The Samaria Gorge trail starts high in the hills, and our bus passed tiny villages clinging to the sides of cliffs on our way up to the trailhead. It pitched along at high speed and I flicked the curtain aside to see what the landscape was like. On one side a steep rocky mountain with boulders supported far too many others precariously. On the other side of the narrow road was an equally steep plunge down to rocks and rivers. I looked up to see a village impossibly high above us and then we would pass it and I’d see it again way below as we curved around in our climb. We’d swerve to avoid a boulder on the road, bounced through potholes the size of small cars and swung around hairpin turns past collections of little shrines, testament to the lack of guardrails. I was mesmerized by the landscape, and both petrified and thrilled to think how easily I might become a permanent part of it.The inhospitable Gorge saved Crete in the Second World War. German soldiers couldn’t get through it without being picked out by Greek gunners hiding along its narrow length. It’s deep too, cliffs rising straight up, the gorge forming a thin narrow scar across the lower half of the island. By the time we'd reached the start point, we were the only ones left on the bus. We'd barely got off when the bus slammed its door and dashed off on its downward climb as we began our own downward climb, following a narrow, gravelly ledge. It seemed to go on forever, and our knees started to feel the fatigue of descending a steep uncertain trail, when it finally leveled out at the river. We carried a light load having left most of our things in Hania, a good thing with the many crossings we had to take through the river’s strong current, taking our shoes off and carrying them to keep them dry each time. Despite a hot, stiff breeze, the water was so cold my feet quickly became numb. Even though we'd been prepared through the warnings we'd received, we were surprised at the height of water. Guidebooks describing this trail mention the occasional need to wade through water, but some of this was thigh high and very swift, requiring slow and very deliberate steps to avoid losing balance against the current. The sun followed us the whole way although we barely saw it, the cliff sides rising steeply to reveal only a little patch of sky above. Its beauty was stunning and I caught myself stopping and just looking up at a line of blue sky far away.
During one river crossing we rounded a corner and a sharp gust of wind hit us square on, sending us sprawling onto the slippery rocks. Thankfully it was at a low part of the river and I didn’t get very wet, although my tailbone sure hurt. Connie fared worse, falling heavily and on her knee, twisting an ankle sharply. She yowled in pain. I looked around for assistance but of course there was no else near. We hadn't met one other person on the trail. I guess everyone else was better at following local advice as to conditions than we were. Connie tried to stand but sank back down trembling, not able to put weight on her left foot at all. Her face was white.
“Bastard! How am I supposed to walk with this? This bastard river and its bastard rocks.”
I took comfort in the fact that she was still not speechless. But how would she be able to complete the rest of the demanding route? I couldn’t carry her.
No more reveries. I tightly wrapped a tee-shirt around her knee and took her pack. Looking around I spied a stick of wood that would do for a cane and helped her up. Time was getting on and we had a long way to go, so I threw her arm around my shoulders and we slowly hobbled forward.
It was a spectacular place and there were times when I was grateful for rest stops so I could just take it in. All day we moved slowly forward, a seemingly endless shuffle over rocks, around bends, through water. For a brief time just past midday the wind stilled and the sun shone straight down on us, hot and severe, but it soon passed behind the cliff face above and the its shadow gradually climbed up the oppostie cliff. Connie kept up a drift of rhetorical conversation as we bumbled along, which didn't require me to respond in any way and so was of great comfort despite it being a rambling soliloquy on the uncertainness of her future and difficulties in finding someone appropriate with whom to mate. The trail seemed to go on and on. One good thing about a gorge, you can’t get lost. After a few hours the cliffs softened a bit and the light changed just as we came upon the most romantic abandoned village, stone walls overgrown with vines and old olive trees laden with fruit in a last bid to propagate the species. Mangy sheep wandered here and there, spoiled in the amount of lush grass they could choose from. The empty houses must have sheltered Greeks in the war. Now they looked out with hollow windows, walls slowly settling closer and closer to ground level from time and neglect. I thought maybe we could stay the night under cover, so that Connie’s leg could rest, but she demanded to move on. I am afraid to look at her ankle: it must be swollen and purple, but maybe she’s right to move it. The sooner it gets looked at by someone who knows about such thing as fractures and broken bones the better.
As the sun moved down behind the lowering hills I tried to convince Connie as well as myself there was still ample light to follow the now grassy trail. But we were soon running out of such comfort. What would happen if the light faded before we reached the end? There was no way we could follow this track in the dark. My shoulders hurt carrying two packs and most of Connie’s weight, so we our progress was slow, making me even more anxious about the time. Connie talked less and I worried more.
The gorge widened a bit as we rounded a corner, and suddenly before us there hung a huge moon, almost full, just rising dead ahead. I couldn’t believe the light it provided, I almost had to blink against its brightness.
Connie said rather palely “You see? The moon goddess is watching over us.”
I said a silent prayer to the moon goddess and all other goddesses that might be listening as we continued on. Eventually we emerged at a beach and small village. I set Connie down on a bench and went off to find a room. There was no one about. I knocked on several doors but there was no answer at any of them. Is this another abandonesd village? Standing there feeling a little perturbed, I discerned noises coming from a large house at the end, where a weak light shone out, and I sooon found everyone who must live in the place inside one crowded and lively café-bar. Or at least every man who lived in the place. About 3 dozen male eyes swivelled in my direction as I opened the door. Someone whistled. I swallowed and asked in my best Greek if anyone had a room for rent and, in a booming voice, the landlord said “I have a room”, winked broadly and pointed upstairs, which sent roars of laughter through his clientele. My cheeks started to get hot with embarrassment but I had no time for this. I interrupted his jocularity to tell him about my injured friend and asked if he had something on ground level, knowing full well that when assistance was really needed Greek men will be the first to leap up and provide it. Sure enough, a collection of drunk men poured outside to look for my friend as I led them back along the beachfront to the bench where she rested. Four of them picked her up and carried her back to the café bar. Connie gingerly rested her leg on another chair, batted her eyelashes, and attention was forthcoming from every man in the place. This she received rather regally and with requests for practical demonstrations of affection such as food and wine. Within minutes a large plate of dolmades and a jug of white wine were placed in front of us. Despite my exhaustion I smiled to myself. The Connies of this world will always get by in life despite any expressed doubt.
After eating, Connie giggled and laughed with all the attention, happy to be the star surounded by adoring satellites. I needed to release my pent up anxiety so snuck outside, leaned against a wall and looked up at our saviour moon goddess which now shone its light on an abandoned chapel high above the cliff. The cross on its roof split the moon’s sallow rays and an ethereal light shot out towards the sea. Despite being exhausted, I looked at it with wonder.
I’m looking at ruins a little differently these days. I don’t know when the change occurred, I suspect it was in small increments, but I am cheered by them. I think of all those people who lived and loved so many centuries ago. Building houses, creating cultures, hurting and healing each other. And now all that’s left of those thousands and thousands of lives is a dusty piece of column or a cracked clay pot. When I see it written out like this I think anyone else would read it and say “This cheers you up? You’re nuts.” But it does. The pain and insecurity of those people’s lives has moved on. Their work and toil brought them further to their destiny. Their love for each other has produced ancestors that might be alive today. Life moves forward, slowly, inevitably, but forward. No matter what happens in life it ends and pain is gone.
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