Travel Journal
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Crete to London:
A Well-Traveled Road from the Old to the New World
December 2023
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In “Istanbul: City of the World’s Dreams, Parts I and II,” Sandra gives our readers a closeup glimpse of one of the globe’s most fascinating cities. It was an unforgettable journey, but not without risk. Shortly before departure to Greece, she took a hard spill, which ended in surgery to reattach the ligaments in her right arm. Undeterred, she and her partner said their bittersweet farewells to Turkey. Crete awaited. |
By Sandra Bertrand
Awakening my first morning at Kokomo Villas, I stepped into the main sitting room, facing the sliding doors overlooking the Bay of Agia Palagis. I don’t know how long I stood there searching for any secret bit of Greek magic I could feel…the way the light was falling on the pavement stones, the terrace walls so perfectly aligned as if the gods had laid their fingers on the spot and smoothed it over. It was Gertrude Stein who spoke about the continuous present that we live in. Greece has always exemplified that for me, a timeless cosmo which has little to do with a momentary experience and everything to do with the everlasting. There is something in the landscape, in the light that emanates from it, that gives the sense that the human spirit has found itself in a place of perfect fit.
It wasn’t the first time that my partner Joanne and I had visited Crete. (See “Finding the Footprints of the Gods, Part II.”) Fifty-five miles long, with four mountain ranges forming its spine, it is the largest island in Greece. Its unique 3,000-year-old Minoan history – with later occupations from the Romans, the Venetians, and those wily Ottoman Turks – had left indelible marks on the fierce independence of the Cretans themselves. It wasn’t until 1913 that the island became a province of Greece.
It wasn’t the first time that my partner Joanne and I had visited Crete. (See “Finding the Footprints of the Gods, Part II.”) Fifty-five miles long, with four mountain ranges forming its spine, it is the largest island in Greece. Its unique 3,000-year-old Minoan history – with later occupations from the Romans, the Venetians, and those wily Ottoman Turks – had left indelible marks on the fierce independence of the Cretans themselves. It wasn’t until 1913 that the island became a province of Greece.
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This time, with an extended recovery on the horizon and a hard arm cast limiting my often-unquenchable spirit of adventure, I was thankful to find my bearings high atop a sleepy harbor. Less than thirty minutes northwest from the capital of Heraklion, I was still far enough for drowsy uninterrupted hours of contemplation.
The night before, our taxi driver had made the precipitous climb to our temporary home, “too far from thalassa” (the sea) in his view. We were soon to discover other tourists on foot, huffing and puffing their way up and down from the beachfront. Joanne had made the decision to taxi into Heraklion the next morning to pick up our rental car, making the trek homeward by the light of day. I could only surmise our driver figured he was abandoning us that first night halfway between the mountaintop and the sky.
I wasn’t going anywhere that first day. But I lumbered about happily, drenching myself in that indescribable light from the terrace. With fresh juices, coffee, and bread from our landlady, if paradise wasn’t exactly on our doorstep, it was close by.
In all honesty, paradise is a state of mind. Even on a Greek island, a healthy dose of pragmatism doesn’t hurt. Two of my shirts had been cut through by an orderly after the accident, the rest hardly designed for the cast laden. I quickly discovered any social outings would be constrained with half a torso exposed. When Joanne returned from a local supermarket with a men’s 2X, sleeveless sweatshirt, I felt like celebrating. And we did: A triple-threat cheese pie, filled with Cretan Graviera, homemade Kasseri and a mouthwatering Gruyere; a tomato salad; and a bottle of white wine from one of the best of Cretin wineries. There are many: Vidiano, Vorizanaki, and Kotsifali to name just a few, many from the rich vineyards and orchards of the Amari Valley.
In all honesty, paradise is a state of mind. Even on a Greek island, a healthy dose of pragmatism doesn’t hurt. Two of my shirts had been cut through by an orderly after the accident, the rest hardly designed for the cast laden. I quickly discovered any social outings would be constrained with half a torso exposed. When Joanne returned from a local supermarket with a men’s 2X, sleeveless sweatshirt, I felt like celebrating. And we did: A triple-threat cheese pie, filled with Cretan Graviera, homemade Kasseri and a mouthwatering Gruyere; a tomato salad; and a bottle of white wine from one of the best of Cretin wineries. There are many: Vidiano, Vorizanaki, and Kotsifali to name just a few, many from the rich vineyards and orchards of the Amari Valley.
Cat Residences, Agia Pellagia
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A quick aside on “Supermarket.” Every retail hovel, boasting little more than the local raki, playing cards from the Knossos ruins and milk is emblazoned with the eponymous signature. We did unearth the real item, however, a few miles away.
That night and for several following, we were visited by a cat just outside our sliding doors. With two waiting for us back home, we were soft touches, filling platefuls of roast chicken in hopes of a nightly return. I’ve spoken of felines in earlier accounts, but in Turkey as well as Greece there are legions of orphans. Along the local harbor, a concoction of barrels had been constructed as improvised homes for whomever wanted to claim them. |
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Meandering through the hilly terrain by car – with clusters of early spring magenta catchfly blooms hugging the roadsides, I rolled the window down. Occasional cloudbursts only accentuate the inherent mystery of its cliffs and crevices. Autos (the more compact the better) are a must. We stopped for lunch at Taverna Mitato and over a moussaka large enough for two hungry takers, we gazed at the artifacts and furnishings of a traditional Cretan household. George’s Bistro in nearby Malia is another friendly pizza spot, with George always willing to keep the conversation going in an English and Greek patois.
Omar, my partner’s wiry nephew, had been invited to join us with a chance to experience our more familiar haunts. Leapfrogging after dark over the property wall from his taxi, he celebrated with Cretan wine, cheese, and Cretan Kings beer into the wee hours. (Our landlady had neglected to inform us the Kokomo gates locked after a certain hour but were still accessible with house keys. Thankfully, our guest was a nimble Jack.) After a short visit to the Heraklion clinic for x-rays and a redressing of my arm, we headed for the Archaeological Museum. Covering a span of over 5,500 years, it contains the world’s oldest collection of Minoan Art. The Snake Goddess and the Rhyton Bull’s Head, along with the Priest King fresco were old friends, but my eyes alighted on new treasures, like one of the magnificent octopus vases from the late Minoan period. A special surprise was a rare male siren, mouth open in grief. |
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Another morning, while my companions explored the nearby Knossos Palace ruins, I enjoyed a Greek coffee, watching the lineup of international visitors queuing up for tickets. I was resigned to my own recollections. Simply put, it is history come alive. In 1450 BC, a tsunami wiped out Crete’s entire Minoan population.
The ghost-filled breezes over the Phaestos (alternative spelling Phaistos) digs, limitless orange groves across the Messara plain, lastly the stippled caves of Matala – an outpost reminiscent of its hippy heyday – filled an inspired Sunday. |
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A day trip west to Chania holds fast to its checkered history. With the Splatzia Quarter’s labyrinthine streets and wooden balconies, it’s irresistible for shoppers and wanderers alike. Firkas, the Venetian fort and lighthouse opposite the main promenade, is a testament to Chania’s conquerors. Finding a dining spot along this wharf is a must. Food, particularly the varieties of fresh seafood are readily plentiful, as is olive oil, generously lathered on almost everything edible. With Omar’s assistance, we grilled lamb sausages in rosemary on Kokomo’s terrace. If we were missing the sophisticated nuances of Istanbul’s finest restaurants, the complementary desserts, and clear bottles of raki after every taverna meal were compensation enough. One of several sleepy days lunching along Agia Pelagia’s waterfront, Omar expressed his solitary desire to take a dip in the early May surf. “How can I go back without a plunge in Greek waters?” With a nod to his resilience, he did just that for all of five minutes. Perhaps I may never know how Greece worked its magic on Omar in 2023 – or on me when I first visited in the spring of 1979. But I have my memories, Crete’s siren song forever intact. |
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LONDON
A direct flight from Heraklion to London’s Gatwick Airport might not be on your next itinerary, but if you have been hopelessly besotted by images of double-tier buses, red telephone booths (they’re still standing), rowdy British pubs, and those accents(!) from movies and TV, keep reading.
Neither Joanne nor I had visited the Royal Albert Hall on previous visits, so it was at the top of our bucket list for the first night. We managed a late afternoon check-in at the Premier Notting Hill Hotel, a moderately-priced choice on Princess Square that advertises where “all rooms are guaranteed to fit guests.” I couldn’t help wondering if that would include a pet orangutang or an 8-foot basketball player, but once settled, we found it small though acceptable enough for two five foot nine tourists.
Neither Joanne nor I had visited the Royal Albert Hall on previous visits, so it was at the top of our bucket list for the first night. We managed a late afternoon check-in at the Premier Notting Hill Hotel, a moderately-priced choice on Princess Square that advertises where “all rooms are guaranteed to fit guests.” I couldn’t help wondering if that would include a pet orangutang or an 8-foot basketball player, but once settled, we found it small though acceptable enough for two five foot nine tourists.
Dinner was another matter. The neighborhood is largely residential, with a scrubbed clean appearance festooned with clusters of wisteria drooping over walled private gardens. We were close enough for a healthy walk to nearby Bayswater with enough international boutique cafes to satisfy every taste. But beset with that old post-op drowsiness, we opted instead for Putera Puteri, an un-assuming café with a Malaysian menu, empty inside save for the two friendly Malaysian waitresses. A tasty order of lamb, curry puffs with cucumber slices, and a beef randang did the trick, and we were ready for a tube journey for the night’s concert. (A forewarning: the only loo is public with availability directly outside in the center of the roadway.)
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I don’t think it an exaggeration to say that Royal Albert Hall is the main reason to visit and not the playbill. And that’s not withstanding that it has hosted the likes of Churchill, Einstein, bouts by Mohammad Ali, and other world-renowned figures of note in its 152-year-old history.
Dedicated to the memory of Queen Victoria’s beloved Prince Albert, it’s an amazing feat of structural engineering, but its construction not without risk. On May 11, 1869, after evacuating the building, its engineers knocked the props supporting the great dome away, wherein it dropped just 8 mm before settling into its iron metal frame. So auspicious is the structure on London’s skyline, that a huge black cloth was used to ‘black out’ the site during anti-aircraft shelling in WWII. Once settled in the top tier, I relinquished any attempts I may have made to see the performers below. With a seating capacity of 5,272, I’m convinced it was a full house the night we listened to the Gipsy Kings – yes, that’s correct. We had booked the Catalan kings of flamenco, salsa and pop for our only available night, and I had the rare privilege of listening to Hotel California at an indescribable decibel level never before heard by us on the shores of the New World. |
Royal Albert Hall (Top Tier View)
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Viewing the passing parade in Trafalger Square is watching history marching to a hip-hop beat. All races, all ages are present – hotfooting it past the 169-foot Nelson’s Column, barely giving his lion guard a cursory glance. Once inside the National Gallery fronting the Square, we returned to a respectable pace. Great art will do that for you.
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With 2,300 paintings to choose from, I settled for one to commit to memory. Whistlejacket (c. 1762) by George Stubbs is a magnificent life-size Arabian stallion, a prize racehorse in levade, often used in equestrian portraits of military commanders. Approaching the capacious gallery entrance from a considerable distance, the portrait greets you front and center. A special exhibit celebrating the life of Saint Francis in art was an inspiring find, and a good reminder of the power of true humility. For theatre buffs like us, a trip to Leicester Square on another morning was in the cards. Opting for a soon to close production of Bonnie and Clyde at the famed Garrick Theatre was almost a guilty choice. A “shoot ‘em up” musical of the notorious pair could seem a little too close to the reality of our native shores. But the electrifying performances of Jordan Luke Gage and Frances Mayli McCann made it worthwhile, with music by American composer Frank Wildhorn ('Jekyll & Hyde') an added treat. A generous concession stand stayed open, with popcorn and beer enthusiasts returning to their seats at curtain’s rise, chomping happily away in rhythm with every song. |
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If the finest of Italian cuisine quickens your heart, Bardo St. James provided the best pre-theatre choice. Showing up just shy of five o’ clock, we descended into the darkly lit bowels of a Don Corleone-style supper club as the first customers. Tanqueray martinis, a medium rare sirloin, a millefeuille with porcini mushrooms, and pickled Castelfranco greens with aged parmesan settled the stomach growls. At our departure, a trickle of customers were seated while a torch singer appeared, fiddling with the onstage mike. A two-course entrée for 74 pounds was reasonable but admittedly, an eight or nine o’clock reservation would make for a more fulfilling experience.
A brisk-aired stroll on our last day ended at St. Paul’s Cathedral. For a combined dose of reverence and English history, it can’t be beat. Roaming the Cathedral floor, a personal favorite for me is Henry Moore’s Mother and Child, a lovely abstract sculpture. After craning our necks under the 1,400-year-old Dome, a trip to the Crypt unearths such treasures as the tombs of Christopher Wren, Wellington, and painter JMW Turner.
It was time for farewells to Old London town. A quote by William Shakespeare from our Leicester Square visit seems apt: There is no darkness but ignorance. Homeward bound, accidents notwithstanding, travel is the golden road to enlightenment. |
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PLACES OF INTEREST CRETE Lodging & Car Rental Kokomo Villas Ligaria 71500 GR +30 698 034 3346 Voyager (Car Rental) Heraklion 71601, GR +30 697 848 1518 Museums & Palaces Heraklion Archaeological Museum Chatzidaki 1, Heraklia 712 02, GR +30 281 027 9000 Palace of Knossos (5 miles south of Heraklion; tickets at Museum) Phaestos (Phaistos) Palace (40 miles SW of Heraklion) +30 289 20 42315 |
PLACES OF INTEREST CRETE Dining Zorba’s Agia Pelagia 71500, GR Acropolis Agia Pelagia 71500, GR George’s Bistro 33 Eleftheriou Venizelou 186 Malia 70007, GR Taverna Mitato Leof. Andrea Papandreou 42, GR Deep Blue Ike Akthkoyntoyrikth 17-19 Chania, GR +30 282 10 72552 Alexis Zorbas Matala 70200, GR +30 2892 045343 Shopping Douka Jewelery 19 Theotokopoulou Street Chania, GR White Box 54 Zampeliou Street (Old Harbor) Chania 73100, GR +30 282 10 02628 |
LACES OF INTEREST LONDON Lodging The Premier Notting Hill 5-7 Prince’s Square London, UK Dining Putera Puteri 179 Queensway London, UK Bardo St. James 4 Suffolk Place London, UK Sites Royal Albert Hall Kensington Gore, South Kensington London, UK Garrick Theatre Charing Cross Road, London, UK London Theatre TKTS Leicester Square London, UK The National Gallery Trafalgar Square London, UK St. Paul’s Cathedral St. Paul's Churchyard, City of Westminster London, UK |
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Sandra Bertrand is an award-winning playwright and painter. She is Chief Art Critic for Highbrow Magazine and a contributing writer for GALO Magazine. Prior to working for Sanctuary as Travel & Culture Editor, Sandra was a Featured Artist in May 2019.
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