Diary continued (Part 3)

One morning a few days in to our holiday we decided to explore a little further  afield and we hired a jeep. Bowling along, with the warm wind caressing us like a giant hairdryer we headed for the west coast of the island. Looking for a small place we had seen on the map called Sfinari.

We stopped at Souda bay with its Allied war cemetery. As we stood in the quiet of the Cretan day looking at the rows of white crosses surrounded by cypress trees, the allied flags blowing in the sea breeze, we remembered the stories of the German invasion when parachutes floated down through the now clear blue skies. So many young men lost in the horror on both sides.

On the outskirts of the old town of Hania we passed the signs to Omalos, the head of the Samaria Gorge.

“Fancy walking the gorge?” asked Ian

“Way too hot” Chris replied decisively. “I think you must set out at dawn if you even want to try, very interesting though I should think.” 

“Too much like hard work” agreed Ian, as he negotiated a very narrow bend in the road, trying to avoid the potholes. " But there is a "Lazy way" trip where you get the bus to Sphakia ferry  to the end of the gorge at Agia Roumeli. From there you can walk as far as you like into the entrance as far as  the "Iron Gates" if you like" We agreed that this seemed the best way for us to get a taster.

On we travelled, trying to keep, wherever possible, to the old roads. We passed through small villages, meeting sheep and goats grazing on the verges and once even half a dozen pigs trotting unconcernedly along in the middle of the road and even on a beach where we stopped for a short walk

.

The roads deteriorated as we traveled further west and we became hungry and began to look for food.

Spying what looked like a taverna just up a small dirt track we went in and asked for salad and chips, we sat outside on the balcony overlooking the vineyards and out to sea. We appeared to be the only customers. The old couple who seemed to be in charge bustled around preparing our meal.

“Look! The old woman is digging up the potatoes.” Ian pointed over to the garden.

“This certainly isn’t fast food, but at least we know they are fresh” Chris laughed. “Still, we’re on holiday we have plenty of time.”

The simple meal was wonderful.

“Everything tastes so good here” said Ian dipping his fork into the salad and picking out the biggest chunk of rosy red tomato, “I’ve never tasted such fantastic tomatoes, they have real flavour.”

“Mmm the potatoes were worth waiting for too.” Chris agreed.

“Cooked in olive oil I expect and all home grown. No synthetic stuff here.” I whole heartedly agreed with their verdict.

After our meal the old man and his wife, seeing our camera, gestured that they would like to pose for photos with us. We happily acquiesced.

“I suppose this really is a taverna?” queried Chris, “There doesn’t seem to be any sign of menus or of other customers.”

‘They don’t seem to mind,” answered Ian gesturing at the smiling couple sitting in the corner smiling benignly at us.

The room was strangely decorated with the limbs and heads of plastic dolls suspended from the ceiling. We wondered if it was some strange tradition, perhaps to ward off the evil eye or evil spirits. Unfortunately our command of the language was not sufficient to ask and we never found out.

We drove down the lane still not knowing if we had eaten in a taverna or if we had crashed into a private home. They didn’t seem to mind anyway. 

Later that evening, after our return from the west of the island, we were relaxing in the bar of our hotel, too tired and too lazy to walk up to the village itself. This being all of a ten minute trek. A young couple from the north of England was sitting near us lingering over two large cocktails complete with sparklers and umbrellas and we fell into conversation, comparing outings and adventures. Their holiday was nearly over and they told us of some of the out of the way places they had discovered.

“You must come with us tomorrow” said Derek, the husband, stubbing out a cigarette into the overfull ash tray on the bar in front of him “We have found a great taverna up in the mountains; we’re going to eat there tomorrow night with some other friends. It would be fun to all go together.”

“Yes, please do” Urged Susan, his wife “Another couple introduced the taverna to us on our first week. We will take you up and then, next week, you can take some new people up. It’s a shame for visitors not to find the ‘real’ Crete. ”

Up we went the following evening, twelve of us in a convoy of cars, to “Spiro’s” about three kms out of Georgioupolis.

From the terrace we had a magnificent view down through the valley, over the bay and out over the sea to the horizon. As it grew dark the lights began to twinkle from the scattered villages in the valley and the full moon threw its light onto the inky surface of the sea, lighting up a silver swathe across the bay.

Spiro turned out to be an elderly man, tall and well built, with white hair and a jutting jaw line. His waiter was a young Belgian man with bright red hair who, fortunately, could speak English and he translated for us. Spiro seemed to be proud of the fact he always slept with a loaded pistol under his pillow.
“A Luger” he told us “So don’t try to leave without paying the bill!” He laughed uproariously.

We feasted on roast sucking pig, tender and melting in the mouth. The music played, the wine flowed and of course the raki glasses were filled over and over again. ( For those who know me this became "Stardust"some 20 years later)

Sitting in the corner of the taverna was a couple who appeared to be in their sixties, the man walked over and introduced himself

“I couldn’t help overhearing you speaking English My name’s Roy, I live over here with my wife Margaret.” ……….