Samaria Gorge

The highlight of a short summer family holiday in Crete is a 16km hike down the Samaria Gorge, from the mountain plateau at 1,200m to Agia Roumeli, a small fishing village on the Mediterranean Sea. We are down to five, as Nathan passed on the early rise, and Cal was unable to join us this trip.

Despite the scorching weather and our early arrival, there’s a long queue at the National Park entrance. The initial zigzag descent creates mixed feelings — enjoyment at the majestic views and frustration with the long crocodile of walkers, preventing you walking at your own pace. I imagine May or September is the best time for this walk, outside of the main tourist season. For now we are still constrained by school holidays — only two more years to go!

Samaria village, abandoned by the last remaining inhabitants in 1962, marks the half way point. Donkeys rest in the shade, forming the emergency vehicles. There are several freshwater springs along the trail, and we are grateful to cool off in the heat.

The hike really comes alive on leaving the village. The hikers are more spread out, and we have overtaken the slowest, so it feels like walking alone in some sections. The scenery is breathtaking, as the gorge narrows between towering cliffs, with the path crossing several rough wooden bridges.

During the WWII occupation of Crete by the Germans, the gorge hid partisans and allied undercover units.

The “Gate” represents the narrowest section of the gorge, being only 4m wide and 300m tall.

Arriving at the fishing village, we decamp to the nearest taverna.

“Two large beers please.”

“Very large?”

“Yes!”

Rhys and I receive huge two-pint glasses of ice-cold beer. It doesn’t take long before I doze off, much to the amusement of the family, who take a rather unkind photo, suitably censored.

We take the ferry to Sougia and catch the coach back to our villa. Our thespian guide is wonderful, entertaining us on the bus with a couple of Monty Python songs on his ukulele. He is also something of a philosopher, explaining, among many other emotions invoked by the mountains, the difference between a tourist, who ticks off items like choosing from a menu, and a traveller, who asks questions, who hungers to know, like a lover.

We are travellers. The last to be dropped off, far beyond the bright city lights and sparkling hotels, where we illuminate our way home using our phones, walking past the taverna where we ate last night, relaxing under the stars with the local families. Time slows.