Research Trip to Crete - Part Two

Sunset from Chania harbour

On the third morning of our stay in Chania, we awoke with a bang, literally! The whole apartment shook and immediate thoughts were of a possible earthquake. I have never experienced a thunderstorm like it. Fork lightning zig-zagged through the dawn sky followed almost immediately by deafening claps of thunder. The rain was torrential and it seemed like our plans for the day were dashed. We both received a severe weather warning on our phones. 

Critical weather warning

Flooded carpark after the storm

When the rain and thunder eventually eased somewhat, my daughter went to check on our hire car. Just in time, as it happened. Although we had a wet start to the day, the storm passed and we were able to continue with our research after all. 

Typical house in Chalepa, Chania

Our first stop was in the wealthier area of Chalepa where I wanted to find inspiration for houses for Dimitrios's parents and grandparents. We visited the house of Eleftherios Venizelos, a prominent leader of the Greek national liberation movement. He served as Prime Minister for over twelve years. His residence is now a beautifully preserved museum and although it will not appear in the novel, it was interesting to learn more about Greek political history at the turn of the 20th century. The whole area where his house is situated gave me ideas for the homes of a wealthy shipowner and his son. 

Secluded cove

From there, we explored the coast to find a secluded beach that could only be approached by boat. The roads became narrower and narrower with no passing places and we were able to look down on the small beach from above. 

The bay Dimitrios had chosen was a few kilometres out of Fáros Limáni. They turned off the main road and below them was a breathtaking view of a small secluded cove edging the aquamarine sea. The colours of the water changed through shades of turquoise and teal to a deep sapphire at the horizon. The last part of the lane came to a dead end and had been flattened out for a limited amount of parking where Dimitrios parked the scooter under some juniper trees. From there on, the beach could only be reached on foot. Taking their swimming things and bags from the two panniers on the scooter, they walked single file down the narrow stony path to the beach with Dimitrios leading the way. The smell was strong as their legs brushed the wild herbs in the coarse grass. 

On our way back, we encountered the second crisis of the day! A large bin lorry had broken down on the single-track road and had phoned for help. The only problem was that the break-down truck was in Chania, almost an hour away. 'Electrics gone,' said one of the men. It was the only way back so we resigned ourselves to sitting and waiting. Luckily, whatever the bin men did after a time, they got the vehicle going and after following them to a wider stretch of the road, we were able to go on our way. We stopped in a pretty seaside village where I decided would be the home of Greta's artist friend, Margot, and then visited Chania cemetery. 

Chania Cemetery

Through black metal gates set in a white-rendered wall, Zoë saw a sea of white marble. She entered, struck by the silence, hearing her breaths as she walked. Most of the tombstones and graves had a simple white marble cross mounted on a marble sarcophagus on which was an oval enamelled portrait of the loved one buried beneath. Some had candles and flowers while others had upright slabs of marble displayed at an angle on which inscriptions were written. The graves were placed very close together and were interspersed with narrow concrete paths. Zoë ambled along each row looking for John Carter’s name. She was about to give up when she found his grave tucked away in a far corner in the shade of an orange tree. His name in capital letters and underneath the date of his death in numerals, 15-05- 62, was written on a block of white marble, now grimy and green. Uncared for, there was no other inscription on the tombstone. Scorched weeds and grasses had grown through the white chippings bringing with them the sandy soil underneath and had died in the hot sun. She bent over and pulled some up, promising that when she moved to Fáros Limáni she would maintain John’s grave regularly like the ones that surrounded it. Poor John. Alone in a foreign graveyard, with no one to remember you.

Matala beach

The next day we left Chania and headed to Matala on Crete's south coast. Up in the mountains, we travelled through some torrential rain but by the time we got to the village famous for its hippie caves, the sun was shining again. Greta first visited the beautiful beach before the flower people arrived and it was the place where Zoë had chosen to scatter her mother's ashes.

Where Greta's ashes were scattered

Walking barefoot over the sand, Zoë made her way to the rock she’d picked out. The water was crystal clear and gentle waves broke around her ankles as she sat putting off what she’d gone there to do. Mam, I can see why you wanted to return. Crete is beautiful and I hope I’ve chosen the right place. Zoë took the urn out of her bag and unscrewed the lid. After checking no one was near, she took a deep breath, she slowly tipped the ashes into the water. Tears trickled down her cheeks. ‘Good-bye, Sleep well. I love you.’ The ashes mingled with the water and settled onto the flat rock underneath the surface of the water. Soon a wave came and washed them out to sea. ‘Return to nature, Mam.’ 

Our last night was spent in a hotel in Heraklion near to the airport for our return flight to Manchester the next day. It had been a whirlwind five days where I'd managed to tick off the things I wanted to see and find out. Since my return, I've been busy editing and tweaking the first draft of The Stolen Sister in the light of my research.

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