Day 14 – Crete

I woke up in the dead of night with a throbbing ankle—puffy, sore, and mysterious. No memory of a stumble or a twist—just this devilish pulsing deep in the bone.

Then I remembered.

A couple of months earlier, I’d turned it on some evil cobblestones by a canal in Manchester.

I’d had lunch with my wife and her team in the Ancoats area, but she had to return to the office for a few hours, leaving me with time to kill. One of her colleagues suggested a lovely walk along the canal and vaguely pointed me in the right direction.

I headed off and soon found myself in a dystopian paradise of tiny back streets lined with seedy, abandoned buildings—scattered with syringes and condoms.

This couldn’t be right.

I kept walking, half-expecting Shaun Ryder and Bez to stumble out of the shadows in a Happy Mondays haze, when I glimpsed water through a broken window. Relieved, I marched toward the canal and headed down to the banks at a lock.

But once I got there, it became clear that this part of the canal was more mud and silt than water. The cobblestones were jagged and uneven, jutting out at ankle-breaking angles. I was wearing Chelsea boots—not exactly designed for navigating northern canal strolls—so I started chanting the mantra: Don’t twist your fu**ing ankle, Rodge!

I was fine…until the path abruptly ended with no way forward.

When I turned back, a group of lank-haired dodgy kids with dirty fingernails had appeared and parked themselves on a bench, sparking up some pungent local ganja. I walked by slowly, focusing on the treacherous ground beneath me until I was safely past the puffer’s paradise.

Eager to escape the skeezy Mank canal, I picked up the pace—and boom! My heel locked in a wanky cobbled gap and I rolled my ankle completely flat. Blood rushed to my head. Pain screamed inside my boot. I cursed my wife’s colleague for being so damn friendly and helpful.

I tried to brave it out, but ended up hobbling to a bus stop fifteen minutes away. From there, I made it to the John Rylands Library, where I was meeting my wife for a mini-tour of its neo-Gothic splendour before an early dinner.

All the way through the tour—and on the journey home—my ankle throbbed viciously.

Two months later, the vicious throbbing was back—in Crete.

With no ice packs or ankle support on hand at 3am, I became MacGyver. I hopped to the fridge and grabbed the welcome beer Anna had left me (cheers, Anna!), popped it into the freezer, waited an hour, pulled on a sock, slid the icy Mythos beer into it, propped it up on a pillow and lay back.

The relief was instant.

Cold beer: not just for drinking anymore.

At the more civilised hour of 8am I repeated the process. Twice. And managed to walk around pretty well.

Breakfast was a rustic scramble of *apaki* and eggs, which was decent, but I found myself longing for yesterday’s simpler yogurt and rusks.

Later, I drove to Schinaria Beach. The drive wasn’t as nerve-racking as yesterday’s—though the wind had picked up—and the views were still stunning. At the far eastern edge of the beach, I noticed a quiet gathering of around fifty people near the rocks, dressed in flowing cottons of black and white. Soft music floated on the breeze while a bearded man with wild, salt-and-pepper hair spoke into a microphone with a kind of rare, weighty calm.

It felt like a memorial—families and friends, arms wrapped around each other, looking out to sea. Children fidgeting. Grown-ups wiping away tears for a lost friend.

I swam by, watching—moved by the quiet ceremony in such a remote, beautiful spot.

Back on the beach, I was in a spiritual zone when Sunbed Man—who’s been around since my first visit in 2011 and always looks like his face could use a good iron—appeared with his usual gruff charm.

“Tomorrow, very windy. No come,” he warned, squinting at the sea. “Dangerous! Drive, swim—no good. Understand!”

Message received. When a Cretan tells you not to drive the cliffs, you listen.

On my way back, the wind was already picking up, so I bailed on the drive to Plakias and stopped at the local mini market for carrots—thinking I’d make a Bolognese. But I couldn’t find any.

“Of course we have carrots!”

Said the devastatingly handsome shop owner, with Greek flair, guiding me to a spot I swear I’d checked five times already. I made a joke about needing the carrots because I couldn’t see the carrots, and he laughed.

I then asked for Ziploc bags—because everything here (olives, herbs, seasoning, rogue peppercorns) comes in tiny, mischievous sachets that explode the moment you open them.

“Of course we do!”

He said again, like I’d insulted his family. Downstairs I went, victorious. Back up, I asked about biscuits.

“Biscuits that someone, like you, from Crete would eat?” He lit up.
“With coffee, we have this one. Very traditional Greek breakfast biscuit!”

He handed me a packet like he was passing down a family heirloom.

Back home, I bailed on the Bolognese and made a delicious plate using leftovers: rice, salad, a swipe of tzatziki, and two sizzling pork souvlaki sticks. It was perfect—in size, taste, and effort.

But the real magic came after. I sat out on the veranda, glass of wine in hand, and watched the sun melt into the Libyan Sea.

I thought about Sunbed Man and his life. I’ve known him for fourteen years, and I often wonder if he has a wife and family or someone to look after him when he gets home. Whether he has a share in the sunbed enterprise or if it’s just his day job—and one he loves. I never ask these questions because I guess I don’t want to know.

I want him to keep his mystique.

He charges 8 euros a day for two adjoining beds with an umbrella. Cash only. Never a grumble or a strop. He arrives around 9am every morning, tidies the sunbeds, and waits. He watches people of all shapes and sizes arrive. Studies the tones and hues of the sea and sky. He listens to the bells and hooves of goats and the cries of young kids when they’re stranded on the cliffs. At the end of each day, he walks the beach, prepping for the morning, and gives advice on the coming weather.

There’s a calm contentment in him that I find admirable. Something I often wish I could find in myself.

I guess that’s why this is my favourite place in the world—and why someone would want to have their memorial service here.

Crete, Cold Beer and Cobblestones

Tzatziki

Crete