Pt2 - 9:

 CRETE

We’d not been in Chania (Khar-nia) a day when the clouds parted and the warm sun sucked up the shallow puddles along the old Venetian waterfront. It didn’t take a lot of imagination to visualise small sailing ships riding gently on the tide and to hear the sounds of the busy commercial district at the eastern end of the sheltered harbour echoing across the water. At the local maritime museum there’s a richly detailed scale model of the old Venetian port which shows not much has changed here in the last two hundred odd years. A stroll out to the little lighthouse at the end of the breakwater offered a view back across the harbour to the colourful strand and what might literally have been the face of 18^th century Venice. In the middle distance the dramatic Lefka Ori, or White Mountains, lived up to their snow-covered name.

Like all the accommodation in Old Chania, The Captain Vassilis was a large Venetian house converted to a hotel. Built in the 1780s, it was right on the harbour and our little shuttered balcony jutted out over the promenade. The late afternoon sun fired bolts of burnished gold off the windows on the opposite shore which danced on the water between us. It was a scene straight out of a Shakespearean romance; you half expected the hero and heroine to appear at opposite ends of the promenade and rush to a passionate embrace beneath us. As it was, we contented ourselves with pre-prandials and nibbles until the sun set and the street lights took over.

After dark we descended into the town and wandered between steep stone walls through narrow pedestrian valleyways, past brightly lit shops selling pottery, clothing and tourist baubles. Heady aromas wafted from intimate al fresco restaurants set in lush gardens. We dined on yeros and souvlaki at the Café Calypso and repaired to the room early, for tomorrow we tackle Samaria.

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The eighty minute bus ride from Chania wound up steep roads into the rugged highlands, past citrus orchards and olive groves, through small villages perched on narrow green saddles with the snow-capped peaks of the Lefka Ori again an imposing backdrop. Even at this altitude it is hot when we debus at the trail head village of Omalos at 9:50.

At eighteen kilometres, Samaria Gorge is the longest in Europe and, as we look down over the wooden railings at the steeply zig-zagging path to an invisible valley floor, it seems likely to be the deepest. Mythology has it the gorge was created when Zeus cleft the rocks with a bolt of lightning, probably just because he could. This is our most serious physical challenge since Mt Sinai, a test of stamina that’ll measure just how much condition we’ve lost with the Istanbul bug.

We stripped down to shorts and t-shirts, topped up our water, checked our gear and took our first steps into the abyss at 10:20. Barren grey tors topped with snow rose all around us. Birdsong rang from the conifers growing out of clefts in the rock and wildflowers of all shapes, sizes and vibrant colours sprang from every nook and cranny. Although unmistakably alpine and a world removed from the molten desert jebels, this is the most imposing natural landscape since Wadi Rum half a lifetime ago.  

It was too easy to dawdle and pause to drink in the mountain panoramas revealing themselves at every turn. Suppressing the urge to yodel, I wouldn’t have been surprised if Julie Andrews came skipping down the valley singing The Hills Are Alive. We became mildly anxious when we passed the 5km mark two hours in; at this rate we wouldn’t reach the southern end of the trail at Agia Roumeli until 7 or 8pm, way too late for the last ferry at 5. We’d have to lift our game big time!

Although I was a bit confused by the fact that everybody else appeared to be taking their sweet, unhurried time and began to wonder if a) the last ferry really was at 5, b) the walk really was 18kms, or c) everyone bar us was on tour buses which would wait for them no matter what time they hobbled into Agia Roumeli, we dialled up the pace. I really had to resist the temptation to stop every few meters for a 4 second pan with the video camera, and to loiter at every twist and turn. The senses were assailed with too many exotic sights and smells and sounds to rush by. Sheer walls the colour and texture of petrified skin rose hundreds of meters on either side of what at one point was a three meter wide passage. The deeper into the gorge we trekked the louder the birds seemed to sing, the brighter and more unusual the wildflowers became, the older and more gnarled the trees grew, the wider and more vigorously the clear mountain stream flowed until it became a babbling torrent of cool liquid crystal with which we regularly splashed ourselves and gratefully slaked our thirsts.

About four hours in I was suddenly aware that the hills were alive with the sounds of something jarringly unnatural. From the trail behind us came the unnerving and increasingly loud rhythmic clicking of what I’d’ve sworn was a giant metallic millipede. When we paused for water a few minutes later the metallic insect appeared – in the form of a couple of tourists. They were togged out for the ski slopes so let’s call them Rudi and Dagmar. Resplendent in designer gear and sporting two long aluminium walking sticks each, they looked like they’d just come off the slalom at Zermatt and were sailing past us on their way to catch the chair lift. Man, had they taken a wrong turn somewhere.

In places the trail consisted of loose river stones and coarse gravel, which made the going tough in the heat. In the end I had to stow the camera to concentrate on my footing. The trail wound on, at several points consisting of half-submerged stepping stones across the gurgling stream, at others of jerry-built split log bridges mere millimetres above the water. The way became a little easier as we passed the 11km mark at 3pm, and I wasn’t really surprised when the exit gate appeared round about where the 13km mark should have been. It was 3:50.

We staggered in to the ferry office in Agia Roumeli at 4:20, just in time to be too late for the last boat to Sougia at 4:15. We booked for the 6pm ferry to Hora Sfakion, whipped off our boots, cooled our aching feet in Libyan Sea and collapsed on the shingle beach for the 90 minute wait.

The boat hove into view on time and by 6:15 we were steaming along the rugged south coast to Hora Sfakion via the strange little village of Loutro. At HS we grabbed two of the last three seats on the bus back to Chania. Again, the road wound up and up until we were actually above the clouds in the mountainous interior. A glance over the unfenced verge down into the craggy depths produced the curious sensation of flying low over the terrain. It was dark when we finally pulled into Chania tired, hungry and desperate to get horizontal back at the Captain Vassilis, where we congratulated each other on completing what was no small feat under the circumstances, or we would have if we hadn’t instantly crashed into a dreamless sleep.

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Today we have just enough energy to go shoot pictures of the old Venetian doorways and idle away several hours listening to the water lazily lapping against the seawall and grazing at various cafes on the promenade…

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Random observation: If they ever make a movie about hole-in-the-floor dunnies it'll be called Don't Look Down!

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Heraklion, the capital of Crete, is not a pretty city. Apart from the Venetian port and the pleasing curves and crenellations of the old fortress, it is a featureless industrial town of low level apartment blocks. The surrounding countryside, though fertile and productive, is barbered like an American basketballer.

For the first time on the trip we stayed at the local YHA. It was handy to the waterfront and, at 3500 drachs (about A$17.50) for our own room, tidily priced. It was once a palatial Venetian house which had fallen into decline, only the tiled floors and the grand dimensions of the place hinted at its former glory. The room was spacious and quiet, just the ticket for a couple of battered old farts still recovering from Samaria.

My calves screamed with every step as we made our way down to a restaurant at the port for drinks and an elegant feast of seafood for Tess and steak for me. I’m pretty sure I sleepwalked back to dorm #5.

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Official weather for Knossos: bloody hot! Fortified with a big brekky at the Four Lions near the eponymous fountain we bussed the 6ks out to the ancient site on the edge of town. Still ginger, we hobbled around the palace precinct trying to keep to the shade. Hard to believe we were freezing our tits off a week ago and now here we are in shorts and singlets. Definitely not complaining.

The Minoans were one of those pop-up civilizations like the Nabataeans. They appeared almost fully formed, flourished for several centuries through trade and conquest, then abruptly disappeared about 1600BC. Unlike the Nabataeans, who were concentrated in the deep clefts and wadis of Petra, the maritime Minoans dominated the Aegean and the Cyclades and influenced a wide arc of territory from Miletus in southern Turkey to Samos to the Greek mainland; no high-status dwelling was complete without Minoan pottery on show. Most of their major settlements were destroyed in a series of cataclysmic events, most notably earthquakes and the massive eruption of Santorini in 1600BC – there’s that date again – leaving Knossos as the sole palace standing.

I really enjoyed Knossos. It lacks the stupefying scale of the Egyptian sites which pre-date it by 2,000 years and is nowhere near as extensive as the Greco-Roman ruins of Turkey, but that’s much of its appeal. The Minoan passion for colour and their skilful frescoes delight the eye. The pre-palatial, or pre-historic, material is a real treat; small, finely crafted statuettes, bronze weaponry decorated with the characteristic swirling and marine motifs unique to Minoan culture, huge pottery preserved in pristine condition. It’s also a very easy site to navigate and mercifully flat.

Back in town we went looking for light clothing but had trouble finding anything without I Love Crete plastered all over the genitals. We settled for two caps with long visors and a couple of crappy singlets. Dinner was moussaka served bubbling in individual bowls. You can’t buy imported wine on Crete because if you could nobody would touch the local vinegar, so here’s a tip: order a carafe, it’s no worse that the bottled stuff and half the price.

Coming up: Super Santorini