Luxury and lethargy in a land of legend

Anyone who knew me at age 10 would be astonished that it has taken me nearly five additional decades to get to the Greek islands. I was obsessed with Greek myths as a child. 

At the age of eight I had stumbled across my mother’s high school textbook: Myths and their Meaning. This worthy, old-fashioned little book should have been well above my reading level. But the magic of the stories triumphed over the lack of pictures and the academic writing. I was hooked. I gobbled up stories of gods and heroes, their adventures, temples and cities, until I knew the details the way other children knew the names of dinosaurs or kept track of Barbie’s friends and accessories.

Children without siblings often have imaginary friends; that mine were demigods, fauns, nymphs and priestesses of Athena was no doubt decidedly odd. Had my older self not been distracted by journalism and English history, I like to think I might have come up with Percy Jackson and the Olympians before Rick Riordan. But life intervened, other passions entered my life and other holiday destinations clamoured for attention.

This year, The Fates intervened. Not the traditional Clotho, Lachesis and Atropos, but the British government, the Greek tourism board and employers who’d had us both at Sisyphean tasks throughout the pandemic. Finding a holiday destination that was open to British travellers and met our dual needs of complete relaxation and a memorable 10th wedding anniversary trip was fiendishly difficult. Six other options had failed to clear the Olympic hurdles. So here we were.

“Here” is a magical bit of Mirabello Bay in northeastern Crete. Sheltered by the islands of Kalydon and Spinalonga, this long, narrow inlet is framed by steep hills; like a fjord that’s drifted into hot and sunny seas. These hefty breakwaters mean this bit of the bay is calm and ideal for swimming, and the view in every direction is spectacular. And I mean jaw-dropping, heart-stoppingly spectacular. Glittering cobalt and turquoise waters. Majestic mountains. The romantic ruins on Spinalonga. Luxury villas built into the hillside with more than a touch of Bond villain lair about them. All shifting constantly as the light changes throughout the day. 

This is all much easier to appreciate, of course, from the welcoming luxury of  a five-star resort. Our home for 13 nights is Domes of Elounda, an Autograph Collection (Marriott) property that’s actually … despite its name … in easy walking distance of Plaka. I’ll do a full review in a later entry; this story is simply meant to set the scene.

The resort climbs up two sides of a steep hill beside the bay, sprawling through several sections with a variety of pools, restaurants and styles. Our room is at the crest of the hill, in one of three long, low lines of stone buildings that channel the simple square huts along Plaka’s harbour, but descend in a straight architectural line from the bold yet simple squares and rectangles of ancient Minoan ruins. Built from the local stone, they merge organically into a landscape of rust, ochre, gray and olive. 

Their interior, however, is a very long way from the simple structures they mimic. Ours has a private patio and plunge pool, perfect for the initial rest and recovery mission of this trip. In our first few days, we barely had the energy to leave the room. And we didn’t need to. Sleep. Stagger to private pool. Turn face to sun. Drink in landscape. Heal me,  Gaia and Helios.

The silence is extraordinary. Though the resort was full in our first week and at more than 80% for our second, the design and the hilltop position whisks sound away. At least human sounds. The wind is a different matter.

Our first few days were hot and still. Not a cloud drifted over the sky. Nothing moved. The heat, when not enjoying the benefits of cool water, was intense. The bay was a placid lake. How did Odysseus spend 10 years blundering through this? Even becalmed and rowing couldn’t have been that tough. And then the winds started.

Our fourth day was cloudy day with a bit of rain, a much appreciated pause from the sun. The wind swept the heat haze away, gave us even better views and stayed with us even when the sun returned. I’ve never experienced anything quite like it. It will be still, and then a gust will hit you with force, then disappear as fast as it came. On the beach, the breeze is mostly gentle. But gusts will dive into the bay, driving geysers of spray before them and whitecaps below. For the first time I understood why the horse was associated with Poseidon. These strange effects on the bay were positively equine. 

On our hilltop, the gusts are fierce. And puzzling. I’m used to ripping gales on Dartmoor or Chicago’s skin-shredding winds. I associate wind with bad weather. Here, the sun is shining and the sea is turquoise. The wind seems contrary. Odysseus, forgive me for underestimating you. There’s no way I’d want to sail in this. Most interestingly, the Cretan winds make different noises. Some howl mournfully. Some sing in a comforting bass. They have personality. No wonder the Greeks had four different and distinct gods of the wind. (I’m hoping for a little more Zephyros and a bit less Boreas in our final days.)

I’m not sure the rest of Crete is so magical or mythic. An excursion to Knossos (which I’ll write about next) took us through beach resorts on the north coast between Malia and Heraklion to pick up fellow travellers, and confirmed that our little it of the island is quite exceptional. 

The destination might have been accidental, but the results are just what Aesculpius ordered. My 10-year-old self isn’t surprised. If Crete was good enough to host the birth and early years of Zeus himself, why wouldn’t it offer a healing, memorable holiday. Pass me the cornucopia along with a bit more sun cream, please.