I look out over the tiny waves as they peacefully roll and break. To my right is a clear view of the flora-flecked mountains which plunge into the sun speckled sea. This unassumingly charming view is remarkably undisturbed by the throngs of boisterous, beach-crazy tourists that plague so much of Northern Crete. Having had my ambitious plans of holidaying in exotic South East Asia cruelly thwarted by a last-minute practical review of personal finances, I had dreaded arriving in a drunken Brit-infested Mediterranean hell-hole. Instead, the village of Panormos is the embodiment of everything I’d hoped for: tranquil beaches surrounded by impeccably clear sapphire waters, pretty cobbled streets, baking under a flamboyant summer sky.
I lunch on delicious meze, alternating that with less pleasureable sips of the well meant complimentary ‘delight’ of Raki, a meths like alcoholic substance that sets your throat on fire . As I walk over to the bar to ask for the bill, an ancient looking lady, dressed entirely in black with a tired expression but smiling eyes, waves to me. She points to the
TV which plays unobtrusively in the background.
European elections are showing, with protests in
Athens.
Esmeralda speaks very little English and I speak much less Greek but somehow we cover the varied subjects of Tony Blair, George Bush (big thumbs down), the British royal family, David Beckham. With lots of hand signalling and odd words in a mixture of Greek (which she persists with determinedly), barely remembered German and slightly more successful French, we communicate just fine. I learn something of her life and she introduces me to her family, her son and his wife and their children. I walk away feeling that I have benefited from an insight into another culture that is a rare privilege on a
package holiday.
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It is often said that of all the Greek islands, Crete is the most like a separate country of its own. The national slogan in fact is pretty much “Cretan first, Greeks second”. It is the largest of the islands forming modern Greece and the fifth largest in the Mediterranean (behind Sicily, Sardinia, Cyprus and Corsica) With its fine variety of sights and landscapes, it deserves to be explored independently by car, giving you the added advantage of escaping the over-trodden tourist trail for a while.
As with most Mediterranean islands there are two distinct aspects to Crete: sprawling
resorts packed with sun-deprived North European holiday makers and the traditional, more isolated rural areas where people earn their living from farming. This is today’s parallel Crete – mass tourism running smoothly alongside the gentle, timeless lifestyle of ordinary Cretans.
Over 2,000,000 visitors come to Crete every year, so it isn’t always easy to escape them, especially in the over-developed north of the island. Panormos is probably one of the only non-commercial resorts left in that area now, but is sadly unlikely to remain that way for long.
The south is still far less targeted by the
tour operators (saved so far by its distance from the island’s two airports and lack of sandy beaches in the area). However, even there ‘progress’ is being made as farmers’ children opt for the lucrative businesses of property and tourism.
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We were warned that hiring a car locally was risky in terms of insurance. However, after checking the terms and conditions to the point of pedantry, we decided to give it a go, since The Big Brand Name car hire company, recommended by the reps cost twice the price for half the time. We drive away our shiny red Fiat, convinced that we got a pretty good deal.
The next morning we begin our exploration by driving through expansive olive groves, carpeted with chamomile daisies and scented by other plentiful wild flowers and herbs. Ahead an elderly shepherd whistles to his dog to get his sheep off the twisting, narrow road. A few kilometres afterwards we enter a secluded village, where modern ivory villas and older but tenderly cared for houses mingle peacefully with ancient domed churches. Under cracked stone arches, old men sit on threadbare chairs, chattering like the women they studiously ignore and gesticulating wildly as if in the middle of a grave political debate. Cerise pink bougainvillea and sweet smelling honeysuckle climb chaotically over whitewashed walls. As well as being undeniably delightful to the eye, Cretan villages are most certainly gratifying to the soul.
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As well as random exploration, we have several ‘touristy must-sees’ on our list. The first of which is Knossos, the site of the most important palace of the Minoan civilisation. This is laid out in a random and confusing way, as if to force us to give in and join one of the guided tours to avoid a meaningless wander. Our guide told us all the surrounding legends, such as the Minotaur and the story of Daidalos and Icaros, as well as outlining future plans for further excavations of the site, which are actually being put on hold until current tenant farmers are ready to give up their land, but also until technology improves so far as to eradicate almost any possibility of damage to the millennia old Minoan artefacts and ruins.
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On our second Sunday, I look out of the window with a mild feeling of dread as we curve up and down the White Mountains on our way to the Samaria gorge. My mild vertigo and inherently lazy nature had previously inclined me towards avoiding this day, but curiosity, pride and a patiently persistent boyfriend soon persuaded me otherwise. We quickly decided to stick to the regularly scheduled group excursions for the sake of safety and convenience. Safety because you will have a guide following somewhere behind with the slowest members of the group, ready to get you help should you slip and sprain your ankle.
For most people, the walk through is a one way venture, starting from an altitude of around 800m above sea level sliding down to zero. The brave or foolish can stay in Agia Roumeli overnight and walk all the way back up the next day (I count exactly 3 people doing this in the five hours it takes us to casually meander down).
A few myths about Samaria are firmly held onto; probably born out of the number of plagiarised works taken from an error-filled original guide. Firstly it is not actually18km long (although you may well prefer to hang onto to this fabled extra 2km to reduce humiliation from the fact that days after hiking the gorge, you still can’t walk without wincing and hobbling). The second related myth is that it is the longest gorge in
Europe. The "gorges du Verdon" in South
France are in fact almost 4 km longer, but millions of loyal tourists have apparently kept that record quiet from the French!
We walk at a very average pace, slowing down frequently in my case; to precariously tip toe over the narrow wooden ladder-bridges that frequently
cross the gushing mineral water streams as you get further down. I find it reassuring to balance myself by walking across with both
arms outstretched, but appreciate that I look a bit silly, when
pensionercouples trot across without a moment’s hesitation! A lot of people, mostly groups of German men, seem to be treating the walk as a macho race of some sort. I suppose there could be some satisfaction in being the first one down from your group, but personally I think it a shame to be so hell bent on such shallow glory that you don’t take time to drink in what must surely be some of the most striking scenery in
Mediterranean Europe. Much better to go at a brisk stroll, stopping regularly to drink from the pure translucent streams, observing birds of prey high above and mountain goats bounding effortlessly up and down the surrounding peaks. When we finally pass the “finish line”, touristy tavernas had never looked so welcoming and we wolfed down a plate of chicken and potatoes in record-breaking time before making the long journey back through the windy mountains to Panormos.
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After a day recovering by the pool, it’s back to our little red Fiat. We visited ancient Minoan tombs in a site just being stolen by the tourist industry, but still free to enter and wander into the burial ground of a people that lived an unimaginable 3,000 years ago. On another perfect day we took a boat ride to the Venetian fortress island and 20th century leper colony of Spinaloga, to the east of the island. This is in some ways is a more interesting site of human history than Knossos since the images are so vivid, as recent as they are. Our witty Welsh guide was informative and took us round, giving us stories behind the island and each of the recently restored buildings, from marriages in the little church to how the leper islanders protected themselves from German invasion during the 1941 Fall of Crete.
The island has an eerie ambiance, haunting but with a lingering sense of hope. These people fought hardships, fear and prejudices that most of us can thankfully only begin to imagine.
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Our last day dawns rudely before we know it. Yanni whose family own the apartments we’re staying in, serves us depression smothering cocktails as we relax by the pool. The accommodation (Knossos appartments booked through Manos Holidays) is incredible for the money, just 8 clean and spacious studios sharing a large swimming pool, small colourful gardens and comfy, well-stocked lounge bar. Our hosts are friendly and have worked their hardest to make our fortnight stay with them just perfect.
We’re not due to leave until late evening, so I still have time to slip off for a final goodbye to the village I have grown so fond of. I pass Esmeralda, but she doesn’t recognize me when I wave. Why should she? I’m just a faceless tourist to her. The Backpack Brigade may argue otherwise, but we’re all tourists really, borrowing time in someone else’s country and culture, seeing whatever we can before it's time to move on. I don’t understand Esmeralda's life any more than she can comprehend mine. Yet, in those final holiday moments I look at her and the younger generations of her family wistfully, wishing I could swap the hectic London life that is demanding my return, for something less stressful, preferably in the Mediterranean.
I’ve enjoyed every minute of this holiday, but for the first time fleetingly empathise with a notoriously gloomy former office acquaintance. She once told me that she had given up going on holiday, since she only came back from it feeling more dissatisfied with the reality that she was forced to come back to. Not a philosophy I will ever be able to follow though, I realize as I walk up the steep and dusty hill for the last time. The idea of not returning here one day, however faraway, is just too depressing to contemplate.
Parallel Crete 
