My First Christmas in Crete (1990)

The snow low on the foothills around Kalamitsi Alexandrou

I was not sure what to do on Christmas day. I didn’t think it was a day to drop in, uninvited, to friends and I expected to spend it quietly at home ( A small room above a cafeteria in the village square.) - I know now that any Greek families would have been delighted for me to call, evincing the famous ‘filoxenia’ once again.

There was not much evidence of Christmas in the local area. One house in Georgioupolis had a tree up but that was about it.

In the event I was invited to spend Christmas day at the house of a retired English couple, Dorothy and Arthur, who hailed from Yorkshire. They had moved to Crete some years before, spent their first couple of years in a rented house in Georgioupolis, but now had their own house, in a village some seven hairpin bends above Kalamitsi. At this time there were very few non Greeks living in the area in the winter. Their house was warm and cosy with a log burning stove. I had not realised how cold it could get in Crete in winter - especially living in an apartment built for the summer.

Yes, we do get snow - but not every year

I was woken in the early hours by the church bells. The midnight service appeared to be at four thirty a.m. I did not get up.

At about eleven Arthur came with his car to collect me. “It’s a good job you’re not Greek,” he announced.

“Why?” I was rather puzzled by this remark.

“Old Chrystalia in the village will not ride in the front of the car with me, even if Dorothy is with us. She thinks I might ‘take advantage’ of her.” He laughed.

“She should be so lucky. How old is she?” I asked him.

Arthur thought for a moment, “She must be seventy five if she’s a day.” We both chuckled at her fears though, I suppose, to her they were real enough.

For the first time since leaving England I ate the traditional English Sunday lunch of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, followed by Christmas pudding and mince pies, all washed down with Arthur’s home made wine. Dorothy was a very good cook and Arthur appreciated it. They had settled well into village life, owning chickens, rabbits, and two sheep.

Dorothy spent her time embroidering and knitting, while Arthur was with the animals, or working in the garden. They enjoyed a large circle of Greek friends and had a fund of stories to tell of their life on Crete.

Although the Greeks do not make much of Christmas, a number of name days fall, during this season. I was invited to the lake, where I had been working in the summer, on Christmas Day evening for the name day celebration of Manolis, Maria’s husband.

There I discovered an elderly German couple; they had arrived the day before looking for rooms at the lake and had, of course, been invited to join in the festivities. I found myself sitting between the German man, who was about eighty years of age, and Manolis’ Father, who was in his seventies. As they could not speak each others language, I found myself in the unenviable position of having to try to translate as best I could. Both having served in the war and Manolis’ father still suffering from a limp, caused by an injury during the conflict, this was a delicate situation which called for a certain amount of tact. While the Cretans are fairly friendly to the younger generation of German tourist there is often still resentment between the older generations, the shadow of war and invasion is never very far away. I was relieved when it was time to leave the table and I was able to join with the rest of the company.

Athena decided that it would be a good evening to teach me some Cretan dancing and, amongst much counting of steps, and great hilarity, the evening passed very happily.

Christmas Day, I discovered, was the name day for Sifis-Joseph, Manolis-Emmanuel, Christos, Eugenia, Chrysoula and several others, so there was a fair bit of celebrating going on over the Island and I heard the sound of gunshots well into the night.

The children were waiting eagerly for New Year's day "Agios Vassilis" as this is the day they receive their presents.

No Flies on us! - An everyday story of Roy and Margarita cc 1991

Kafenion Kalamitsi Alexandrou

No flies on us

“Drat!” exclaimed Margaret as she gave another swipe with her swatter “Bother these flies” it was a hot sultry afternoon, the mountains lying dreamily in the haze, the faint sound of the church bells drifting across the fields. In the kitchen of the cottage that they had lovingly restored in the tiny village of Kalamitsi Alexandrou.

Village square

 Roy and Margaret were preparing their afternoon tea. Margaret put the electric kettle on to boil. In the winter they would be using their old kettle on the permanently lit wood stove, but now, in the summer, those days were a long way off. The locals thought that they were slightly eccentric drinking tea at all, but the habits of a lifetime living in Wales are not that easy to change.

White haired, Roy was a tallish man with a military bearing, sporting a tidy white moustache; it was easy to guess that he had been in the Royal Air Force. Margaret had come to Crete a small and petite woman, but would be the first to admit that the good Cretan food had begun to take its toll on her waistband.

Roy and Margaret had moved to Crete some fifteen years before, after taking early retirement and now lived down a little lane with only one other house nearby. They drove an old white Citroen Pony called Myfanwy with a big Welsh dragon emblazoned on the front – not easy to mistake.

Another swipe at the errant bluebottle.

“How I hate these flies” ejaculated Margaret giving another even more violent wave with the fly swatter. Wallop! It hit the kettle “Now see what’s happened” she cried. Roy came over; he could see that the switch on the kettle had broken.

“Never mind” he commiserated “the kettle still works; we will just have to switch it off manually until we can take it to town to be fixed. It’s not the end of the world.”

“We have to go next week anyway” sighed Margaret, “we can take it in then.”

The following week found them in a small electrical shop in Hania, some twenty six kilometers away.

It was a small shop full of appliances, parts and a miscellany of unidentifiable boxes. The man behind the counter was helpful and spoke a little English. He was short like most Cretans, with a shock of white hair but a suspiciously dark moustache.

“Grecian 2000” whispered Margaret

“You mean Cretan 2000” chortled Roy.

It was soon ascertained that the kettle would have to go off to Athens to be repaired and would take about ten days. Having asked how much the repair would be Roy decided to pay there and then.

“Was that wise?” Margaret asked him “I mean, to pay in advance?”

“Oh yes I think so ,” he replied, “the Cretans are a very honest race”

So, for the next ten days they boiled water in a small saucepan, until dawned the morning of their next visit to Hania.

“So sorry.” said the shopkeeper, “It is not ready yet, come back in another ten days”. Ten days later the same story,

“So sorry, ten days.” This pattern was repeated so often that it became a bit of a joke each time they went to the shop.

“It would have been easier to buy a new one.” complained Margaret.

Eventually, after about six months, the day dawned that the kettle was ready for collection.

Joyfully they took it home filled it and switched it on. They both watched as it gradually warmed up. The teapot was at the ready, the cups and saucers on the table waiting to be filled with the fragrant beverage. Fresh scones stood warm and inviting then, slowly, as they watched, the new switch wobbled and fell off onto the table.

“What the!” exclaimed Roy, he carefully examined the kettle, “After six months of waiting our kettle has been repaired using sellotape!” He couldn’t help laughing “When it heated up the tape melted.”

“Put the saucepan on” groaned Margaret “Or better still, pour me a large Vodka and Tonic!”

Kalamitsi Alex.