After getting rather out of synch with my diary because of Easter this is the continuation of my first holiday.
*****
Photograph courtesy of Nikos Kokolakis
Exploring
The bamboos towered
above us, making a dense thicket in the the swampy ground on each
side of the path.
I discovered that to
cross to the golden sands we had to wade through an icy cold mountain
stream the crystal clear water reaching up to our thighs.
“You forgot to
mention this little difficulty.” I grimaced as we picked our way
carefully through the pebbles, slipping on the green weeds covering
the deepest stones.
“Here’s a good
chance to wash our fruit. The water is so icy it will help keep the
fruit cool if we leave some water in the bag.” Chris told me,
ignoring my grumbles. “It’s half the fun, Brrr. it is freezing
though.” she continued with a shudder. Ian was already swilling his
fruit, whilst trying not to drop his towel in the water.
The sand, even so
early in the day, scorched the bottoms of our feet and we walked
along the damp sand at the edge of the water, letting the waves swish
coolly up to our ankles. Quickly we found somewhere to put down our
towels and, after hanging our plastic bags full of fruit and water on
the branch of a nearby tree, which offered welcome shade, plunged
quickly into the welcoming blue of the sea.
It was bliss,
floating on the waves, looking up towards the still snowcapped
mountains and the little church up on the hill just outside the
village. Too languid and lazy to attempt more than desultory
conversation, our day passed in a haze of swimming, dozing and eating
cherries and nectarines.
At four o’clock,
like all good English folk, we went back to our hotel and brewed an
enlivening cup of tea.
“I knew it was
worth bringing the mini-kettle.” Chris Said, placing plastic mugs
of the enlivening brew on the pristine white, but rather wobbly,
table on the balcony. “I could not manage without my afternoon
cuppa.”
“And your morning,
midday and evening ones.” I rejoined, laughing.
“Just look at that
view” Ian returning from his ablutions joined us, rubbing his hair
vigorously with one of the rather hard hotel towels, “When you two
have stopped gossiping and are ready we can explore the village some
more and get something to eat. I’m starving.”
I hurried back to my
room and after an invigorating shower, a change of
clothes and plugging in a mosquito repellent, we set out once more. It was a walk of about ten minutes up
the winding dusty lane from our hotel to the village “plateia”.
The square was
looking livelier now with locals going about their business and
tourists walking around, peering into shop windows looking for
souvenirs and comparing the tavernas, deciding which looked good for
the evening meal.
We made for a
taverna near the village church called ‘Zorbas’ Chris and Ian
had eaten here the previous year and remembered being impressed with
the food. We could see a cheerful plump chef in the kitchen and this
seemed to bode well for the cooking.
“This was our
favourite eating place last year.” Chris
told me, then turning to Ian, “Remember that nice waiter? He was so
helpful. I wonder if he’s still working here.” They reminisced
for a few moments as we negotiated the rather steep stone steps
leading down to the taverna through an archway of scented white
jasmine.
‘Zorbas’ was
surrounded on three sides and overhead by a trellis of vines. Sitting
at our table we looked around us, soaking in the peaceful atmosphere,
white cloths on the tables, and little lamps suspended over our
heads, nestling among the vine leaves, fruit flies battering
themselves against the glass.
There was a
purposeful bustle in the kitchen. We could see the chef, clad in a
clean white overall, tasting something from a large pot, carefully
avoiding getting any drips on his luxuriant moustache.
The waiter came
over and introduced himself as George. He was tall and thin and had a
slightly ingratiating manner, almost bowing as he made himself known.
To their great surprise he remembered Chris and Ian from their
previous visit and asked after their family. We soon discovered that
he was proficient in six languages. So much for our language tapes.
What would we like?
The menu was extensive using mainly locally grown produce and
concentrating on local dishes many of which were unknown quantities
to us.
‘Shall we try the
squid?’ ‘What exactly is Stifado?’ ‘How much garlic is in the
tzatziki?’
We were well
rewarded by our choice of venue. The Stifado was a chunky beef stew
cooked with many small, whole onions in a tomato sauce. The squid was
fried, crispy outside, chewy inside, delicious with a squeeze of
lemon. We also ordered a dish of tzatziki, this yoghourt and cucumber
dip came richly flavoured
with garlic. A crispy Greek salad topped with Feta cheese and doused
liberally with olive oil was placed in the middle of the table. With
this and more of the crusty local bread we dined royally. After the
first course, as he cleared the plates, George announced, ‘Keep the
forks!’ It turned out that we must retain these for the main
course; it soon became a familiar refrain whenever we went out to
eat. “Keep the forks!”
At the end of the
meal George appeared with small glasses of a clear liquid “Raki”
he said “good for the digestion”
“I remember this
from last time.” Said Ian “Be careful it’s lethal.”
We sipped, we
gasped, we gulped glasses of water, Raki turned out to be the local
firewater and although I didn’t know it then it would make a
regular appearance during our stay on Crete.
“I remember the
raki from last year” repeated Ian “I developed quite a taste for
it by the end of our holiday.”
“You could have
warned me.” I told him, still spluttering, “It’s like paint
stripper”
“You’ll get used to
it. You are given it everywhere you go.”
“I got quite good at
disposing of it in nearby plant pots” laughed Chris.
“What a waste.”
Complained Ian
“You drank more
than enough!” Chris told him, as she gingerly rose from her chair.
“Ouch! I must
remember not to sit on these Cretan chairs when I am wearing shorts
.Have I got a pattern on my legs?”
Her rear was
sporting the imprint of the weave of the chair as indeed was that of
the other tourists rash enough to sit on the chairs unprotected “We
could set up a business hiring out cushions by the hour to the
tourists.” She said with a grin. “We could set up a little stall
in the village square in the evenings
After our meal we
wandered back to the plateia, the hub of village life, and chose a
pleasant, comfortable cafeteria called ‘Iliovassilema” Sunset, to
enjoy an ice-cream and a drink.
Photograph courtesy of Nikos Kokolakis
‘Sunset’ was
run by a rather rotund Greek named Pavlos, ably assisted by a good
looking man who turned out to be called Kostas. With long black curls
and designer stubble he set many a heart aflutter each summer season.
We lingered at the table, the chairs being plush with cushions,
watching people come and go, sipping our Metaxa, listening to the
chattering of the locals and tourists, though we could understand
nothing of what was said in the Babel of languages. Tired but content
we eventually returned to our hotel to sleep, walking through the
velvet darkness of the Cretan night with a panoply of stars twinkling
high above our heads, and the sound of owls hooting in the distance.
This wonderful video of Georgioupolis in 1989 was uploaded to youtube by John Valk
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