Crete

Pity about those utility poles!

Day 13 - Crete

I was up early, barefoot on the terrace as the Libyan Sea caught the fiery rays of the rising sun. I sipped my tea feeling proud of myself for choosing this little mountain perch as home for the duration.

Mission one: Provisions. After a quick rinse, I drove five minutes down to Plakias for supplies. My first stop was the butcher—who greeted me with the flicker of recognition from my last visit in May. I did want fish but there’s no fishmonger close by that’s open—ever! I picked up fresh Apaki, ( local smoked pork) chicken, ground beef, pork souvlaki, and fresh local eggs that come in plastic produce bags and swing gently as you carry them, each yolk a bright orange, like secret chicken treasure. 

Next was the bakery, where I secured a luscious slab of milk pie (galaktoboureko) dense and rich enough to make me smile inanely. Then the supermarket for all my bits: tomatoes, garlic, cucumbers, lettuce, onion, huge hunks of feta and Graviera cheese, wine, milk, yoghurt and essentials like salt and pepper, souvlaki spice, thyme, mint—because the pantry back at the apartment held only oregano and olive oil.

Greek Yoghurt - A Must

Breakfast was thick yoghurt drizzled with honey and feta served with Cretan rusks, alongside a briki of strong local coffee. Fueled and fearless, I set off for Schinaria Beach.

The drive there always tests my nerves—but this time, I was alone. No wife next to me to lighten the mood or gasp at the scenery. Just me, white-knuckled behind the wheel, creeping along a serpentine cliff road barely wide enough for two piccola Fiats to squeeze past each other. The turns were 90-degree hairpins with no barriers, just a sheer drop into the void that made my stomach churn. 

Every few bends, rusty goat skulls stared out from barbed wire fencing, like a macabre roadside shrine. Whether they were meant to ward off evil or just leftovers from some grim rural ritual, they added impending doom to the journey. The road sliced through russet cliffs that loomed above and below, jagged and sunburned, while far beneath, over the edge, silent olive groves raked the valley floor. 

I arrived feeling relief after the tense drive. I expected solitude, but to my surprise, a few figures dotted the sand. I claimed a sunbed and watched as nobody dared enter the sea. My heart began to sink—was it too cold to swim? I’d planned on snorkeling, floating, reading and sleeping my day away. My suspicion was confirmed when a tubby man struggled his way into a full wetsuit like a seal suiting up for battle.

But then a pair of older French dears in bikinis, sashayed into the water with joyful squeals. One by one, more bodies followed, wetsuit-free.

Emboldened, I grabbed my snorkel and strolled past Mr. Neoprene and dove into the glorious Libyan Sea. The chill slapped me with joy. I swam toward the secret hooked cove—a tiny, hidden beach where the cliffs lean in close and the world disappears. Once there I perched on a rock like a Greek merman, proud and puffed up with self-satisfaction. 

I always think of Jean-Marc Barr in The Big Blue when I’m snorkeling—it’s just me and the sea, dissolving into one another. I know it sounds a bit Bodhi from Point Break—“ride the wave, become the wave” and all that—but it’s true. I have a special relationship with the sea. It’s where I feel calmest, happiest, most completely myself.

There’s a quiet intimacy in it. A rhythm. Watching the waves from beneath, studying coral and all types of sea creatures, suspended in this endless blue with pockets of warm and cold. Every breath is measured, deliberate—amplified in my head. I’m weightless, moving without thought, just instinct and wonder. I push myself to stay a little longer, dive a little deeper, chase the light as it refracts through the water.

It’s the only thing I’ve ever known that makes me feel utterly at peace. Like I belong there.

But then I began to worry—I hadn’t swum this far in a while! Maybe fifteen minutes back through open water? I figured I’d better leave now before my heroic narrative turned tragic. I made it back just fine and spent the next hour floating over the sandbar, sun on my face, until the distant clatter of hooves signaled the daily goat procession down the cliffs.

Schinaria Heaven

By 4pm I was famished. Back home, I threw together a platter of olives, pistachios, bread, and a glass of wine to tide me over while prepping dinner. That night’s feast: Greek salad and a roasted chicken thigh seasoned with oregano and mint served over buttery basmati rice.

As the sun dipped and painted the sky with streaks of scarlet, I ducked inside for dessert: a hearty portion of galaktoboureko, a cup of tea, and my current Korean TV obsession. 

By 8pm the mountains were silent. With nothing but stars above and the occasional shriek from Anna, whose family lived next door, I drifted into a deep, contented sleep.