I’m done with moving around for a while. It’s hot and getting hotter, my rucksack’s heavy, and I’ve an urge to hang up my hat. Loutro was the final straw.

I’ve been dipping in and out of places along the south west coast, and ended up in Loutro. I arrived there, expectations dimmed, having seen it years ago and since, but was prepared to take it for what it is than once was.

It has so many hotels now that it looks a bit like it’s in the wrong sized clothes, but it was unexpectedly and pleasantly quiet the afternoon I arrived, so I booked a room and returned the following day from Sfakia with my stuff.

I went for a short stroll up to the ruins of an old fort, remembering a wild party there with a bonfire and guitars. We’d woken in full sun the next morning, after a night spent on its baked earth floor. Word got out in mosquito circles that there was more than goat’s blood on the menu that night and all the locals flew in. The red ants were already there.

Marika’s young grandson, probably now in his late 60s, who helped manage Loutro’s only taverna in the 70s, now nowhere to be seen, endured the opprobrium of the women in black for having been at the party and for staying the night. The brash American woman who’d invited him up was shamed out of town.

He’d watched her leave as she waved from the stern of the Santa Maria, the old rust bucket that used to ply the south coast, his smile suppressed as the widows watched on. I don’t think he lived to regret what he’d lost that night and the rest of us were let off lightly. There were knowing smiles and occasional laughter from the widows as they cooked up eggs for us that morning, and more coffees than usual.

Now every space around the fort and elsewhere is bedecked with sun loungers and umbrellas, with carefully placed foliage cascading down over the rocks to landscaped areas below. A sun-seeker’s idyll. It looks pretty plush if you’re into that sort of thing.

I’d been wondering why there were so few sun seekers. The penny dropped when I heard a distant rumble and, before long, the giant car ferry was opening its mighty steel jaws and let out a swarm of new people, including some hobbling gorge walkers. And later water taxis poured in, their fares returning from all the beautiful beaches that you can’t get to otherwise, unless you walk: Sweetwater, Marmara and Finix. Suddenly the place was full and buzzing.

Then I went to my room. The aircon had the strength of a weak sigh and the fridge had a warm inside. It seemed unwell too, shuddering noisily as if on its last legs. The wifi had already passed and the towels were a cardboard and sandpaper hybrid.

The manager, an enormous elderly man who appeared to spend his life eating and counting money behind a desk, showed little sympathy. None in fact. All he could muster was a disinterested shrug. I’ll spare the details of what then transpired but I left.

I hate the tripadvisor website, which seems to pop up on search engine pages like a virus if you ask anything travel-related, but I used it for the second time ever to tell the world what I think of the Madderes (< link). Don’t ever stay there. It’s only marginally more comfortable than the ruined fort.

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In the last few weeks I’ve tried to visit as many interesting places as possible and done lots of walking. Right now I’m fed up with hand washing clothes in washbasins, packing and unpacking, perusing bus and boat timetables working out if I can do a particular walk without having to move on etc., and so I’ve decided to rest up in Rethymno and be lazy. It’s a city I love and it never fails to throw up new delights.

Last night I stayed in a lovely old hotel, Rethymno House, in the centre of the picture at the top of this post. It’s in the old town down an alley covered in graffiti that might put some off, but it’s a beautiful place. Nikos, who runs it, grew up in it when it was a house, speaks excellent English and has a wealth of knowledge about local culture and the arts etc. I’m always wary of taking advice from hoteliers about the best places to eat because who knows why they recommend somewhere, but I did from Nikos because he described a place with such passion.

It was worth it. Stella’s kitchen, possibly the smallest restaurant I’ve ever visited, is a gem of a place in the old town. Stella cooks everything, running the place with her daughter and friends. That’s Stella below. She loves her job and it shows. She serves up the most delicious Cretan food you could wish for, far better than anywhere else in Rethymno, and so cheap.

Stella pulls you into the kitchen to show you what’s on the go – no rules – you can have bits of whatever takes your fancy and taste it first. She comes out and chats to everyone with a genuine interest. She loved it when the hippies came, she told me, and knew many of the places I’d just been to. She’s an absolute joy of a woman. If you’re ever here it’s a must: Stella’s Kitchen, Souliu 55, Old Town, Rethymno.

So now I’m back in Rethymno and I’m made up. I’ve got a washing machine and no particular place to go (name that tune no 2).

👆By popular request, an example from Stella’s kitchen. Clockwise: green beans, courgettes, stuffed courgette leaves, horta (wild greens), potato, pasta and peppers, giant beans in tomato sauce.

Served with half a lemon, a basket of bread and an icy pint of Mythos. When you’ve eaten, a bowl of cherries and a raki appear on your table no matter what you ordered. All this cost me €11, about £9.40 (06.07.22)