My first impression was that the room smelled of fruit.
Then through an opposite doorway we saw the blueness of a perfect sky and a sweeping panoramic vision of surrounding mountains. I thought I was dreaming. I stepped forward onto a balcony that led, by a set of spiralling metal steps, down to what appeared to be an allotment or orchard. Looking to my extreme left the mountains ranged high above us making the village look fragile and tiny; they continued round above and in front of us behind a wide and verdant pasture dotted with olive groves, one or two chapels and an ancient dusty road that sliced it in half from west to east. The road drew my gaze to a break in the range through which could be seen the ancient, shining Sea of Crete and more mountains behind. From the road, the range climbed up on the right to the skyline then round and high behind.
Little Kritsa lay sprinkled on what could be taken for the slopes of a crater almost completely encircled by mountains.
When Maria left us to our senses, I sat on the balcony and fell into a deep and gentle stillness.
It was as if I had never known contentment before.

During our stay I tried to keep some notes and here are a few you might like to read:

Thursday. We spent all day wandering in Kritsa surrounded with flowers, and old ladies in widow's weeds, some bent double - all smiling - out and about through shadows, old houses and passageways. People are village kind and village gentle. The village sells handicrafts; a little twee maybe but our kind of twee. Linen for the bed and the furniture, leather goods, pottery, carved olive wood, beautiful glassware, hand-made crafts that stir the mind as well as the soul. Goat and church bells chime. Dogs bark. Olive groves profuse. Vines grow everywhere with honeysuckle, bougainvillaea and purple plastic chairs. Voices echoing shadowy pasts and dusty passageways. Puppy dogs, donkeys and children. There are balconies too, smiles and nods, food smells and steps and slopes leading up and away.

Friday I woke with a mouth full of sand and our water bottle was empty.
I took it outside intending to take a chance on one of the village taps because I had a vague memory of being told that Cretan mountain water was safe. There was a well tap across the road near a bench outside a little chapel. A man and a small little boy sat there. The man was clipping his son's finger nails and the boy was having fun writhing and complaining. I put the bottle under the tap and turned it on. Nothing happened. I turned it off and tried again. Still nothing.
'Is it finished?' I asked the man.
'No. You have to wait a few minutes and it will come through.'
I turned it on with the bottle underneath and waited watching the father having fun with his son, clipping away at the nails and sometimes clipping his own whilst holding the boy's fingers ready. Suddenly there was a gurgle and then another and then ice-cold water spurted from the tap into the bottle and all over my hand. As soon as the bottle was full, I turned to the man,
'Well, you were right. You know everything.' The boy looked proudly at his Dad, the man laughed and shrugged, 'I am a father.' 'Thanks again.'
'You're welcome.'
I asked Maria if she has anything with which we can heat some water for coffee in our room. She apologises. She hasn't anything.
I lay down on my bed after a hearty lunch and the pillow's like wood but the winds of Crete waft through the window, fanning the hairs on my stomach, my chest and blow across my mind.

Saturday. One of our routines has been to frequent the very old kafeneion, Sareidakis. It sits in a higgledy-piggledy of little houses and shops at the meeting point of two sloping lanes. In the apex is an ancient Platanos tree and old Mr. Sareidakis is not at all pleased that the new restaurant that has opened next door has been called 'O Plantanos'. They needn't worry. Its proprietor seems tense and never smiles. The old couple make pleasant hosts, as unbusinesslike as you could wish, and always make a great fuss when we approach. I've taken to kissing Mrs. Sareidakis on each cheek and she giggles when I call her 'Mamma'.

   


   Monday. Our last full day in Kritsa. It's about ten and already hot. We got up around six to watch the dawn so must have been out and about since before seven to check on bus times for tomorrow. Our check-in time at Iraklio is 11:10. If there is a bus 08:30, as we expect, we will be at the airport for 10:00. Our plane leaves at 13:10.