Heading for the hills has a meaning all of its own in Crete. While staying with our friends in Ierapetra, we were invited as a foursome to go up to the village where the parents of our friends' friends have their ancestral home, their καταγωγή, roots or origin. Only one of the parents in question now remains, and she is so old that she cannot any more make the ascent back to her home village, but must live with family way down in the town, about an hour away by road. So the house is kept for weekend retreats, where the family can relax up in the cooler mountain air during the oppressive summer months as and when they can get away.
We've been up some twisty-turny mountain roads in our time, and we've been to villages perched at some pretty high altitudes, but I'd hazard the guess that this one is up there with the highest we've been to. One such 'climb' was the road to the village of Manolates on Samos. In chapter 11 of "Moussaka to My Ears" I talked about this village and the night we danced with a group of Turkish tourists in the tiny taverna that's perched outside of the village at its highest point above sea level.
About half an hour along the coast road, heading east from Ierapetra town, one takes a small left turn and immediately the narrow road begins to climb. Then it climbs some more. And more. And then some. Along with the ascent, you also have to negotiate the regulation hairpins, plus sections of road where, were you to run your tyres over the edge, you'd very soon become a passenger as your vehicle plummeted several hundred feet through steeply-sloped wooded hillsides. Meeting something coming the other way is always 'fun.' And it happened a couple of times. I was so glad our host had smeared vaseline all along the side of his car (I'm lying about that bit).
The views as we ascended were beautiful. It was late in the day and sunset was not far off...
It took us probably 40 minutes, from leaving the main road far below, to enter the village, a small strung-out selection of old houses clinging to an impressively high mountainside.
As we drove into the village, the sun having now gone down, dusk was settling as children played in the road and ya yas sat on steps, fanning themselves with little bunches of herbs. Everyone greeted us, at the very least with a wave or a nod, but quite often with a word that meant our friend who was driving had to stop the car to show respect and decorum. It was that all-too-short half an hour between the sun going behind the mountain to one's west and that time when darkness descends completely.
The outside temperature was reading 28ºC in the car, whereas it had been reading 34 when we'd turned into the lane way, way below. Small wonder that, even though the number of residents left in the village is now very low, and the percentage of houses that have permanent residents is only about 30 or so, the place is vibrant on a weekend evening when all the scattered offspring of the village's original inhabitants make their way up here to experience relief from the summer temperatures that prevail more than half an hour below.
We pulled up at the bottom of some stone steps, which led up through fulsome jasmine, basil and lemon geraniums to a terrace, from where the smoke of a charcoal barbecue could not only be seen emanating, but the delicious smell of fishes being cooked over the coals drifted to tantalise my nostrils. Following our hosts up to the terrace, we were warmly greeted by the residents, a couple of similar age to our friends, together with their eight-year-old son, who was vigorously pushing a toy car with big fat wheels along a stretch of wall that was just the right height for the purpose.
All the cheek-kissing and warm hugging dispensed with, the food very soon began to appear as the women placed huge bowls on the tables that had been laid end-to end to accommodate six adults and a little one. It was simple fare, but perfect. A ginormous potato salad took centre stage, together with plates of home-made hummus. There were freshly cut chunks of lemon, village bread and also a green salad with red onions. A bottle of wine, some cans of beer and the ubiquitous bottle of water were shoehorned into position among the plates of meze that also peppered the table top. Sliced (lengthwise) Cretan cucumber were also presented, to be eaten by hand. If you've never seen a Cretan cucumber, it rather resembles a cross between a courgette and a traditional cucumber, and it's delicious.
When Akis, our host for the evening, had finished cooking the fish over the charcoal, he climbed the few steps from the lower terrace where he'd been tending the barbecue and passed around a huge plate laden with Tsipoura (Sea bream), all complete with their heads and tails and smelling divine. Each fish was about 20 - 25 cm in length. We were bade take a whole one each and we all set about the serious business of demolishing the spread that lay before us. At the far end of the terrace where we were sitting, was a grape vine trained over a tubular frame, the grapes on which looked almost ready. I felt green with envy at just how laden that vine was...
Eventually, as the darkness beyond the lamps which burned on the terrace and in the street below became complete, the table beginning to look like a war zone, we all pushed our chairs back, stretched our legs further beneath the table and tucked into huge chunks of water melon, while putting the world to rights. Shame that political negotiations can't be carried out in such circumstances, the world's problems would be sorted out in no time. Bouzouki music drifted over the rooftops as we talked.
As midnight approached it was time for us to bid goodnight to our hosts, who wouldn't hear of us washing up. They only allowed us to clear the table and take the empty plates and glasses into the kitchen because we all threatened to fall out with them in a big way if they didn't. By the time we'd turned the car around and begun to head back down through the village and onwards down the massive gorge and valley which the road negotiates on its way back to civilisation, it was past midnight and the street was still full of children playing games and knots of people sitting on small terraces or talking on doorsteps. Our friends had to stop the car every few metres to greet yet another friend or acquaintance, and at one point we all got out while the car was shoehorned into an impossibly small side driveway and we paraded into the house of another friend's aged mother, right to her bedside, in fact, where the dear old lady was sitting watching some fifty-year-old Greek movie on an ancient TV which sat on a doily on the top of a cupboard at the foot of the bed. It simply isn't done to pass the house of an acquaintance or friend without going inside to pay one's respects. If she was irritated at being made to miss part of the movie, she didn't show it. Mind you, I'd be surprised if she hadn't already seen that movie a dozen times before.
By the time we got back to our friends' apartment in Ierapetra town it must have been about 2.00am. Even then, Soula, our hostess, insisted on making us a cup of herbal sleep tea each with a generous spoonful of Cretan honey in it to help ensure us a good night's rest.
We awoke at around 10.00am to a silent apartment, our two hardworking hosts having got up at the crack of dawn to go off to their job of work. They run their own cleaning business as a husband and wife team. Respect, eh?
All in all another superlative memory to add to our sack of reminiscences, one of the best, in fact.
We've been up some twisty-turny mountain roads in our time, and we've been to villages perched at some pretty high altitudes, but I'd hazard the guess that this one is up there with the highest we've been to. One such 'climb' was the road to the village of Manolates on Samos. In chapter 11 of "Moussaka to My Ears" I talked about this village and the night we danced with a group of Turkish tourists in the tiny taverna that's perched outside of the village at its highest point above sea level.
About half an hour along the coast road, heading east from Ierapetra town, one takes a small left turn and immediately the narrow road begins to climb. Then it climbs some more. And more. And then some. Along with the ascent, you also have to negotiate the regulation hairpins, plus sections of road where, were you to run your tyres over the edge, you'd very soon become a passenger as your vehicle plummeted several hundred feet through steeply-sloped wooded hillsides. Meeting something coming the other way is always 'fun.' And it happened a couple of times. I was so glad our host had smeared vaseline all along the side of his car (I'm lying about that bit).
The views as we ascended were beautiful. It was late in the day and sunset was not far off...
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| This is looking back the way we'd come, during a brief stretch of road that had almost levelled out, merely to lull us into a false sense of security. Somewhere down that gorge at the beach would be Makrygialos. |
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| Our destination sits in that 'saddle' way beyond the two rock faces. By the way, the armco wasn't there for every occasion when there was a fairly alarming drop to one side of the road. |
As we drove into the village, the sun having now gone down, dusk was settling as children played in the road and ya yas sat on steps, fanning themselves with little bunches of herbs. Everyone greeted us, at the very least with a wave or a nod, but quite often with a word that meant our friend who was driving had to stop the car to show respect and decorum. It was that all-too-short half an hour between the sun going behind the mountain to one's west and that time when darkness descends completely.
The outside temperature was reading 28ºC in the car, whereas it had been reading 34 when we'd turned into the lane way, way below. Small wonder that, even though the number of residents left in the village is now very low, and the percentage of houses that have permanent residents is only about 30 or so, the place is vibrant on a weekend evening when all the scattered offspring of the village's original inhabitants make their way up here to experience relief from the summer temperatures that prevail more than half an hour below.
We pulled up at the bottom of some stone steps, which led up through fulsome jasmine, basil and lemon geraniums to a terrace, from where the smoke of a charcoal barbecue could not only be seen emanating, but the delicious smell of fishes being cooked over the coals drifted to tantalise my nostrils. Following our hosts up to the terrace, we were warmly greeted by the residents, a couple of similar age to our friends, together with their eight-year-old son, who was vigorously pushing a toy car with big fat wheels along a stretch of wall that was just the right height for the purpose.
All the cheek-kissing and warm hugging dispensed with, the food very soon began to appear as the women placed huge bowls on the tables that had been laid end-to end to accommodate six adults and a little one. It was simple fare, but perfect. A ginormous potato salad took centre stage, together with plates of home-made hummus. There were freshly cut chunks of lemon, village bread and also a green salad with red onions. A bottle of wine, some cans of beer and the ubiquitous bottle of water were shoehorned into position among the plates of meze that also peppered the table top. Sliced (lengthwise) Cretan cucumber were also presented, to be eaten by hand. If you've never seen a Cretan cucumber, it rather resembles a cross between a courgette and a traditional cucumber, and it's delicious.
When Akis, our host for the evening, had finished cooking the fish over the charcoal, he climbed the few steps from the lower terrace where he'd been tending the barbecue and passed around a huge plate laden with Tsipoura (Sea bream), all complete with their heads and tails and smelling divine. Each fish was about 20 - 25 cm in length. We were bade take a whole one each and we all set about the serious business of demolishing the spread that lay before us. At the far end of the terrace where we were sitting, was a grape vine trained over a tubular frame, the grapes on which looked almost ready. I felt green with envy at just how laden that vine was...
Eventually, as the darkness beyond the lamps which burned on the terrace and in the street below became complete, the table beginning to look like a war zone, we all pushed our chairs back, stretched our legs further beneath the table and tucked into huge chunks of water melon, while putting the world to rights. Shame that political negotiations can't be carried out in such circumstances, the world's problems would be sorted out in no time. Bouzouki music drifted over the rooftops as we talked.
As midnight approached it was time for us to bid goodnight to our hosts, who wouldn't hear of us washing up. They only allowed us to clear the table and take the empty plates and glasses into the kitchen because we all threatened to fall out with them in a big way if they didn't. By the time we'd turned the car around and begun to head back down through the village and onwards down the massive gorge and valley which the road negotiates on its way back to civilisation, it was past midnight and the street was still full of children playing games and knots of people sitting on small terraces or talking on doorsteps. Our friends had to stop the car every few metres to greet yet another friend or acquaintance, and at one point we all got out while the car was shoehorned into an impossibly small side driveway and we paraded into the house of another friend's aged mother, right to her bedside, in fact, where the dear old lady was sitting watching some fifty-year-old Greek movie on an ancient TV which sat on a doily on the top of a cupboard at the foot of the bed. It simply isn't done to pass the house of an acquaintance or friend without going inside to pay one's respects. If she was irritated at being made to miss part of the movie, she didn't show it. Mind you, I'd be surprised if she hadn't already seen that movie a dozen times before.
By the time we got back to our friends' apartment in Ierapetra town it must have been about 2.00am. Even then, Soula, our hostess, insisted on making us a cup of herbal sleep tea each with a generous spoonful of Cretan honey in it to help ensure us a good night's rest.
We awoke at around 10.00am to a silent apartment, our two hardworking hosts having got up at the crack of dawn to go off to their job of work. They run their own cleaning business as a husband and wife team. Respect, eh?
All in all another superlative memory to add to our sack of reminiscences, one of the best, in fact.
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