CRETE FOR HEROES

(AND BABIES)

After sixty years away, our two-year old had returned to Crete. Does that make any sense to you? To me neither, but when the locals discovered that Lucy had a Cretan great-grandfather they’d almost burst into gunfire. ‘She’s back!’ they’d proclaim (or so it sounded), and, with that, Lucy would be carried off, and ticker-taped through the kitchens or paraded round the market.

         All this was slightly more than we’d bargained for. But then Crete always is. During the war, British spies called it ‘Never-Never Land’ – for reasons that are obvious: it’s never disappointing and never quite what you’re expecting. You think you’re merely sciving some soggy English autumn but – instead – you find yourself happily plunging into the realms of the deeply improbable. Crete may look small on the map, but, when you get there, it suddenly opens out. One minute, you’re squeaking through the ice at 3,000 feet, and the next you’re melting away on a tropical beach. Obviously, it helps to be adaptable in this wild and beautiful world, preferably a lizard or a long-haired goat.

         Or a Cretan, of course. Few races enjoy life with quite such conspicuous drama. ‘We’re like other Greeks,’ one told me, ‘except with the volume turned up.’ This was true; every night we sat on our terrace listening to the guns of mountain weddings. Even better, Cretans were always dancing and dressing up. Once, we went to a military parade, where the men wore magnificent white boots, headscarves and chocolate breeches. It looked like a rally for some long-lost, horseless cavalry, or a gathering of pirates. The girls, on the other hand, were in a different pantomime altogether, and turned up dressed in coins and billowing pantaloons. I soon realised that Zorba (Crete’s most famous creation) wasn’t so much a caricature as a massive understatement.

         It’s impossible not to like Cretans (even if you’re not married to this mob). They seemed to like mischief almost as much as music. This was partly because they’ve been outlaws for almost 2,000 years, and western Crete is now covered with history’s attempts to curb their exuberance; there are Byzantine forts, Arab medinas, Venetian castles, Turkish barracks and German bunkers. None of it seems to have worked. For a week, we watched the local villagers building an enormous illegal still, and then – on our last day – they invited us over for a ‘lock-in’ of prodigal proportions.

         ‘Welcome back, Lucy!’ they cheered, ‘But why are you named like a dog?’

         She should have a proper name, they said, like Freedom or Maria.

 

Crete being a spectator sport, you need grandstand seats. The coastal strip’s all very well if you like cement and tractors, but the real fun’s up in the hills. We stayed in an old manor house in Ano Vouves, called Elia. It’s seen so many invaders come and go that it’s what chefs would call ‘a Veneto-Byzantish fusion (with just a twist of Turk)’. Elia still even had its rifle-ports, and walls as thick as an oak. But its best defence was solitude. From the edge of the swimming pool we could see most of north-west Crete, and – had we set out in the other direction – we could have walked for a week without seeing anything but olives.

         The silence was golden but never quite complete. During a typical morning, spent lolling under the lemon trees, I noted the sound of a frog, a buzzard, and a distant wedding (Pow! Pow!). But the real assault on the senses was coming from the kitchens. Every day, there were outlandish feasts, made from tangy tomatoes, hot bread, walnuts, grilled cheese, dandelions, olive oil and lemon juice. This food is not only delicious, it’s also magical: the more you eat, the younger you get. Cretans are famous for living into their hundreds.

         The most senior teenager at Elia was actually a plastic surgeon, called George. When he wasn’t nipping and tucking in Athens, George was always here, lavishing affection on his ancestral home. Now, it was a triumph of antiques and crisp linen, and also a thriving spa. George’s grandfather, Captain Digridis, would have been proud – and surprised. There was a picture of him, hanging in the hall, dressed in all his carbines and daggers. By the time the Germans arrived in May 1941, he was 60 and had fought in six wars, and won four gold medals for valour. Naturally, Elia became a centre for resistance. Our bedroom was once the stables, where the andartes kept their horses. It was from here that they captured Kissamos, in one last flurry of cavalry.

         Amongst a nation of such youthful pensioners, the war isn’t easily forgotten. The German paratroopers landed only just up the road in Malemé (amongst them, Max Schmeling, the heavyweight boxer, and the three Counts Blücher, of Waterloo fame). Our friends, the bootleggers, told us how a British force had killed the first wave, and how they’d then scavenged the weapons and killed the next. Although the Germans eventually prevailed, 5,000 of them – including the Blüchers – are buried in a beautiful olive grove on Malemé hill. This being a small world, the graveyard was once tended by George Psychoundakis, another hero and the author of The Cretan Runner.

         There are reminders everywhere of the uncomfortable past. Most villages still have an old washhouse and a few homes made out of tree-trunks and rubble. Occasionally, we came across more gruesome artefacts, like a Turkish cannon-ball embedded in a monastery wall, or a Bofors gun in the woods. Life had been even harder up in the mountains, a magnificent world that looks as if it’s been whipped out of limestone froth. At least now the shepherds have mobile phones so they’ve someone to talk to, other than their sheep. Meanwhile, the village of Omalós was just about to shut for winter, a moment that once signalled half-time in the annual season of vendettas (the last of these mini-wars only finished in 1960).

Cretans, of course, think nothing of hardship, and seldom give it a plaque. Life, food and landscape are far more important than fretting. They didn’t even seem to mind when a biblical storm threatened the regional capital, Chania, the day we stopped by for lunch. Huge breakers came crashing through the little Venetian harbour, burst over the seawall and then spewed into the restaurants. With waves and driftwood sloshing round our feet, I expected at least an airlift. Instead, the waiters merely downed half a bottle of ouzo, and carried on serving as usual.

 

By the way, I hope no-one thinks I’m joking about the tropical beaches.

Many people assume that Crete’s coastline has long-since vanished under a layer of umbrellas and towels. That’s because they’ve been trying to do it without George’s secret instructions. True, these involved routes of Byzantine complexity, drives through gorges and deserts, mountain lavatories (built over streams) and lunches of ‘PITSA, LAMP & SQUIBS’. But the reward was some of the most delightful beaches I’ve ever seen: Falasarna, Elafonísi and Balos. Imagine shipwrecks, turquoise lagoons, island-fortresses and exploded volcanoes, all in one unlikely canvas. If anyone can ever show me a more enchanting beach than Balos I’ll eat a whole goat – raw – horns and all. And that’s a promise.

         Expect to go mad in places like this, especially if you’re only two.

 

 

 

John Gimlette travelled as a guest of Inntravel Greece (www.inntravel.co.uk , 01653 617906). A 6-night stay at the Elia (www.elia-crete.com.gr ) on a B&B basis costs from £… including flights from London. Allow a further £15 a night for dinner.

 

The best time to go either Spring (April to May) or Autumn (September/October).

 

Further reading: ‘Greek Islands’, by Cadogan Guides, ‘Ill-met by Moonlight’, by Stanley Moss; ‘Crete, the Battle and the Resistance’, by Anthony Beevor.