Imagine the scariest road you've ever driven on: it winds its way up the edge of a steep canyon embankment, in a never ending series of S-turns and switchbacks; narrow, often barely wider than your own car, a rocky wall to your right, a void to your left; fallen rocks from the cliff face above are strewn across the surface, or worse, immense boulders not even Atlas could lift; there are no guard rails protecting you from the precipice inches away, (but sometimes you will see an impotent wire fence which may keep a stray goat from falling over,) there are mountain goats everywhere even some lazing on the sinuous road; you haven't seen another vehicle in a quarter-hour but one may loom around the next turn vying for the same precious real estate as are you; don't even think of glancing down, it is ominous enough to look out, away, at the other mirific canyon walls facing you from across the gorge that sinks below, way below.
Welcome to Crete!
Crete is known for its gorges, they are ten or twenty kilometers long, usually running north-south to the sea, very steep and a minimum of 1,000 metres deep. Yesterday I hiked down into the best-known one, Samaria, but due to the late start, only spent three hours trekking. Many people hike the entire 18 km length, a five-hour trek down to the land-locked village of Agia Roumeli and then, after lunch and a swim, must take a boat to another port village and finally a bus back to the start -- an all-day affair. I did meet a quartet of French, who were doing the circuit in reverse, including a nine-hour climb from Agia Roumeli to the top of the gorge! That will be my objective on my next visit, my travel-mate willing!
As treacherous as are the mountain roads is as spectacular as are the Cretan villages. It is a veritable wonder how each seaside village is unique in its character and charm, like how it is said no two snowflakes are quite alike. For instance, Plakias has a boardwalk along the beach separating the tourists into two halves, those that bathe in the sun and water from those that indulge in food and drink in one of the two dozen tavernas lining the narrow beach road. And above them are the 'rooms for rent' which are always easy to spot even in the smallest mountain village. Or, take Hora Sfakion, a huddle of tavernas and cafes, bunched together at the top of a cliff, each one overlooking the same bay below, where colourful, wooden fishing boats sway to the incoming waves on one side and the patrons of the beach play under the sun on the other. One of my favourites, Agia Galini, is only accessible by foot, down steep, winding, whitewashed steps, threading a variety of blue and white-painted tourist shops full of knick-knacks and essentials, too, until at the bottom you see a clutch of tavernas jumbled together, on top of, as well as besides each other, facing the sun and the small, rocky beach at its base. On the other hand, there is Xania, not a village but a city, with its old town defined by narrow cobble stoned alleys, meandering in random directions, containing hundreds of tourist shops built into ancient edifices. All the proprietors speak English and many are outside their stores, smoking and chatting with their neighbours in between customers. All this activity surrounds a semi-circular harbour which is lined with a stone boardwalk and thirty or more tavernas, each one with more or less the same menu of fresh fish, Greek salads, pikilias, always soaked in olive oil. In front of every one is the owner, waving down passersby with quick one-liners, offers for free raki or galaktaboureko, or whatever gesture it takes to earn their business. As everywhere else, the hotels and pensions are upstairs, accessible by a back alley, all with views that spill out onto the bustle below, then the harbour, the time-worn lighthouse and finally to the sea.
Here's hoping the seas are calm in your life, too!
Barry the Greek
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