downright alien.

The strange structures that dangled from the tips of pine branches were not seed pods but the communal nests of thousands of pine processionary caterpillars which—I discovered to my relief when reaching up to one—had long since moved on. Touching the caterpillars’ bristles is said to be more painful than a scorpion sting. I wouldn’t want to experience either.

And while the sea around this area of Crete is an aquatic desert, with only a few patches of seeweed and small shoals of fry scattered about, the same can’t be said about the land, at least not at this time of the year. There may not be many winkles on the rocks, but there were snails on the cliffs:

Here, man and nature are close. This old church in Old Ayia Roumeli is a mere stroll away from the harbour area with its string of restaurants and souvenier shops and just a few steps from the road where hordes of visitors and cars will file past when the season starts in a matter of days, but that doesn’t seem to disturb the birds that built their nest underneath the tiny belfry.

This is Milos in Frangokastello, Region Chania, Crete. And this is the view from inside the old mill:

There is nothing like an ancient windmill on a secluded beach to listen to Black Sabbath on a full moon night. But when the moon climbs higher into the sky and the crest of the waves glisten as if with phosphorescence and the choppy wavelets in the bay look like dancing shards of diamonds—this is when you put on Iron Maiden. By candlelight. And you wish that the party would never end…

The party’s moved on to Palaeochora now, but I’ll never forget that night at the old mill.

Thimia, the woman in charge of the guests’ wellbeing (ours and that of one other bloke), carried a tray over before we had finished sitting down and placed a plate piled high with pastries and toasties on the low table. The heady smell of chocolate hit me from what had to be large cups of sweet cocoa. I thought about asking for coffee, but when I parted the foam—so thick that a lesser spoon would have stood upright in it—the night-black liquid underneath turned out to be coffee, bitter and strong.

I bent down to sniff at the pastries, and noticed that the smell emanated from a large piece of marble cake. We were still ogling the selection when Thimia reappeared with a second, identical platter and set it in front of John. “Hungrrry!” She grinned, flashing white teeth, and beckoned us to dig in.

After wolfing down the marble cake, followed by a cheese and ham toastie, I thought I should restrain myself a little. Perhaps I could leave that soggy looking croissant—but John had taken a bite off his and chocolate was dribbling down his chin. Or that plain-looking roll? It was filled with apricot jam.

Oh well.

When we were about to burst, Thimia reappeared with two tall glasses of freshly squeezed juice from the sweet, deep-coloured Cretan oranges which graced trees in the gardens and groves we had spied from the bus window. I needn’t have worried about Sarakosti, the Greek Orthodox equivalent of Lent. The prescribed nistisima food makes no mention of chocolate or oranges, even though ham and cheese are frowned upon.

After this breakfast of kings, it was time to bid farewell to the Doge Hotel and the children playing in the street in front of it. A short way down the pavement their parents and relatives were busy setting out the tables at the ‘to Xani’ taverna.

We’d be back, that was for sure.

There was no particular rush. The only bus to Frangokastello would have left at two, but the people at the bus station confirmed what our landlady at the mill had told us: the road between Vriesses and Frangokastello was closed and not due to re-open for several days.

According to the bus company’s website, it should be possible for passengers to ‘progress from Vriesses’ (that info is now out of date and has been taken down). I wasn’t sure whether that meant that taxies—but not buses—could get past the roadworks, but if so it would save us money. As nice as Chania’s Old Town is, we decided to press on and find out.

Vriesses is a charming little town that stretches along a shady road leading into the mountains. The KTEL bus to Rethymnon and on to Heraklion stops there and we got out right next to one of the many kafenios that line the street. I left John there and went shopping. Half an hour later, laden with bags full of essentials which I doubted we would find in the small village of Frangokastello during Sarakosti, it was time to arrange for onward transport.

The taxi stand down the street was empty. We sat down in the adjoining restaurant for another drink and watched the surprisingly lively bus- and coach traffic, on their way to Chania or Rethymnon. There are at least 18 buses a day in each direction run by one of the two main companies alone.

When our coffee arrived, I asked the woman about taxies to Frangokastello.

“Frangokastello?” She pointed at the bus that had just rolled to a stop in front of the premises. “Frangokastello! That one!”

I smiled and shook my head. “The road is closed. Maybe taxi?”

But there was still no driver, so John went to make enquiries in the ticket office across the street.

At the same time, a taxi pulled up in front of the service station where the bus had just left. Vriesses is a very compact town.

The driver shook his head when I approached him. “Road is closed. You have to go via Rethymnon.”

He appeared reluctant to enter into further negotiations, so I waited for John to come back. I had given him the number of a cab company in Sfakia, who would presumably also be unable to help us. But I had an idea—and at the same time the driver, now parked at the taxi rank next to our table—turned back around to me. Perhaps he had the same idea. Perhaps we could arrange a relay: he’d drop us at one end of the roadworks and the guy from Sfakia would pick us up at the other. After all, he was unlikely to get many fares otherwise.

John was frowning when he reached us. “You know what, that bus was going to Frangokastello!”

“Don’t talk nonsense. The road’s closed!”

“It’s going the long way round.”

“Never!”

Oh yes, indeed. Apparently some locals who had to go to Sfakia had coerced the bus company to run a service all the way round via Plakias in the neighbouring province, and back up along the coast. I checked my watch: the timing was right. It could well have been the alleged once-daily bus via Frangokastello which, according to the schedule at Chania bus station, shouldn’t even run on Saturdays outside the season. And if so, it would be travelling along the route which the taxi driver now offered to take us for 70 Euros.

It was a fair price, but easily the most expensive cup of coffee we ever had.

But it was worth it when we got there.

This was the view that greeted us from the roof terrace of the Doge Hotel in Chania on the first morning of our holiday:

The dive itself isn’t bad either:

But our holiday really started when we checked the bags into the hotel late at night, and—after a long-ish bus ride and a quick shower—hit the uneven pavements of Chania’s Old Town.

It was coming up to midnight and only a few subdued lights illuminated the narrow alleyways. We were about to turn around the corner, away from the quiet back entrance of the hotel, when we spotted a few people sitting at tables outside a taverna. From their happy faces we concluded that it was a good one.

“Is it not too late? Are you still open?”

“Please,” the grey-bearded patron indicated a free table next to the entrance, and before we could blink it had been spread with crockery, water, bread and some of the finest olives we have ever tasted, and we were poring over the extensive menu.

Somehow the patron didn’t leave our side and yet managed to keep the remaining guests happy. Gently he guided us through the many options. Having just arrived, a plate of mixed mezedhes seemed adequate, but as for the main courses, my eyes were bulging as I took in a list of dishes and ingredients largely unknown back in the UK, even in ethnic eateries.

In the end, the choice was both easy and obvious: the first two items on the page were a Sfakiote Goat stew and lamb cooked with yoghurt in a clay pot. It met the patron’s approval, as did leaving the choice of housewine to him. The fine young retsina he served by the ‘half kilo’ (a kilo is the usual measure for barrel wine in Greece) complemented what was one of the best meals we’ve ever had, rounded off with a generous measure of raki and home-made halva on the house.

I broke out in a sweat thinking of what it would end up costing us, but truth be told, we had inferior food at higher cost. The name of the taverna? ‘To Xani’. Seek it out if you’re in the area (it’s directly opposite the old synagogue). To my knowledge it isn’t featured in any of the popular guidebooks.

Only one thing could have made this evening even more perfect: a short stroll down to the harbour where there was a tiny rock café playing Iron Maiden.

We haven’t even started yet, and already we’re running into problems.

Apparently, roadworks in the mountains have cut off the Vrisses-Frangokastello route and now we’ll have to either double back to Rethimnon and take a taxi, find an alternative bus route from there (with 3+ changes) or travel down to Palaeochora and ferry-hop from there to Sfakia, basically travelling around in a circle.

Neither option appeals and I’m cursing the day I made the bookings. What possessed me to start the trip in Chania?

As if that wasn’t enough of a headache, John is missing in action (as usual) and gods know what time he will show up so that we can travel to the hotel at Gatwick. And I’m an adapter short.

Grrr.

I’m brushing spiders out of my hair while writing this, and the bits of bark that have fallen into my collar and lodged themselves in my bra straps are itching.

Time for a bath. Time to put on the washing machine again, because of course the workmen would wait until the day before we’re going on holiday (and an entire year before that) to call around to fix the holes in the fences on either side of the garden, which the storm tore sometime in the spring of 2007.

Meanwhile the garden has grown into a jungle, fed by the daily rains, and I have scratches on my hands from clawing vegetation away from the rickety back door (we lost our gardening paraphernalia after the flood last June).

But at least we now have new carpets! The man finished laying them last week, and since then we have only set foot downstairs with socks on.

Cue the outdoor men with their muddy boots.

Anyway, tomorrow we shall be away and I couldn’t care less about what is going on in Tadley or with the house. But until then it seems that a thousand little things need my attention.

I finally have a printout of my 1/3rd revised novel, and I was going to spend some time on plot development while on holiday, but since last week at least two other novel excerpts have landed in my inbox, demanding critiquing for the writers’ group workshop that happens while we’re away. Grrr. I think we should have a word limit for workshops.

Reading doc files on screen makes my eyes bleed, not to mention doing it on the little EeePC—so that’ll be more printouts to lug along.

Further to our travels: in the joyful anticipation of experiencing Greek Orthodox Easter in Crete I have forgotten about the six weeks of Lent that precede it. If memories from boarding school are anything to go by, meat, cheese and other delicacies are off the menu during that time—except that Greek Orthodox Lent is a good deal stricter than the Catholic version.

I may have to revise our taverna plans during the first ten days of our holiday—in fact I may well have to sneak foodstuff into our self catering kitchen—whereas during the final Easter Weekend I expect those establishments to remain closed.

Oh well, there’s always Macca’s.

John has work commitments (what else) and with just two weeks at our disposal, we decided to stay in Crete rather than travel around. Having a plug to connect the laptop to is a requirement, so I reluctantly gave up on several eco-villages.

One of my influences in devising the itinerary was a Swedish-Greek guy I met at Eastercon. He raved at length about Greece, but when I asked him what his most favourite place was of all, he didn’t hesitate.

“Chania!”

Chania turns out to be both a town and a region on Crete, so my mind was made up.

We’ll travel from Heraklion to Chania after our arrival on Friday evening the 18th and stay in a traditional 15th century Venetian townhouse in the old town.

The next day (Saturday) it’s on to the only bus to Frangokastello (fortunately it leaves at two in the afternoon) where we will stay in an old mill directly on the beach for five nights before ferry-hopping to Palaeochora at the South-Western tip of Crete where we are staying at a charming little homestay (with communal kitchen) for Greek Orthodox Easter and the remainder of our holiday. There might even be an opportunity for some whale watching!

Two weeks and one day to go 😀