21 July 2016
Knossos is a well-known archaeological site located just south of Iraklio on Crete. Some claim it's the oldest city in Europe (other contenders include Athens, Cadiz in Spain and Plodiv in Bulgaria). Having read that it attracts clamorous hordes of visitors every day, we woke up especially early in order to beat the rush. While our plan was successful and we were able to avoid tour groups fairly easily, it was a horrible place.
Spirits soaring, we continued our drive inland towards the Lasithi Plateau.
It was rather surreal to climb eight hundred meters above sea level and then find yourself looking out over a vast expanse of farmland. It felt like just past the mountain range in the distance would be the sea, but we were nearly a kilometer above it!
Our main reason for visiting the plateau was to see the Dikteon Cave, which according to legend was where Zeus was born. In ancient times, worshippers would travel to the cave in order to leave offerings to the god, so many artefacts have been found by archaeologists there.
Our main reason for visiting the plateau was to see the Dikteon Cave, which according to legend was where Zeus was born. In ancient times, worshippers would travel to the cave in order to leave offerings to the god, so many artefacts have been found by archaeologists there.
As the cave was located at the top of a hill, we trekked up the narrow rocky path alongside the other tourists. Some visitors chose to pay €10 to ride up atop a downtrodden donkey.
In an attempt at an innovative pose for the camera, I pretended to be the babby Zeus happily sucking my thumb, pleased not to be eaten by my infanticidal father Kronos. In the dim lighting, however, the photo came out miserably, as grainy as a quinoa salad and tinged with green from the mossy walls. On the way up we were forced to hang back, as a smellmongerer in floral shorts assailed our nostrils. Somehow this boorish tourist had never seen a shower, let alone experienced one, and he had plonked himself between us and the exit taking his sweet time on cave photography. The closer we got to the trail of stench he left in his wake, the closer we became to upchucking our breakfast.
Having worked up an appetite from all that hill climbing and cave delving, we set out in search of lunch. On the way, we pulled over to check out a line of Venetian-built windmills atop a hill. We had planned to visit on our drive past them earlier, but were severely put off by the small carpark being full up by tour busses. This time around, the car park was empty, so we rocked up. Unsurprisingly, it was considerably windy up there (hence the windmills) and I needed to hold my hair lest it whip around my face like an enraged swarm of bees.
A roadside taverna we had noticed earlier was still open for business (lunchtime would have been considered done and dusted in many non-European places as it was decidedly late afternoon). We were seated by a waiter dressed in the traditional style: white shirt, beige trousers in that old school style where the fabric around the thighs balloons out from the shiny boots they're tucked into, and a twirly mustache and full beard.
After a spell on the road again, we arrived in Myrtos where we had booked a hotel for the night through booking.com. Once we tried to check in, however, the hotel staff informed us that they had no rooms available even though the website showed that François' credit card had been charged. We tried to reason with them, showing them proof that we had paid for the rooms and suggesting that they should refund us. They flat out refused, stating that it was entirely our mistake. Not one to be retiring in the face of injustice, François stood his ground and demanded they make amends.
Seeing that this may take some time, as the hotel staff went about ringing the manager and whoever else might help, Fabienne and I decided to leave the hotel to look for alternate accommodation. We walked all over the village, not having any time to stop and admire the pretty streets and waterfront that a plethora of eateries clung to. We rang the number on every sign that we saw boasting rooms, but none of them had enough space for all of us. At one point a man sitting outside a bar saw us puzzling over one such sign and offered to call for us. When that lead turned out to be fruitless, he rang a friend of his, Suzanne, who he knew ran a BnB. That also didn't work out, but he wished us the best and invited us to return later as the bar was having an evening of live music! Eventually we rejoined the others, who with the help of a multilingual couple had settled the issue of reimbursement by phoning booking.com. We were still without a place to sleep, so we drove away from the seaside into the hills hoping to happen across somewhere suitable at the next village. Once the hills proved a poor idea, we drove back into Myrtos and finally found a hotel that had capacity for us (and a pool too!).
After unloading our baggage into our respective rooms, we felt that we deserved a drink and headed into the village to enjoy a bevvy over some live music at the aforementioned bar. Their live music night was a roaring success, and they had no space to seat us! So instead we went straight to dinner at the Restaurant Katerina, a family-run eatery serving local dishes with tables lining a little alleyway. I was able to try the much anticipated skordalia: a dip made from potatoes (in this case, though it can also be made from soaked bread or nuts), garlic, olive oil and herbs. It was all I could have imagined! For my main meal, I ordered imam, which is a delectable meal largely comprised of slow cooked aubergine and tomato. With their homemade bread on the side, it was heavenly (though a fair bit pricier than most Greek tavernas). Yannick relished in the show put on by the chef when he came out to deliver the ouzo flambéed saganaki. Fire in the hole!
As we had ordered wine with dinner and were given raki to finish our meal, we no longer had any desire to visit the bar and returned to our hotel to fall swiftly into slumber.
Today's post was almost called: 'Calamity Evans and the Divine Troglodytes'
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