Brief observations from a holiday in northwest Crete – the home of kalitsounia, daredevil pilots and herds of cats
Crete is the birthplace of Zeus, the god of sky, lightning and thunder. (His birth was a clandestine affair, and took place in a cave to avoid the attention of his paranoid and infanticidal father, Kronos).
When a thunderstorm lights up Sóudha Bay one evening, it serves as a reminder of the destructive celestial forces that have emanated from the island for millennia.
Such powers reside here even now. Sóudha is home to a major American base. It’s one of the few Mediterranean military ports capable of harbouring US aircraft carriers.
Apparently, local activists believe the nearby Akrotiri peninsula is also used to store nuclear weapons – if so, Zeus would surely be proud.
Kalitsounia dreamin’
I’m on record as a huge fan of spanikopita – the spinach-and-cheese pies that stand alongside the Olympic Games as one of Greece’s greatest inventions.
During my brief holiday in the northwest of Crete, I discover that the island is home to kalitsounia: little cheese-and-herb snacks made with mizithra (Greek whey cheese) and horta (wild greens) and then baked or fried.
These aren’t quite at the level of a spanikopita, in either size (a little small) or taste (a little sweet), but they take the edge of my craving for a proper pie.
Top Gun: Hania
We hear the noise of a fighter aircraft overhead and scan the skies above. I’m used to seeing these warplanes overhead in Norfolk, on their way back to, or from, RAF Marham. But this appearance is nowhere near as fleeting.
The fighter performs like a bird experiencing the unbridled joy of flight for the very first time. Or someone auditioning for a third Top Gun instalment.
The aircraft banks and barrel-rolls over and over, swooping around overhead, performing a series of fast, graceful manoeuvres that look impressive down here on the hillside. As the jet executes another Immelmann turn, the sound of the engines comes to us in strangely pleasant waves – a wash of warm, bubbly static, like the boiling of a kettle or the rumble of a percolator.
After this local performance, the fighter crosses over to the airfield on the northern side of the bay. But it doesn’t land there.
Instead, it begins a series of vertical climbs and precipitous dives against the backdrop of the hillsides of Akrotiri. The pilot seems to be having the time of his or her life.
It becomes challenging to pick out the tiny fast-moving shape in the far distance. My eyes struggle to track the aircraft against the powder-blue sky, where blotches of colour and pinpricks of light compete in my unreliable visual field.
At one point, squinting hard, I briefly confuse this state-of-the-art aircraft with a small fly buzzing a few metres in front of my face.
Breakfast on the tiles
Adjustment to life on Crete is basically frictionless for British tourists. Many signs in shops, bars and cultural landmarks are rendered in both Greek and English. Almost everyone in a service role seems to be reasonably fluent.
Genuinely comic mistranslations seem to be as rare as a triple-triple score, so I’m almost relieved to see a local taverna offering a brain-teasing breakfast of scrabble eggs.
I wonder if I would enjoy this dish as much as the strapatsada I encountered last year in Kefalonia.
Childish thoughts
On a bookcase in the villa, I discover a copy of Persuader, a Jack Reacher novel. One of many airport page-turners (Jojo Moyes, Stephen King, Wilbur Smith) left behind by previous holidaymakers.
Reading Persuader soon makes me think in Lee Child sentences.
I start the book in the late afternoon. Clear the first three chapters before evening.
The novel is well-thumbed. Evidence that more than one reader has been here before. The most recent patron left behind a bookmark. A square receipt. Barely legible script and a faded QR code. This reader stalled at page 146. Few people have the necessary stamina for this kind of mission.
I hit the gas. Finish all 543 pages in four days.
* * *
Further touristic observations from Greek islands:
