What's a Greek Urn?

And of course, the answer is "not very much at all; their economy's on the verge of collapse". Feisty little Crete, however, will be entitled to hold a referendum in 2012, a hundred years after union with Greece, to see whether or not the Cretans still wish to remain part of the Hellenic nation. If I were them I'd take my chances and go it alone.

Weaving towards check-in at 6.30am on a grey Gatwick morning, stuck behind a sextet of drunken English male goons of the type we export so well ("oy, Gav! Where you been? Taking it up the arse from that poof in the blazer? Ah HAH HAH HAH HAH") and selfishly praying that they would peel off to the left-hand gate and the Barcelona flight (they did), I was ready as ever to get away to more gentle climes where I could deny my nationality and vanish into the anonymity of the all-purpose tourist identity (though I was very pleased that every time I did get approached in Crete by someone hoping to sell me something, they assumed I was French. I've been working on that one for years. Hah.).

We headed first for Rethymnon (which gets easier to say the longer you're there) and had a fantastic four days; we stayed here -  a perfect, relaxed location for exploring the medieval heart of this rather refined, easy little town with its winding sprawl of sturdy fourteenth-century houses and its sweeping Venetian harbour. By all accounts, neighbouring Heraklion has taken the biggest hit in terms of ugly 70s overdevelopment and massive block hotels - Rethymnon has none, and so attracts quieter, smaller groups of visitors looking beyond the need for cheap cocktails and boil-your-own-body beaches. It managed to be busy but quiet at the same time, and we never saw a single drunk or heard a raised voice apart from the altercation in the taverna opposite our hotel, when the owner sacked the chef in what sounded like a single, unbroken sentence of unbridled fury that went on without audible  intake of breath for at least thirty minutes. The following evening we had a reprise, when the cook's wife turned up to make her feelings known in a similar but even louder fashion. The Police were eventually called, and the broken glass was cleared away resignedly the same night. I guess losing a job in any part of Greece at the moment is particularly bad news that would provoke strong reactions in anyone.

From Rethymnon we were able to drive to the incredible ruins of Minoan Knossos ( although Heraklion is much nearer we didn't fancy staying there), and to get used to Cretan driving, which seems to be based around a video game in which you get to your destination using as much weaving, at speed, in and out of the traffic as you possibly can - and don't go cheating by using your indicators, now. The roadsides are dotted with permanent memorial shrines, photos of dead drivers gradually fading in the strong sun, and the corpses of numerous cats and dogs. If you've not got much of a stomach for flattened domestic pets, keep eyes-front while on the road.

Knossos was wonderful, helped along even more by the fact that we hung back until after 3.30 pm to go in, by which time all the coaches and their occupants had gone and there were only a few dozen other visitors left in the whole massive complex. We felt very mean and uncomfortable declining the rather desperately-toned offer of one of the English-speaking guides to give us a tour ("it is only five Euros, sir! Not very expensive at all, you see?"), but I always prefer to take these places at my own pace as I'll usually get captivated by something obscure and want to spend half an hour staring at it. In this case it was the overgrown section of the oldest paved road in Europe (come ON!!), which runs from the back of the site back into, it seems, antiquity, and which none of the other visitors seemed at all bothered about. Just me, then. Ah well.

From Rethymnon we headed along the coast to Chania via a detour to Vamos, as you can't not grab a bit of lunch in a town named after a Pixies song. Vamos turned out to be full of British ex-pats, most of whom seemed to be braying and guffawing and squeezing the thighs of each other's wives ("...isn't it, SHEILA (squeeze, smirk)?") and who reminded me handily of the perils of emigration. It was good to be back in Chania and to return to the hotel we'd stayed in last year when L was still recovering from his accident and was very low in himself. This time felt happily different.

Chania has been there forever. Minoans, Romans, Byzantines, Venetians, Turks - they've all passed through and left their mark, and the atmosphere is appropriately steeped in history, everywhere you look. It nestles behind it's Venetian harbour in the stunning Soudia bay, which saw a lot of action in WW2. Allied forces, mainly British and Kiwi, took their best shot at defending the island against the incoming German occupation, 'best shot' being quite literal as many of the German troops were picked off like flies as they parachuted in. A doctor I used to work with, now long-retired, mentioned shyly to me once that he had 'seen some action in Crete' as part of the SBS (Special Boat Service - aquatic equivalent of SAS). I didn't realise until reading Antony Beevor's history of the Battle for Crete that his role had been pivotal, and incredibly dangerous, stealing out to German ships at night in tiny dinghies, to attach explosives to them. He lived to tell the tale, but the clusters of orderly war cemeteries bear witness to the ones who weren't so lucky.

We found site after site of archaeological excavations, often after a tyre-threating roll down some rocky pitted track or other, and usually had them to ourselves, clambering over 3,000 year old structures and finding the ground strewn with thousands of pottery fragments that are gradually working their way free as the dry ground gets worn back by wind or sea (did I bring one home with me? I'm not saying.).

The beautiful beaches on the South coast were murmuring with sparse September crowds (though I'm told they're rammed in July and August), and at Elafonnisi we waded out through a knee-deep channel of turquoise water to the tiny islet where you can lie on a sand dune and pretend to be in a Bounty advert. Our last full day involved a sweltering hike over a very narrow, VERY high track cut into the cliffs and rocks along the coast to tiny, isolated Loutro - you either do the hike or take a boat; it's inaccessible by road, though that didn't stop the Romans building a fort there. As we marched along the halfway point of Sweetwater Bay, where fresh water springs bubble up though the sand on the beach, we noted the varieties of pubic topiary on display from the Northern European naturists who like to get their all-over tans there, and by the time we got to Loutro how we envied them their lack of clothes, as we were both half mad with dehydration and had spittle like gelatine. I knocked back 1.5 litres of water in three minutes and spent the rest of the afternoon worrying that I'd drunk it too fast and would drown my brain, like those kids who died after taking Ecstasy. I didn't though. Phew.

Anyway, it was a great break and the few extra days of unseasonable heat we had back here last week made it a little easier to return. Now, though, it's definitely autumn and though my legs are still brown, they're hidden under 30 Denier tights. By the time they see sunlight again, they'll be white as milk and probably horribly hairy. What a terrible thought. I'll leave you with it.


©Ishouldbeworking 2011