Halfway on the Pathway ....

We were sitting quietly in the marina at Agios Nikalaos, when the peace was suddenly interrupted with the loud call "Aussie, Aussie, Aussie...". Yes, our guests from Australia, my mother and sister, had arrived and were announcing their presence with the native galah bird-call.

Aussie, Aussie, Aussie

We had travelled down from a week at anchor at Spinalonga lagoon to meet them, and were extremely pleased that they had made the long journey from Australia, via Athens, to our little anchorage in Crete.

Kritsa, a Cretan village

Crete is a long way from the Cyclades islands where we'd been cruising, it is the most southern and eastern point of Greece that we intended to visit. So in that sense, it was 'halfway on our pathway' through Greece. It was the nadir turnaround point. We'd made a long overnight sail to get here, and would make an even longer sail, bucking the prevailing winds to leave. But that's not the point of the title....

A gaggle of galah's?

Crete is not really a sailing destination, its long coastline does not offer much in the way of sheltered bays or protected anchorages. So we indulged in the luxury of a marina berth for 6 nights, and decided to explore Crete by car.

Southern wing of the 'Palace' of Knossos.

First point of call on our circumnavigation was Knossos. By now, Megan and I have seen a great many ancient sites, and are somewhat jaded. However, Knossos was distinctly different in two ways, which created interest for us.

View to central courtyard

Firstly, it was organized around the point, rather than the line. Roman ruins, such as Ephesus in Turkey, and the Forum in Rome are organized around the prototypical street, a straight line. There is a sense of the main promenade, a thoroughfare, a processional axis, that the rest of the town accretes around.

Processional street-like quality of the Forum in Rome

There is often a feeling that grand events, such as an army or an emperor arriving, was accompanied by a processional march through the town. Shops, alleys, public buildings, dwellings all sprout from this main axis. Same idea in Greek ruins, such as Heiropolis atop the travertine pools in Pamukkale. The organization is around the central line,  the street.

Rectalinear organisation of Fastos

Knossos, from the much earlier Minoan civilisation, was organized differently; around a point. The central feature of the ruins both at Knossos and Fastos is a quadrangle. The proto-cities of the Minoan culture appeared more around being somewhere, rather than going somewhere. It may represent an evolution in the meme behind the city, from looking inwards to a center of control, to looking outwards, on the way to somewhere else. From contraction to expansion. Anyway, it makes a good story.

Courtyard structures at Knossos

Pithoi, large Minoan storage containers.

Pithoi, with Megan as scale factor.

 It also lead Arthur Evans, the primary archeologist, to postulate the idea that Minoan culture centered around a Palace, with a ruling monarchy. This lead to speculation that some 'rooms' were the King's or Queen's throne room, along with a whole supposed organizational structure.

The supposed 'Queen Room' at Knossos

A Minoan column?

This led to my second observation regarding Knossos, concerning the way in which archeology has evolved. Knossos has a level of reconstruction that is really the creation of Arthur Evans. It feels like his particular fantasy has literally concretized the interpretation of what Knossos was.

An idealized re-creation of a Minoan column

Faux wood beams have been reconstructed from concrete, walls replastered and columns rebuilt.

The 'Kings Room'

Whole temple edifices have been reconstructed. But is this really how Knossos, or Fastos was organised? Megan, with her historical background, has commented on historiography: the study of the process of recording history. In Evan's time, with wild and exotic stories of ancient civilisations such as Eygpt, it seemed proper to paint the entire picture, fill in the details. But now, in an age more sensitive to nuanced interpretation and detailed examination of data, it feels gross to present the ancient city as Evan's imagined it.

Extreme reconstruction!

A particularly contrived example of reconstruction

Whole temple reconstruction

Original limestone fragment with Evan's imagined container.

It feels like Evan's interpretation has been forced on Knossos for all time, and it feels fake and forced. I prefer later reconstructions, such as Ephesus, that may rebuild fallen structures to 'sketch' what the environment may have been like.  I did enjoy some of the reconstructed Minoan artworks however!

Minoan painting

Reconstructed Minoan painting

 From Knossos, we travelled to Rythimon. We planned to take a photo of Phoenix, the boat belonging to our friends Jennifer and Mathias, so that we could email it to them. We thought they were still in the USA, caring for Mathias' father who had taken ill. It was a great surprise when we found them at home. They had just arrived the previous day.

The photo of Phoenix we thought we'd take

Surprise, look who's home!

High point was the harbour in Chania, on Crete's north eastern shore. This old port was intriguing and full of atmosphere. It was enough just to sit and breath it all in.

The port at Chania

Lighthouse at the port in Chania

Another view of the harbour

Chania also illustrated another layer of Cretan history. Crete was home to the first civilization in Europe, but it has successively been host to Greek, Roman, Byzantine, Venetian and Ottoman invasion. Of these, Chania has superb examples of Venetian architecure from 1205 to 1665. In this time, it was known as the 'Kingdom of Candia'.

Venetian style narrow windows and doors.

More Venetian windows and doors

The dominion of Crete by the Venetians, ceded to it after the partition of Byzantine following the 4th Crusades, exposed it to Renaissance art and architecture. Best known exemplar may have been the artist El Greco. Influences from this period seemed plentiful in the gorgeous architecture around Chania.

Round Venetian columns supporting the building.

From Chania, we travelled down the wild southern coast, through tortuous roads that followed the mountains tumbling into the sea.

Southern coast of Crete

View of the southern coast.

Galah's in the mountains!

We stopped at an old Venetian castle at Fragokastello that had a tale of a battle fought against the Turks. In 1828, it served as a fortification for Epirote chief Hatzimichalis Dalianis. After his death, the Turks blew up the castle, and according to legend, the bodies were never buried. The myth now is that every year on 18th May, the anniversary of the battle,  the "Drosoulites" wake up, and their shadows crawl up the walls of the castle to disappear through the gates of the castle. Who said Cretans weren't superstitious.

Castle Frago, built 1371 AD.

Are there ghosts of past warriors lurking in those shadows?

But the title for our story comes from the town of Spili, in the middle of the southern coast.

Dreaming of higher things?

My mother, bless her cotton socks, is somewhat of a Christian believer, in contrast to the stark atheism of Megan and myself. So I couldn't resist making a jibe on this sign, that gave the directions to the 'Pathway to the Holy Spirit'. It is the kind of spiritual road-map that could only exist in Greece.

And here is the blessed road itself.

Stairway to Heaven?

Our happy seeker, with joy in her heart, prepares for the ascent.

The Pilgrim prepares for the ascent.

So that was our little tour of Crete. Halfway on the pathway?  But do we really know the final destination.....

The village of Spili.

Life on the end of a piece of string

Tonight, its 1.00 am and neither Megan nor I can sleep. We've been living at anchor this last week, and tonight, its blowing 30 knots, with lightening, thunder and the occasional rain shower.

Entrance to the lagoon at Spinalonga

You have to imagine it.... We are enclosed in a small ellipsoid shape half under the water. We are attached only at one end by a length of chain that leads to an anchor that we hope is buried in ground that has 'good holding'. We gyrate wildly around this 'anchor point', it is the still point in our current universe. It feels like life happens at the end of this particular 'piece of string', we fly like a kite anchored to our still point. I pray that our still point holds.

Our ellipsoid shape magnifies every sound, like living inside the body of a guitar. The deck is a soundboard, with lots of strings attached that vibrate with the wind, all singing a different melody. It produces a counter-point with which we have become very familiar. All of a sudden, there is a new sound. "What's that, what's that", Megan demands to know. We both list a litany of possible offenders. It could be the shrouds vibrating, or the sleeves on the shrouds tapping a shrill warble. It could be various halyards flapping against the mast.... or it could be something signifying a possible danger.

"No, I think its just the boarding ladder", I offer bravely. But that means we should really bring the boarding ladder in, its a possible hazard. Its wet, dark, rainy, windy.... interspersed with flashes of lightening brilliance, when all the boats straining at their anchors become instantly visible. It feels totally appropriate to go out into this maelstrom completely naked. It would feel like an offence to the Gods to go out clothed, as if one could be protected from the elements. So out I go, in the rain on the pitching deck to retrieve the ladder, totally naked. I find singing out loud helps!

This wind is not a constant presence. Crete is very mountainous, the wind along the southern side of the island, creates swirls of turbulence, that hurtle across mountain passes, are focussed into valleys, and come out like bowling balls over our flat lagoon. We call them bullets, and they strike you completely randomly. They can come from different directions and are often interspersed by total calm. This is worse than a constant howling wind. One's senses dull after a period of constant exposure, the sound becomes 'background'. No, bullets are ever fresh and new to the senses. Our minds try to make sense of each 'brush stoke' in this wind driven cacophony.

Now, rain comes. Driving rain that beats a new counterpoint. It seems to deaden the sound of the wind, replacing it by a more soothing white noise. Perhaps its time to stop blogging, and try sleeping again.

Living at anchor for longer periods is a new experience for us. We no longer have the comforts of marina's, like shore power, water, and easy access to the land. Its far more precarious than the municipal docks which at least offer us a hard immovable bollard to anchor our universe to. Life on the hook is totally self-sustaining. Its very reminiscent of camping, where you have to carry all your supplies and necessities for life in your own backpack. If you forget anything, well... too bad.

And everything has started to run out! Our generator failed, and we learned today that it is completely beyond repair. So our solar panels can't keep up with our power use. We try to conserve, so I've not used my CPAP machine that aids my sleeping respiration. Its a high power consumer, so I give up sleep for 2 nights to conserve electrons. However, today, the batteries were 'in the red' even with our frugal life-style. The overcast sky meant that the solar panels could only produce a few amps, insufficient to drive our fridge, the other big power consumer. So we have to run the main engine at a high idle, using the alternator to charge our batteries. Very inefficient, expensive use of diesel and not good for the engine. We've budgetted today for a new generator. (Cheap, only 6 Euro boat bucks!)

Our food ran out day's ago. After living on our stock of beans, we must brave the elements in our 2.3m tender (it seems to shrink proportionate to wind-speed). Megan has volunteered to take the bus into Agios Nikolaos to do some shopping, and buy some more bits so we can stay in contact with the Internet world. The outboard fired up and we are making tortuous progress to the distant jetty. Megan is of course drenched by the time we reach shore. Of course, it dries, but she is left with salt patterns across all her clothes. I compliment her on how 'yachtie' she looks.

Of course, our outboard is a capricious resource, and it decided to fail today. We had a diesel mechanic coming to the boat at 11.00 am, it was 10.50 am and I'd left 10 minutes to motor to the jetty to pick him up. So on cue, the motor fails to start, and I must row against 30 knot winds to pick him up. Rowing our tender is like rowing an inner tube with one small paddle. Very ineffectual. At least I got a week's exercise in one long aerobic moment.

Our water is on its last legs. Since we had to run the engine for a few hours to charge the batteries, it means that there is now hot water. Should we take the opportunity for a hot shower, or save the precious resources. We vote for the shower. Its been some days since we've had a hot one, and the luxury feels decandent. Most times, we alternate between swimming and washing off at a beach-side public shower. Haven't yet taken our shampoo to the beach shower, but its tempting.

Our capacity to store our own shit is also a limiting factor. In the past, one could never safely swim in the vicinity of yachts, there was often strange object floating around them. Now of course, we are all environmentally conscious, and only dump our black water at sea. That means that we have to store it while at anchor in this small protected bay. We fitted holding tanks to Pavlov, with all the plumbing that gave us control over our poo destiny. We however, neglected to fit any device that tells us how full the tanks are. We wonder how we will discover that particular end point. Will it be an inability to pump, or something exuding from the overflow vent? We have yet to discover the answer to that question, but live in fear of it.

So, life on the end of a piece of string. Its a metaphor for how self-reliant we have become, to live out here, tethered by a hope and a prayer. As a new bullet starts the boat singing its strangely concordant love song to the wind, we fill ourselves full of trust that our still point will hold, and our string continue to anchor us to this beautiful earth.

Our floating home.

The apple of the Cyclades eye

We left Folegandros, probably our favourite Cyclades island to date. These few photo's attempt to document the simple wholeness of this island, that captivated us with its beauty.

Pav at the public quay in Folegandros

Folegandros fishing trawler

We love the islands that haven't sold themselves outright to tourism, but have preserved a traditional way of life, have kept simple values and simple life-styles alive. Folegandros was such a place.

Road from the port to the Chora

That's certainly building on the rock

View from the above house - stunning.

We hitch-hiked up to the Chora from the port. It was a long walk up-hill, so we tried our 'Auto Stop' skills we learned in Turkey. Pretty soon, a local was eagerly transporting us up to the Chora. Folgandros is incredibly barren, it's like a lunar landscape of bald rock. The Chora was perched on the top of this rock, literally hugging the cliff-side. It was a stunning outlook over the Mediterranean.

Deep Mediterranean blue

View from the Chora.

The village was immaculate, cute but not in the service of tourism. We've noticed that Greeks love to paint their cracks. Cracks between paving stones, cracks on walls, even "make believe" cracks like the photo above. In fact, there is nothing in Greece that can't be improved with a coat of white paint. Tree's, rocks, buildings, court-yards. Its an annual spring clean ritual, and the Folegandran's practiced it with a passion.

Freshly painted cracks

Real cracks and pseudo cracks.

More crack painting.

I love the fact that cars don't dominate these villages. There is barely access for carts, sometimes small 3 wheelers will bring in heavier items. The streets can twist and turn, become impossible narrow or turn into a flight of stairs. The visual landscape is not dominated by rectilinear grids, transversable by mechanical behemoths.

Street scape

Simple splashes of colour

 The land is steep, so any agriculture demands incredible efforts to terrace the landscape. The cliffs around Folegandros are very steep, and you can see the effort of manually piling all the abundant rocks into dry-wall terraces.

Terraced fields

I also appreciate how old structures, like this facade of an old church, can be left standing as reminders of the past, rather than being rebuilt or turned into an archeological monument.

Old church structure preserved

The white buildings seem plain and unadorned, but a brought to life by simple splashes of colour. Flowers, blue window frames, a small pot plant, some green herbs. The visual landscape is simple, vibrant and harmonious.

Simple primary colour splashes everywhere

The church is always on the highest hill

But we had to leave. We are meeting some family in Crete, so we had to make the long haul to probably our most southerly point to date. It was about 100 nautical miles to Crete, the longest sail we've undertaken so far. We planned to leave at 1600, so that we could sail through the night and arrive  in daylight to enter the port.

Pre dawn landfall

Very tired crew standing night watch

Of course, our auto-pilot was NS, which meant we had to hand-steer all night, which makes the task much more demanding and exhausting. We'd picked a good weather window, but the wind was very light. We motored most of the way.

Sunrise over the stern

Landfall at Spinalonga lagoon, Crete

Landfall is alway exciting, even if this was not a new country, but just a new island. We entered into a large sheltered (we thought.... see next post) lagoon, and were greeted by a pair of huge hammerhead turtles. So it was anchor out, and settle into some delayed sleep, until the horn blasts from an irate day-tripper ferry let us know that we were in his favourite approach line to the public jetty. Tired, we belatedly re-anchored Pavlov further from the jetty, and fell into a well deserved sleep.

A tired skipper brings the boat home