This is for family and friends but also for anyone else interested in occasional updates on my travels around Crete in June and July 2022. I’ll be walking in the White Mountains, along the South West coast and visiting various places around the island.

I know it’s a bit “Hey, look at me!” but a few people suggested it, so I thought I’d give it a go. If nothing else it’s easier than sending lots of WhatsApp messages and postcards. I won’t be posting every day – on some there’ll be nothing, others too much and it could even peter out or, God forbid, get boring. So I suppose these are my T&Cs. My only commitment is that I won’t post on ouzo.

Buses like the one above were how you got around when I first visited Crete in 1974. Passengers often included chickens, occasionally goats and there was always a cacophony of chatter and full volume Cretan music crackling out from the driver’s radio. Most had an illuminated holy shrine above the driver who, drooping fag in mouth, would swing the bus round long drop, hairpin bends on gravel roads, while black-clad widows carried on chatting about the price of tomatoes. Or that’s how it seemed.

1974 was also the last year of the Greek junta: the Regime of the Colonels. They were a nasty bunch of ultra-right wing dictators who’d ruled since April 67. Back then, in the same month that I turned twelve, tanks rumbled around the streets of Athens as the army took control of strategic areas, including the Greek Parliament in Athens. That’s them below in their tanks.

Politicians and civilians were arrested, freedom of speech ended and censorship of the media began. During their seven year rule the colonels imprisoned, tortured and prompted the exile of countless political opponents, some of whom scarpered to Crete. They were finally ousted when Turkey invaded Cypress, which lead eventually to the junta’s collapse and a civilian government.

In 74 I was a wide-eyed teenager living the dream, holed up on the South West coast of Crete on a remote, jaw-droppingly beautiful beach with a bunch of fellow travellers. That’s what we liked to call ourselves but we were tourists too. We just stayed a bit longer.

The first we knew of the junta’s demise was when we headed to the nearest village for supplies. As we drank local wine that made you grimace (we persevered), we heard news that Turkey had invaded Cyprus and watched bewildered Turkish sponge fishermen being hauled ashore and taken away by the village policeman, their boats commandeered.

A group of French tourists on a trip from Chania in the north told us that there were no boats to the mainland, or flights in or out of Greece. They were frantic with worry, yelling for information at anyone who’d listen, so we all went back to the beach, lit a fire, partied and marvelled at the fact that there seemed to be more stars than sky.

The next time we surfaced all the villagers were partying too because seven years of military rule had ended. The junta was finally over.

Fast forward forty-eight years (gulp) and here I am again, or will be soon. Greece has had its ups and downs since, not least its sovereign debt crisis, hot on the heels of the 2007-8 crash. It plunged many Greeks into abject poverty, about which Germany (think bail outs) came in for a lot of flak: the responsible grown up v the debt-laden, profligate child. But, as I read somewhere, irresponsible borrowers can’t exist without irresponsible lenders. I don’t know enough about it all to know who’s right.

Tourism has taken its toll too. Loutro (pics below), where I stayed for a while that summer, has since had its old heart transplanted. The sprinkling of fishermen’s homes, nestling there quietly for generations, have been smothered by row upon row of balconied hotels, all peering out to the Libyan sea. Something was lost as mass tourism and its money poured in, although the majestic old palm trees still sway when ‘the wind is in from Africa’, of which Joni Mitchell sang in 1971. Name that tune!

The first creased picture below, which I took on my Kodak Brownie, shows Loutro in 74. You can only get there by boat or on foot, which saved it for a while from the ravages of tourism. It’s still the only way to get there but tourism has caught up, as the second picture shows.

The old fishing and shepherding families who served up omelettes and coffees to the travellers in the 60s and 70s, and rented out simple rooms for next to nothing, probably wondered what hit them. But I bet all their grandkids, while respecting their forbears and culture, and no doubt still observing some age old traditions, don’t miss the good old days too much. They’d rather have an iPhone.

More later ….

My intro’s longer than originally intended. Rather than me leaping straight in with ‘hey, look where I am today!’, I thought I’d provide some background and context to why I’m fond of Crete and heading back again, as I have several times since my first trip. It’s only a snapshot.

I’ll post some more in early June when I’ll be in and around Crete’s second city, Chania,

Bye for now.

Hey, look at me!