Travel Journal
Finding the Footprints of the Gods in Greece, Part II
February 2021
By Sandra Bertrand
CRETE
Heraklion
Curiosity killed the cat as the old saying goes, but curiosity in humans can be a good thing - a spirit for adventure coupled with a dose of caution, and we’re off!
With heads still spinning from the heart-stopping beauty of Santorini - the outpost of an ancient Minoan civilization preserved for almost 3500 years under heaps of volcanic ash - it was only natural that we should venture to the largest and southernmost of all Greek islands to find where it all began: Crete.
Heraklion
Curiosity killed the cat as the old saying goes, but curiosity in humans can be a good thing - a spirit for adventure coupled with a dose of caution, and we’re off!
With heads still spinning from the heart-stopping beauty of Santorini - the outpost of an ancient Minoan civilization preserved for almost 3500 years under heaps of volcanic ash - it was only natural that we should venture to the largest and southernmost of all Greek islands to find where it all began: Crete.
Disembarking from the Blue Star ferry, the first thing that greeted my eyes was the 16th century Koules fortress lining Heraklion’s capital port, an imposing reminder of Venetian rule (1204-1669). The Ottoman Turks (1669-1889) brought their own form of oppression. Much later it became a WWII Nazi stronghold, by then forging the iron character of the Cretin people. It wasn’t until 1913 under the leadership of Eleftherios Venizelos that the island became a province of Greece.
Weighted down by history’s inescapable presence, I settled into the nearest pier-side bench, bags in hand, while Joanne went to find our lodgings. An orange cat leapt between the bobbing caiques, pursuing a shiny-coated wharf rat. Dinner was on our agenda at the closest taverna, and a more palatable grilled sea bass with the island’s famed farm tomatoes.
Weighted down by history’s inescapable presence, I settled into the nearest pier-side bench, bags in hand, while Joanne went to find our lodgings. An orange cat leapt between the bobbing caiques, pursuing a shiny-coated wharf rat. Dinner was on our agenda at the closest taverna, and a more palatable grilled sea bass with the island’s famed farm tomatoes.
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Heraklion (Irakleio) is not only the capital but ground zero for the National Archeological Museum, housing the world’s greatest collection of Minoan art. Our Kronos Hotel was within walking distance of the main square and tiny El Greco park. As for Dominikos Theotokopoulos (aka El Greco), Spain may have claimed him, but his inimitable style was formed in his Cretin birthplace.
A complimentary hotel breakfast is always welcome; nevertheless, claiming a table, then disappearing from view is not. Seconds after seating ourselves, we were accosted by a frenetic Frenchman, flailing his arms at us. “Non, non, c’est impossible! Mon table!” He pointed to a woman’s handbag, hidden under the tablecloth. We were soon surrounded by his wife and children, with no recourse but to move to another table. “S'il vous plaît,” I responded in my most dulcet tones. That was to be our last breakfast on the house, choosing an al fresco Greek coffee instead within view of the 17th century Morosini (Lion’s) fountain. |
Heraklion: Morosini (Lion's) Fountain
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The Archaeological Museum is one of the most important museums in Europe, covering a chronological span of over 5,500 years from the Neolithic period to Roman times. It was also the site of another near disaster. Reaching into a pants pocket for my cellphone to take a snapshot of one of the resident snake goddess figurines, I came up empty! My cellphone and I were not joined at the hip after all. Thanks to a helpful tourist who found it inside a bathroom stall (Oops!), I could continue with my visual diary. The sophistication and beauty of these collected artifacts cannot be overstated. Each room is an embarrassment of riches, but it is the Hall of Frescoes which is my favorite. Excavated from Knossos, parades of elegant, curl-coifed women, men with headdresses flowing with feathers and lilies, the background festooned with flora and fauna of great delicacy overwhelm the viewer. |
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Foot-weary and famished, we enjoyed a Greek salad only yards from the museum and a bottle of Vidana, a wonderfully refreshing white wine from the Lyrarakis Winery, offering convenient daily bus tours. Our lunch companion was Sir Arthur Evans’ statue, the British archaeologist who excavated the ancient city of Knossos from 1900-1929, naming his Bronze Age civilization Minoan.
By the time our tour bus arrived at the famed Knossos Palace the next morning, a hot noonday sun had broken through. We greeted yet another bust of Evans to enter the complex. A crisply efficient guide directed our journey as we trudged patiently along with the rest of the visitors, hyper-aware of the unearthly quiet of our surroundings. Destroyed by an earthquake about 1700 BC, the city was almost totally rebuilt. The following volcanic eruption of 1450 B.C. that blew up ancient Thera (now Santorini) caused a tsunami of such devastating proportion to Crete that the Minoan civilization was utterly destroyed. The ruins of this second palace, the size of more than two football fields, lay buried until Sir Evans imaginatively restored them to their rightful grandeur. |
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Over 1,000 rooms, an elaborate drainage system as well as paved roads and replicas of the frescoes now housed in the Archaeological Museum fired our own imaginations. A vast underground labyrinth was believed to hold the legendary Minotaur - the half man-half bull born of King Minos’ wife. It was claimed the king was forced to regularly feed the best of Athens’ youth to the beast.
Think what you will of a bygone race of such sacrificial bent; it quickens the heart to stand in such places of our common past.
Our last night’s meal in Hiraklion was “nostimo,” Greek for delicious, at one of the most celebrated of Italian restaurants. At via Pastarelli, close to the town square, we were quickly submerged amidst the Saturday night hustle for tables. A high-energy wait staff clicked their heels to a riff of smooth jazz while we enjoyed tagliatelli with porcini mushrooms and black truffles smothered in a cream sauce for me and, for Joanne, a serving of pork tenderloin with thyme, white wine, and cream cheese. Before we could ask for the check, our waiter delivered a tiramisu on the house. (Note: Desserts are often complimentary and should be enjoyed, or at least sampled).
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Think what you will of a bygone race of such sacrificial bent; it quickens the heart to stand in such places of our common past.
Our last night’s meal in Hiraklion was “nostimo,” Greek for delicious, at one of the most celebrated of Italian restaurants. At via Pastarelli, close to the town square, we were quickly submerged amidst the Saturday night hustle for tables. A high-energy wait staff clicked their heels to a riff of smooth jazz while we enjoyed tagliatelli with porcini mushrooms and black truffles smothered in a cream sauce for me and, for Joanne, a serving of pork tenderloin with thyme, white wine, and cream cheese. Before we could ask for the check, our waiter delivered a tiramisu on the house. (Note: Desserts are often complimentary and should be enjoyed, or at least sampled).
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The Crete beyond lay in wait and our journey over its often harsh, soaring landscape would be aided by the rental Fiat we’d chosen. On the day’s agenda was a side tour to Phaestos, the second Minoan palace of renown, before winding our way southwards to the bay of Matala, the famed hippy enclave of the sixties as well as the site (according to Homer) where Menelaus, husband of Helen of Troy, was shipwrecked.
Rolling hills, lush vineyards, and pink and white oleanders caught the eye in between the abundance of olives groves. (The average U.S. consumption for olive oil is 0.5 litres per person annually; in Crete it is 25 litres.) We were landlocked for the moment and happy as larks. Only 45 miles southwest of Heraklion, Phaestos is a pleasant excursion, affording the chance to explore to your heart’s content. We entered through a fragrant, overhanging arbor. As the city suffered a similar fate to that of Knossos, one palace is superimposed over another, eluding interpretation. Could the Phaestos Disc, now in the Hiraklion museum, be the Minoan’s Rosetta stone? After climbing the still intact grand staircase, we found a rest site overlooking the Messara plain. Encircled by a stand of cypress, we said goodbye to our ghostly hosts. |
Matala was waiting.
Pulling into the tiny seaside village, refrains from Joni Mitchell’s “Carey” rang in our ears. The song makes a passing reference to the place, a siren song to lead those astray who were already headed in that direction. Little wonder, as the blue waters and stippled white caves rising majestically over the bay served as home to legions of backpackers.
Pulling into the tiny seaside village, refrains from Joni Mitchell’s “Carey” rang in our ears. The song makes a passing reference to the place, a siren song to lead those astray who were already headed in that direction. Little wonder, as the blue waters and stippled white caves rising majestically over the bay served as home to legions of backpackers.
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Hotel Sofia was exactly what we’d expected: a small but clean upstairs room and a lounge with earmarked novels and maps; a downstairs porch, home to five parakeets; Sofia readily available with a “kali mera” to greet our day. The main road leading to the beach was colorfully paved with faded caricatures of past guests.
We quickly settled into a string of days, floating in gentle surf, lounging under blue and white striped umbrellas for six euros, and sipping a half carafe of local wine for three dollars. Lawrence Durrell’s novel, The Dark Labyrinth, a dark journey through Cretin caves, lay waiting to be finished. With front row seats to a sunset, we fell into a timeless lethargy, when only the melting of the day’s last rays could rouse us to dinner. Numerous tavernas lined the crescent-shaped harbor, one meal fading into the next: spinach pies shaped like horseshoes, taromasalata, the Greek fish roe dip fresh enough to tempt the fussiest diner. At Two Brothers, we shared prawns and tiny grilled fish, grabbing the attention of two youngish cats awakened by the smell. |
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Nights passed under a fingernail of a fengari (Gr. moon). The wind, “in from Africa” as the song says, lulled us to sleep.
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Chania was calling. For the most charming of historical strongholds on the island, Chania has little equal. After parking just outside the walls of the old Splantzia Quarter, we located the rental office, signing the papers for the next two weeks of our home base. After ascending a rickety staircase to the third floor, we encountered a dark kitchen tucked off hallway. A carafe of clear liquid with two glasses sat in the center of the linoleum-covered table. (This was our first introduction to raki, a Cretin liquor that was to become as plentiful as the island’s water. Almost every taverna provided free pitchers of raki and watermelon to aid one’s digestion!) An airy bed/sitting room with high ceilings and sheer gauze curtains let in the morning’s sunlight. Overlooking the cobbled stones below, a tiny wooden balcony allowed enough space to observe the passing parade below. |
Firkas, a massive Venetian fortress, overlooks the harbor with a resident lighthouse that is one of the oldest in the world. Its final form is shaped like a minaret, designed during Egyptian rule (1831-1841). When lit, it is a jewel to behold. One evening, we ventured out to its base, mesmerized by the town’s twinkling lights and the dark slosh of waters below.
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As delicious and interchangeable the largely Mediterranean cuisine may be along the waterfront tavernas, a carnivalesque atmosphere reigns. Two young girls, perhaps eleven and seven, indifferently shook their tambourines nightly for coins, singing “Never on Sunday” off-key. Far more appealing was Karnagio Resto, situated at the far end of the harbor, where we were serenaded by an orchestra of swallows chittering in the trees, going suddenly quiet as the night descended.
Several old town attractions are worth a visit, such as the Maritime Museum at the far end of the pier with its model ships and the Archaelogical Museum housed in a former monastery. Behind a 17th century mosque, rests the Kastelli hilltop, where a Minoan settlement was being excavated. Just outside the city walls, we discovered a small beach which afforded easy swimming. Our most memorable lunch at Manos, was not because of the fried calamari and grilled octopus alongside a platter of French fries enough for six, but our companions - eight octopuses - fresh and dripping from their morning swim and hung on a rack to dry behind our table. If we were tempted to ask for the check, the waiter served us a plate of baklava and a small pitcher of raki on the house. |
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Out of town excursions are highly recommended. A road trip into the White Mountains with a jaw-dropping glimpse of the Samaria Gorge, led us to the village of Theresa and the resident War Museum for the National Resistance (1941-1945). Blow up photographs of the fighters was a fitting memorial to their martyrdom. Weapons, uniforms, and even an old printing press were on hand for our perusal. The Fiat served us well - a precipitous climb, with kri-kri (wild goats) scampering up the sheer rocks at every turn. Easy bus trips to Rethymno, a Greco-Roman town midway between Hiraklion and Chania, provides a quieter alternative to Chania’s clamor. Its Archaeological Museum sports an impressive collection of painted Minoan caskets but no picture-taking. Another bus stops at Elafonise, a two-hour journey that ends at one of the world’s most beautiful beaches. Its pink sands are comprised of a makeup of tiny shells, coral and calcium carbonate, the hue deepening with the motion of the waves. Forty-three kilometers west of Chania, the Kissamos ferry provides access to the Balos lagoon and a view worthy of a South Pacific idyll. |
Our last night we found a quiet corner to eat and drink, accepting departure as a part of any trip. To paraphrase Durrell, “Life like art is an open secret.”
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CRETE Places of Interest Blue Star Ferries 1-7 Lysikratous & Evripidou Streets Kallithea, Athens, GR +30 210 8919800 Kronos Hotel Sofokli Venizelou & Monis Agkarathou 2 Heraklion GR 71202 +30 281 028 2240 Heraklion Archaeological Museum Xanthoudidou 2 Heraklion, GR 71202 +03 2810 2279099 The Palace of Knossos (5 miles south of Heraklion) Heraklion, GR +30 2810 231940 Via Pastarella Kantanoleon 2 Parko Theotokopoulou Heraklion, GR 71202 +30 2810 280505 |
CRETE Places of Interest Phaistos Palace (40 miles SW of Heraklion) Crete, GR +30 28920 42315 Hotel Sofia Matala, GR 70200 +30 2892 045134 Two Brothers Restaurant Matala, GR 70200 +30 697 8014584 Petra & Votsolo Taverna Matala, GR 70200 +30 2892 045361 Ifigenia Luxury Suites Antoniou Gampa 23 Chania, GR 73131 +30 2821 094357 |
CRETE Places of Interest Karnagio Resto Katechaki Square 8 Chania, GR +30 2821 044345 Taverna Manos Akti Papanikolis Chania, GR 73131 Maritime Museum Akti Kountourioti Chania, GR 73136 +30 2821 091875 Historical Museum Lisimachou Kalokairinou 7 Chania, GR 73136 +30 2810 283219 Archaelogical Museum Cheimarris Rethymno, GR +30 28310 54668 |
Sandra Bertrand is an award-winning playwright and painter. She is Chief Art Critic for Highbrow Magazine and a contributing writer for GALO Magazine. Sandra was Sanctuary's Featured Artist in May 2019 and is also Sanctuary's columnist for "Travel Journal."
