sheep on the island of Crete

I look out the window. School children, passing below. They could be schoolchildren back home (except that in most any country in Europe, young kids, boys included, will be holding hands and walking in pairs; I've never seen that in the States).





The skies look like they're clearing. The promised showers may dissipate.





The weather changes here quickly, unexpectedly. Were we perfect travelers, we would get going early, when the sun is most promising. But we are not perfect travelers. One of us stays up too late, another wakes up and works on a blog in the middle of the night, we get up late, eat breakfast even later.






(Today, in addition to all those breads, cakes, cheeses, eggs and endless glasses of freshly squeezed juice, Matina's helper offers us a pancake stuffed with fennel from the hills.)


 


Matina joins us at the table. We have so many questions for her! Is your farmhouse as pretty as the Mama Nena? Do you live together? Do you eat together, all of you, your brother, sister, mother? (The answer to the last two is no -- they have their own homes, though within 200 meters of each other.) How many olives do you pick from each tree? How many bags of olives does it take to make olive oil? (A tree can shake down five bags of olives, two bags of olives will give you a kilo of olive oil.) Where do you sell your oranges? At the market? In Athens? (Mostly in Crete, though they sell them for orange juice concentrate as well.) Are you concerned about Greece? About its participation in the EU?

On that last set of questions I got a long pause and then the comment about Crete living under a different god...


And when we're finally ready to head out, the skies turn blue and I have great hopes for staying clear of the predicted rain. We're not ambitious today, but we do want to hike some. Our great walking treks have fizzled in the last few days. We want to move more.

We spin the car south of Chania, along the New National Highway. That's their name for it. It's Crete's attempt at a limited access road, though my oh my, it is not what you and I are used to back home. You see a little wear and tear on the signage, for example. Or, graffiti completely obliterating what is written there.  
There is an exit! I tell Ed.  
Our exit? -- he asks, sensibly!  
I don't know!

You get used to it. And the road is so much better than the mountain twists and turns, were fallen rocks often are there to greet you after a hairpin turn and missing sections cause the underbelly of the car to groan in dissatisfaction. I don't ever get used to the tailgating that drivers do here, but really, we are fine, we are fine. Ed continues to drive and I try to put my passenger terrors to rest.

We turn off the little stretch of the New National to visit the coastal villages just south of Chania.



olives everywhere!




multitasking


And we stop at the supermarket to pick up a bottle of Crete wine (because it's so fun to look at the options in grocery stores in other countries!) and to study the prices of olive oils.



five liter containers


Who would buy at a store, when Matina tells us it's so much cheaper to buy directly from a mill? Well, you run out, I suppose and you don't always have time to go directly to the producers. But also, there is the matter of the expats. In the coastal villages, we hear English, again and again. British English. Here's a family where (I am guessing this)  they're visiting the expat grandma and grandpa and the mom and dad have promised their sons a swim in the sea, no matter what the weather (because, really, why else would you go in the water when it's in the fifties outside).





And these two English men -- they are here for a sail and though it takes them a while to get started, they have a glorious run of it, out in the protected bay!





And Ed gets wistful. Ah, to sail again! And we go into our routine -- one that we have repeated so many times, in so many places!
Wouldn't it be wonderful to have a small house here, with a view towards the bay... 
which one?  
How about that one, with a terrace toward the sun! 
Yes, okay, a little too big for us though, no? 
...and I would stay home and write and you could go sailing every day.... 
even if it rains? 
Well, no maybe not then... we would study our Greek then.
You're better at languages...
And so on and so forth. There was a time when I thought the game had at least a touch of seriousness to it, but I've learned a long time ago that Ed loves to speculate and imagine the unusual, the grand, the impossible and then he puts it aside and we come back to our everyday routines.

We walk up the hills above the sea and pick the perfect spot for a house... there, away from the others, facing the see... Sigh... Then we turn in, Ed pets a mule (the face is that of a donkey, but the tail is almost that of a horse) and retreat to the car.





I had an idea that we could hike along the coast here, but paths are elusive and roads are narrow and have the presence of the occasional car, which is not pleasant for contemplative trekking. Giving up on this, I direct us to a lake, thought to be quite special and not too far from the coast.

On the way, we pass lovely old beehives and were I buying things to take home, I would certainly buy honey from Crete because it is rich with the aromas of the herbs that grow on the hills here and so very intense!





And we pass flocks of sheep. Again and again.


 


Including these guys. (First they ran away, then they stood, transfixed, staring at me in unison.)





And I pause, perhaps feeling that I did sheep a disservice yesterday when I called them dumb. So I offer you probably the last clip of this trip -- and again, forgive the quality of it because though I was no longer leaning across Ed's lap to film it, I was battling a wind that is unfortunately audible in the one minute fragment that I post for you here. But forget the wind and listen to the voluminous song of the bells and note, please, how in their behavior, sheep are less charming than goats.





Though perhaps I am not one who should be commenting on the sharpness of others. Many would not think that a hike by a lake at the foot of these hills would be a good idea, given the tumultuous clouds galloping in from all sides.





But, we want to walk some more and the lake offers at least the possibility of a trail (hiking is not really practiced much here: trails are few and markings are even fewer).

We get out of the car just as the gentle showers come down on us. And we persevere! Now, take these sheep: they know to seek shelter!





Not us -- we are so determined to hike that we keep on walking. I think about the radiators at the Mama Nena, feeling very grateful that we have a way of drying off quickly.

And we give up not because of the rain, but because the path ends without warning, without reason really. (Here's a photo of Ed gallantly searching for anything that looks like a trail, finding only a farmer's field, nothing more. And the rain comes down.)





Though not everywhere. There is a patch of blue, giving us a nice, gentle rainbow over the olive groves...






And so we become determined and we attack the lake (yes, there is a lake...)





... once again, now from the other side. Initially with some success. (The smell of a damp forest here is fantastic. In fact, the rain brought out all the scents of the roadside shrubs and herbs so forcefully that when we pulled up to the side of the road for a quick nap -- we like to do that sometimes -- an open window gave us a heavenly blast of mint, sage, oregano and who knows what else.)





But here, too, the trail ends. This time at a goat shed. With goats. Good looking animals. And so smart, too! (I avoid ordering goat meat at the tavernas here. It's always an option, but somehow I can't get myself to enjoy the thought of a roasted goat.)






So we give up. I tell myself that we had two short hikes instead of one long one and that tomorrow we'll try harder for something more challenging. For now, we have errands in town to run -- procuring a bus schedule is one of them, for possible treks that avoid the use of a car -- getting cookies is another.






Dinner? We eat at a taverna (called "Tamam") right next to the Mama Nena. Matina likes it and we like it as well. It has a limited menu, but as always, the Greek salad is tremendously good...





...and we love the wild mushrooms here as well, so we eat a plate of those too and then, wanting to get my fill of Greek seafood, I once again order grilled calamari.





...and I cannot not finish it, though it is without question as fresh and honest as you can have it. (Ed asks for the last little piece to be wrapped up for home. I look at him questioningly. For the cats, he whispers to me. Maybe for the one with the moustache...)

goats on the island of Crete

I kept my eye toward the harbor and my ear toward the sound of a returning seaman. Ed's ferry was to dock in the old port at around 6 in the morning. Someone would have to let him into the Mama Nena b&b (they call it "charming hotel," and it is) once he made his way to it. That someone would be me. (We are the sole guests right now and the proprietors don't live here: this is their grandmother's old home. They live out on a farm several miles outside of the town of Chenia.) At 7 a.m. I hear the pounding on the front door. Three flights down and I see my sailor man come in from the sea. You'd think he'd collapse after a night of sleeping on the floor of a ferry boat, but no -- he is hyped and heroically steady on his feet and ready to go.

First, I show off our lovely views. To the harbor (put the two photos side by side in your imagination):









And to the mountains in the south (yes, snow covered!):





But the sea is the draw for us. I say to Ed -- look, a fisherman right under our window!





Then there's breakfast. Matina -- one of the three children of Nena -- hovers over us. This is from our farm: she points to the oranges, the goat cheese, the olives, the marmalade. She and her helper are so perfect and talented at this innkeeing thing that I have to wonder if she, like our hosts in Alacati, Turkey, had traveled far and wide to learn her craft. No - she says simply. I travel with my sons to all their lessons! There is no time right now to travel outside of Crete! 

Ed is busy enjoying his breakfast. He's already made friends with Matina's helper by showing his love for her olive oil marble pound cake: he helps himself to a generous slice every time he passes through the kitchen. This has happened many times today already. (It's a great cake! -- he tells her each time and she just smiles and smiles.)






Matina knows her island well and she is a great source of information and tips: what to see, where to drive.

Ah yes, we capitulate and rent  a car again (at $70 for five days, it seems worth it: the tiny hamlets in the mountains are hard enough to reach; without a car, we're stuck to a different, town-centered itinerary). But the rental boys are adamant --pick up the car at the airport! That's the deal!

My sweet sailor man offers to take the bus over to the airport and come back with the car. (Or maybe it's that he relishes navigating on his own for a little bit; stumbling though the driving idiosyncrasies of a new place is tricky and my driving suggestions are often times, well, possibly superfluous.)

While he's attending to the business of getting the cheap rental (it's quite different than going, say, to a Hertz or EuropCar; there's no front desk at the airport, no spiffy van to take you to your vehicle, the dispatcher is somewhere else, the cars show up out of nowhere...), I take the time to stroll through Chania.

This is the second largest town in Crete (Heraklion, at 175,000, is three times larger and they say three times less attractive). And whereas Cesme, Chios and Mytilini (our three previous port destinations) were working towns -- geared more toward conducting the business of producing and distributing goods and services for a larger region -- Chania is a good looking girl and in the summer, she draws her loyal following. (There is also a considerable British expat population present -- they flock here as they do to the other less expensive regions of southern Europe and, like elsewhere, not learning the local language well, they're forced to stick with their own lot. I learned all this by sitting next to an expat on my flight over. Not surprisingly, many of the cheap airlines provide direct service from London to Crete.)

I make my way to the covered market (there is also an outdoor one as we learn later, trying to make our way through the maze of streets in the old town). Fresh fish, salted fish, olives -- all the predictable stuff. And some other additions: natural sponges from the sea. Olive wood utensils and bowls. Spices, including three foot long cinnamon sticks and dried bunches of oregano. Nuts, honeys and nuts in honeys.


























(just outside the market hall)


I don't linger. I'll be back with Ed another time. I walk back along shopping streets, then along the water's edge enjoying the sunshine. The temps are climbing into the mid fifties. It really is a gorgeous day.







(I never know what the signs mean)






My occasional traveling companion drives up to where we'd arranged a meetup and we head out toward the hills. Crete has a series of fantastic gorges and though the biggest and the best are inaccessible in the winter, we get a taste for them almost immediately as we leave town.





It's a quiet road. Well, not exactly quiet. First, we encounter the bleating of the sheep.




They scamper off as we pause the car. Sheep always run in packs. Dumb sheep. They have no independent thought processes. (But they produce the cutest little lambs!)





Then we encounter the goats. A whole herd is resting by the side of the road.






As I get out to take some photos, some, especially those with little kids, pick themselves up to move on.





I don't want to disturb them, so I head back to the car. It's interesting that they aren't afraid of cars. We look out the window (on Ed's side) and we're charmed by the variety of sounds their bells make. This is only the second video clip I've ever bothered with and so you'll have to forgive the sloppiness here -- not helped by the fact that I am awkwardly leaning over Ed's lap to do this, but I really want to give you 60 seconds of the enchantment we felt as we listened and watched. Imagine their thoughts, their conversations, just in this little snippet of film:



 


Alright. Time to move on. Hills beckon and the goats must roam.

Up we go and here's the fantastic part about Crete: you're on this small island of warm summer sunshine and quite decent winter weather as well, and then, within minutes, you're touching snow.










It's really quite magical! I think -- this is not possible. I'm used to places with snowy mountains. Colorado. The Alps. And places with orange groves. Florida. Seville. But here, within a handful of miles, the two worlds meet.






The road is curvy as anything and it is potmarked and narrow. It's rare that you see such snaked roads in America. In Greece they are the norm: up it goes, with 180 degree turns, up the hill, then down again, to the next hamlet and the next.









I can't really mind (even as we pass too many crosses by the side of the road where I can only imagine some less fortunate have missed the spin around). It's too beautiful a drive to be completely scared. (Even though I do offer a meekly delivered bit of advice on how to navigate the most treacherous segments.)

There are, of course, the olive groves.





And the churches --  high in the hills and along the road, too.










And now it's late afternoon: time to retire the car for the day. We take a pause to enjoy our fetching "Stella" room at Mama Nena. The three rooms of the hotel (I know I said four yesterday - that was an error, there are only three) are named after the women in the family: greatgrandmother Argyri, grandmother Matina, her sister Stella.

(The face of the Mama Nena can be seen, of course, from the old harbor: it's the narrow red building. Our windows are the two top ones.)












We do laundry too (traveling light means you do laundry... several times): the presence of radiators makes drying anything here a breeze.

And in the evening, we cross the old harbor for dinner at the... well, I can't really help you here. The name is entirely in Greek. This place:





...where the owners have actually set aside indoor space for the nonsmokers (so they are half compliant with the law, even as everyone else is not at all compliant). We order a Crete salad (which has the addition of Crete greens and goat cheeses, both fresh and aged) and spinach pies...





and we share a chicken roasted in olive oil and lemon and with potatoes, as well as a dish of mountain mushrooms and greens.









And we breathe a sigh of relief -- we're back with the small prices we've come to expect and love here. And the food is superb. Fresh and honest! And the waiter treats us (and probably everyone else) as if we were his most special guests. There is an element of sincerity in restaurants that I love so much here. It's not just a pasty grin: the smile comes from the heart.

We walk back along the harbor. Ed tries to make friends with cats. Most wont let him come near them. This one fellow was only mildly skittish -- he moved around enough to make for a very imperfect photo, but I had to put it up anyway: I'd never seen a cat with such a clearly defined 'mustache!'





The lights shimmer in the waters of the harbor. We can hear music in the cafes. People talking, laughing, late late into the night.  The problems facing Greece seem distant. Elsewhere. Crete, our innkeeper tells us, lives under her own god.

Crete is Greek, but a person from Crete is a Cretan -- a Kritikós (Κρητικός). The gods smile brightly on this island in the southern waters of the Mediterranean. Yes, it surely feels that way here.