Although a coastal town in north west Crete, there is a distinctly Italian flair to some of the pastel-coloured townhouses which back its picturesque harbour. This is thanks to the influence of the Venetians who gave the seafront its distinctive character when they ruled Chania between 1204 and 1645, one of many nationalities who stamped their influenced on the town over the centuries. At various times, Chania has been under the domain of Romans, Byzantines, Turks, Egyptians, Arabs and, more recently during the Second World War, the Germans.
This potpourri of different nationalities has resulted in a community which is cosmopolitan in its attitude to visitors. This is a town which is no stranger to strangers.

Behind the harbour lies a labyrinth of narrow streets connecting the Jewish quarter with the Turkish quarter. Alleys here are filled with tavernas, markets, stalls selling leather goods, and various artisanal outlets. It’s a town where you feel as if you’re in the east in one backstreet, then back in the west in the next.

Six of the Best of Chania

The main attraction – the harbour

Apart from being a wonderful place to promenade, with plenty of bars, cafes, and restaurants, the harbour’s crowning glory is the Egyptian Lighthouse standing guard at its entrance. Originally built by the Venetians in the 16th century, a chain once connected the lighthouse with the Firka Fortress on the other side of the harbour. This could be raised when the town was under attack, preventing access. Runner-up stand-out sight on the harbour is the pink dome of Giali Tzamisi – the mosque by the sea, where horse and carriage rides through the old town begin.

The not-so-main attraction – atmospheric backstreets

The harbour may represent Chania’s attractive façade, but the backstreets are where you’ll find most evidence of Chania’s multicultural past. South east from the harbour is the Splanzia district, the Turkish quarter which, with its mix of tavernas and cafes, churches and minarets, is considered one of the prettiest areas of the town. Head west, passing the Municipal Market and the leather stalls of Stivanadika (Leather Street – where there are still some good buys to be had; I picked up a great wallet here) to Topanas, the Jewish quarter with its museums and galleries, picturesque townhouses, synagogue, churches, and boutique shops.

The serene scene – the sea wall

Chania’s harbour doesn’t look particularly big, yet a harbourside stroll from the Firkas Fortress to the Egyptian Lighthouse via the former port comes in not far short of two kilometres. It’s a distance which deters many. When you take a pew beneath the old sea wall, you shouldn’t be sharing the panorama with hordes of people. And what a view. This is where you appreciate the ‘between the White Mountains and the blue of the Cretan Sea’ quote. We sat there in the sunshine contemplating the dramatic mountain backdrop, pondering whether their white peaks was what earned them their name or whether they were just snowclad.

Flavours of Chania

The Greeks do harbourside dining exceedingly well. There’s something about the whole package that is irresistible. Chania has plenty of seafront restaurants in which to enjoy Greek mezes involving Cretan specialities such as fennel pancakes (marathopita) and courgette fritters (kolokithokeftedes). But some of the best restaurants are found in those bewildering backstreets. Tamam in the Jewish quarter was once Turkish steam baths. It’s now a hugely popular restaurant with locals thanks to a menu showcasing the best of traditional Cretan cuisine. Our recommendation is apakia, pork that’s marinated in wine vinegar before being smoked and flavoured with spices and wild herbs. It is sensational.

A toast to Chania

Generally speaking, tourists prefer the western side of the harbour, locals the eastern curve. Which is where you’ll find Barbarossa, a lovely Venetian townhouse with super views. It’s hugely popular at sunset and weekends when the party goes on all night (take note if staying on seafront accommodation). If its bustling scene doesn’t suit, Boheme’s courtyard, a couple of streets back from the seafront, is a quirkier alternative. Past lives include being part of a monastery and a stint as a soft drinks factory. The courtyard has a 400-year-old yew tree, while decorative elements include a roof made from slats from the WWII German railway.

The quirk

Admittedly they border on the cheesy and are most definitely aimed at a tourist market, but there’s still something charming about the floating shops in the Kasteli area, where the Venetian shipyards were once located. Opposite the distinctive seven A-frame roofs of the Neoria buildings, designed for ship repairs, are typically Greek blue fishing boats converted into floating stalls selling sponges, conch, and wind chimes made from shells.

Summary

Chania is one of those destinations which doesn’t really have any WOW standout aspects. There’s nothing particularly outstanding to draw hordes of day-trippers. It’s a place that just looks and feels nice to wander around. And that might be one of the factors that make it such a pleasant town to stay in, especially for people who enjoy an interesting and aesthetically pleasing mix of history and architecture, atmospheric alleys, good restaurants, and a nice equilibrium between locals and tourists.

And so it was with Athens, the Greek capital where the east meets the west. I read a great line in an Uncyclopedia listing for the city which said – “The city is where the west meets the east, mugs it, and makes it inhospitable. The west doesn’t belong in Athens…”

Even after a visit of less than 24 hours I sort of knew what it meant.

With limited time there was one thing we had to see, and one thing we definitely had to do. The ‘see’ was the Acropolis. When I say ‘see’ I mean that literally – there was no time to enjoy its ancient embrace, just enough to stand on the same hill as the one on which the citadel reclines and take a couple of dull snaps. It was a gloomy, damp day; the Greek Gods clearly having a barney, their furrowed brows creating bruised ripples across the sky. All that was missing was Zeus flashing his lightning rod.

Our hotel was located in what might once have been the Acropolis foothills so we were able to notch that one off the list quickly before moving on to the ‘must’.

The ‘must’ was annoyingly mundane. One of us had forgotten to pack the cable for the laptop.  Having a powered up laptop was an essential tool of the job as we were on a week’s mission to walk across, record and photograph Andros, one of the islands in the Cyclades. So we went shopping.

Ermou Street
A pedestrian walkway, Apostolou Pavlou, lined with cafes and stalls leads from the Acropolis to Ermou, the main shopping street in Athens. It’s a street which illustrates why the ‘east meets west’ tag is so justified. The western end is a manic hotchpotch of ramshackle market stalls and messy stores spewing their goods onto the street – the sort of places which would have Maria Kondo either in ecstasy or therapy. It’s an area where it feels, as the blurb said, the west doesn’t belong. A compelling place to lose yourself in, but not when time is short.

Half-way along and the street becomes familiar, maybe depressingly so. Where the western end (ironically with the eastern vibe) exudes a unique personality, the eastern end, except for a couple of out-of-place Byzantine churches, morphs into one of those homogeneous European city centres (H&M, Marks & Spencer, Zara, McD’s). Dull, familiar, and the ideal place to pick up a replacement cable.

Dinner & drinks in Athens
It was also a hop, skip, and a jump from the Herodion Hotel to the Plaka area where restaurants, bars and shops line narrow streets with shiny cobbles. There’s plenty of choice, but it felt designed for tourists. The restaurant we chose, Kosmikon, occupied an appealing location, squeezed onto an apex on a pedestrianised crossroads (good for people-watching). But the food, whilst okay, was like the sort of cuisine cooked for a transient market rather than a local one.

The bars had a completely differing vibe. On a nearby street, Brettos, the oldest distillery in Athens, was the alcohol-lover’s equivalent of wandering into an old fashioned sweet shop. Instead of finding shelves full of jars of coloured candy, you get rows of luminescent bottles of coloured liqueurs.
In between Brettos and the Herodion Hotel we veered off track, drawn by the sound of laughter and lively chatter down a side street. Wine o’clock lived up to its name – an amiable, hole in the wall bar with speciality wines, great music, and complimentary mezes.

Onward to Andros via Rafina
To get to Andros we had to catch a ferry from Rafina, about 30kms from the centre of the city. There are a couple of ways to get there; the easiest one is to jump in a taxi which takes about 1hr 15mins and costs approx. €60. We’re guinea pigs when we’re on these missions for Inntravel. It’s essential to experience what their customers will so we can prepare them in advance for anything which isn’t clear. And there are always aspects to travelling through unfamiliar places which are ambiguous.

In this case, one was exactly where to catch the bus. We knew it was at Pedion Areos. As that’s one of the biggest parks in Athens, there’s a lot of scope to turn up at the wrong part. It’s not the most salubrious areas of the city either; it has a rating of two and a half stars rating on Tripadvisor, from people who turn up expecting a pristine city park. Bus stations are often seedy for some reason, at least this one was in the open air beside a park, albeit a run-down one. It took some asking around and then asking around a bit more to discover which was the Rafina bus. Then there was confusion about how to pay; nobody seemed to be interested in taking any money. About 45 minutes into the journey, the passenger in front of us stood up, rummaged around in an old carrier bag for a few moments, and pulled out a small antiquated machine, cerca 1971 – the ticket collector had decided it was time to do his thing.
The bus itself, a coach, was comfortable and only half full. It took about the same time as a taxi to get to Rafina and cost us €2.60pp.

Rafina
We were far too early for the ferry, but it didn’t matter. Rafina is a bustling and not unattractive town. The port area is home to some good fish and seafood restaurants, whilst just behind the harbour is a sizeable square also lined with bars and restaurants. It isn’t the slightest bit touristy. On our return trip we stayed overnight and the modern bars overlooking the harbour were lively after dark. But they were also filled with a choking fog. A decade after a smoking ban was introduced and it’s still being ignored in Greece. There’s a threat of hefty fines, but the law just isn’t enforced. In the restaurant we ate at on our return trip even the waiter lit up. Greece tends to do things its own way.

Despite the smokey bars, there’s a down to earth character to Rafina which we liked. It’s not the most picturesque Greek harbour around, but it is friendly and the restaurants are good. We ensconced ourselves in one with panoramic views of the sea, ordered a shedload of mezes with Fix beer and chilled. Well, one of us did. As the rain splattered the windows and grey waves lashed at the harbour wall, Andy (not the greatest sailor) remembered she hadn’t brought any seasickness tablets. She expected the Aegean to be mirror calm. She asked the waitress if there was a chemist in town. There was, but it was shut. However, the waitress came up with an unexpected alternative suggestion.

“Ask the guy at the kiosk.”

The kiosk was your typical tobacco/newspaper shed yet, sure enough, he reached beneath the counter and produced two seasickness tablets for 0.50 cents. Rafina is that sort of place.

As the ferry came in the clouds dissipated, the sun smiled and the sea calmed.

We were fed, watered, relaxed and ready to move on to Andros two hours away.

The answer is nobody, not for definite.

I’ve heard at least six different theories, ranging from King Alfonso X eating small portions with his wine for health reasons to King Alfonso XIII having a slice of jamón placed over his wine to act as a lid (tapa) to keep unwanted foreign bodies (e.g. flies) out. Then there’s the whole slab of cheese or ham placed over glasses to mask the fact that the wine was poor. Or that tapas were introduced as an attempt to stop people getting leery after drinking too much vino in bawdy tascas.

Whatever the true origin, picking at tapas became a way of life across Spain. Purists, and La Real Academia de la Lengua Española, define tapas as being a small portion of food which accompanies a drink; often a freebie to partner your frothy cerveza.

Tapas have evolved to way beyond being a dried up slice of Serrano doing a balancing act on your glass. Sharing a selection of small plates is a hugely popular way of eating whether you’re Spanish or not. Nowadays finding tapas restaurants outside of Spain is nearly as common as finding Irish bars outside of Ireland. Recently in Saint-Paul-Troix-Chateaux in the Drôme Provençale we spotted two. Some years ago in Essaouira in Morocco one of the first sights we saw as we entered the town was a restaurant serving tapas.

Last year in Venice a little piece of edible jigsaw popped into place in my head creating an image which consisted of a series of small, tasty looking plates with influences which, well, weren’t Spanish . Tapas might be considered a Spanish ‘invention’ but it’s a way of eating which is popular in many countries.

Exhibit A:- Mezes in Greece
Long before we ever fell prey to the charms of wafer thin slices of cured Iberian meats and crispy croquetas, one of our favourite elements of two weeks rejuvenation on a Greek island was lunchtime and a selection of Greek tapas. Oops, sorry, I mean mezes. Tzatziki and taramasalata were a must, accompanied by whatever mezes a particular taberna had to offer – maybe something like spanakopita (feta cheese and spinach pies) or saganaki (grilled/fried cheese). Apparently ouzo and mezes go hand in hand, but that way leads to a drunken afternoon. We opted for beer or retsina instead, resulting in just a merry, then sleepy, afternoon.

Exhibit B:- Petiscos in Portugal
We’d never heard of petiscos until a couple of years ago. Whenever we read anything in English about Portuguese gastronomy it was usually the same handful of dishes which were referenced. Anyone who knows a tiny bit about Portugal could probably guess what these are. Yet in the last year and a half we’ve seen petisqueiras all across Portugal, and many traditional restaurants have a petisco section on menus. Petiscar means eating a selection of small dishes, best done with friends. Sound familiar? Our favourite petiscos include pataniscas (cod fish patties), chamuças (samosas), Azeitao cheese, and alheira croquettes (a type of pork-less sausage).

Exhibit C:- Lebanese mezze
Whilst on a cookery/walking week in Alpujarras we had our eyes opened to just how exceptional Middle Eastern cuisine was. Chef Tom Ryalls shared tips and recipes from the Moro kitchen which included a fusion of North African, and Middle Eastern influences, some of which just blew our taste-buds away. We were fortunate enough to have a Lebanese restaurant in Puerto de la Cruz near where we lived. Its menu included some of the dishes we’d enjoyed in Andalusia. Subsequently it became a firm favourite, especially when vegetarian friends visited and we’d share a platter of baba ganoush (smoky aubergine dip), hummus, falafel, fattoush, sambousek (little savoury pies) and batta harra (spicy potatoes).

Exhibit D:- Venetian cicchetti
A way of eating relatively cheaply in Venice is to seek out places which serve cicchetti, small bite-sized dishes. Stopping for a glass of wine with a couple of small dishes at a bàcaro (a bar which sells cicchetti) is apparently a Venetian thing, so when in Rome, or in this case Venice …
At Osteria A le Bande the barman suggested he throw us together a selection which involved melted cheese, tuna, cured hams, anchovies atop crusty bread at €2.50 each; they reminded me of Spanish montaditos. On Murano we picked at polenta slices topped with creamed cod, as well as butterfly fillets of breaded sardine fillets, and polpette (fried meatballs).

I reckon if I dug around a bit more I’d find more examples of culinary habits in other locations that involved sharing small dishes with friends and which had a name that wasn’t tapas.

In the end, if you’re the sort of person who loves to be able to try lots of small dishes at the one sitting, it doesn’t really matter whether what you’re dipping into is called a tapa or a petisco. Personally, I’m thankful it’s a tradition which isn’t confined to just one country.

At one point it occurred to me that this form of travel wasn’t a million miles away from the average package holiday coach excursion. Being ferried to experiences hand-picked by someone else wasn’t really the way I wanted to travel. I’m indebted to that trip and wouldn’t have missed it for the world; however, it was a catalyst for change in many differing ways. We both went on a couple of other press/blog trips after that but, on the whole, phased them out of our travel plans.

Six years later, stinking of vinho verde (courtesy of a bottle which broke when our rucksack fell off a bench) and sitting on the banks of the River Lima wondering whether a taxi I’d tried to arrange using bad Portuguese was going to turn up and save the day, I pondered the wisdom of swapping travel where someone else makes most of the arrangements for travel which was more seat of the pants stuff.

Travelling around cities and big towns is easy, relatively speaking. Where there are many commuters, there’s generally good public transport links. Getting from A to B isn’t a problem once you tune in to how things work in any specific location.

As experienced walkers know, it’s not the same in rural locations where low levels of population mean limited transport links. We regularly find ourselves in areas where figuring out how we’re going to travel to, or return from, a linear walking route using whatever local transport is available can prove somewhat of a ‘suck it and see’ exercise.

Stumped in Germany
Germany is an outstanding joy when it comes to public transport links. A gästekarte in some rural areas allows visitors free (you pay a nominal tax at your rural hotel and in return receive a ‘guest card’) use of buses and trains, of which there is a good network. In the Black Forest we never had to task the grey cells too much to figure out public transport connections. We’d simply hop on and off trains and buses which took us to and from start and end points of walking routes. Only on one occasion, in Kaiserlautern, we nearly came unstuck when a timetable didn’t match reality and we found ourselves sitting at an empty bus station in a place we didn’t want to be on a sleepy Sunday morning. With an hour to wait before the train which would return us to our starting point we had plenty of time to pour over our map, improvise and come up with a great little route which didn’t involve having to use any transport at all. So it all worked out well in the end.

Lost in translation in France
In many locations there are not always convenient railway stations at hand nor bus routes which run on a regular enough basis to make them viable. At these times taxis are lifesavers. In Drôme Provençale, one route took us to Saint-Paul-Trois-Châteaux. At this point Inntravel customers on the holiday we were helping design will be able to check into their new hotel and relax. However, we had to get back to accommodation at our starting point. As we were in a decent-sized town we figured there’d be no problem picking up a taxi. Wrong. There were none to be seen. Using Google advice we headed to the nearby location of one firm to find it no longer existed. We plonked ourselves down on the kerb in the car park of an adjacent supermarket and called the contact taxi. The regular driver and his English speaking girlfriend had taken the weekend off (the reason why we didn’t call them first) and the back up driver didn’t speak any English. Giving directions in a language you’re not totally comfortable in is a risky business. But Andy did a sterling job and, after one lost in translation mix up, the taxi driver rolled into the supermarket car park.
Having a local taxi firm number to hand is a sensible plan whatever your walking circumstances are.

Part of the experience on Tenerife
When is the end of a walking route not an end but a continuation of the experience? When the route involves descending the Masca Barranco on Tenerife. For years we left our car above Masca hamlet, and walked the barranco (gorge) both ways. It’s not a long route, but it is a challenging one. The last two times we took the easy option – we descended the ravine and jumped onto a water taxi (pre-booked) when we arrived at the coast. It’s an exhilarating way to end a walk; the sun warming, the sea spray refreshing on your face. Plus there’s the chance of some dolphin-spotting on the short voyage back to the resort of Los Gigantes where a queue of taxis wait to transport folk back to their cars in Masca (around €25). It’s a far more enjoyable way of experiencing the Masca Barranco than having to trudge all the way back up it again.
(Note: the Masca Barranco is currently closed to the public and is expected to open again in March 2019.)

Laid on a plate on Andros, Greece
Sometimes when someone else arranges the transport it can still feel like it’s part of a uniquely local experience. Fourteen kilometres of climbing in an out of valleys led us from Andros town to Ormos Korthiou, a coastal town so sleepy a swan was able to take a long dust bath in the centre of the main road without fear of being flattened. It was also a place where it was instantly evident there wasn’t going to be a bus or taxi to take us home. As always, we had a back-up number to call. But there was no need. In Allegria, one of the only tascas open, the owner greeted us with a “you need taxi? I phone taxi… but plenty of time for a beer first.” It turned out there was time for two beers, and also for the owner to have a nap on one of his tables before our taxi driver turned up in a sleek Mercedes where the meter was part of the rear-view mirror (first time I’d ever seen that). She gave us a present of scented wild lavender in a muslin bag and kept us entertained with tales of island life on the 40 min journey back to our hotel.

Thirty tears ago I would have fretted about having localised travel arrangements nailed down in advance. The older I get, the far more chilled I am about this sort of thing. If we have to wait for an hour in a small bar somewhere, no problem. In fact, all the better.

It’s all part of building up experiences of the reality of a local way of life across a wide variety of destinations.

It’s a snippet of a conversation we had in a restaurant in Portugal recently which reminded me of another conversation we had on a flight from Frankfurt a few weeks previously. Which in turn highlighted how we might be part of a European Union, but individual countries within the EU retain their own way of doing things across many aspects of life. One which is especially noticeable to visitors is when it comes to the question of paying with cash or card.

The conversation on the Frankfurt flight was with a Swedish traveller who was ostensibly living off grid. Whenever he returned to Sweden he said was finding it increasingly difficult as it was becoming more and more of a cashless society. He told us he even had problems catching a bus as money had been banned on buses in Sweden a few years ago.

Living outside of Britain for a decade and a half we’re still used to paying both by card or by cash, depending on the situation – there are still plenty of places where you can forget flashing your card. Whenever we return to Britain, especially to cities, it’s a bit like taking a step into the future. We watch in amazement as people pay for little things like a coffee, or a pint of beer with contactless cards. This just wouldn’t happen where we’re based in Portugal.

The gulf between EU countries when it comes to how to pay for simple things is an enormous chasm, and one which can be illuminating.

A few years ago in a supermarket outside of Foralquier in Provence I nudged Andy when I saw how the person in front was spaying for the goods they’d purchased. They were slowly writing out a cheque.
“I haven’t seen anyone use one of those in over a decade,” I laughed.
Next time we were in a supermarket it happened again, and then again, and again. At that point the penny dropped. Cheques were still in vogue in France. During our most recent visit to Provence I spotted a sign on a restaurant which said ‘no credit cards, cash or cheques only.’

In Portugal, like Spain, some places only accept cash, some accept cards as well. But there can be a twist. Some of the establishments which accept cards only accept those from a Portuguese bank. I first discovered this in a Vodafone shop whilst trying to top up a portable hotspot. They didn’t accept foreign bank cards, and that’s an international brand. A restaurant we love, The Old House at Parque Das Nacoes, was regularly criticised on Tripadvisor because visiting diners were regularly ‘caught out’ as the restaurant only accepted cash or Portuguese cards. It’s not exactly what you’d call budget eats either so even when people did have some cash on them, it might not have been enough to pay the bill. On our last visit they told us they’d finally gone international.

Even in countries where cash is still king practices can be very, very different.

Germany being mostly a cash society initially came as a huge surprise. We caused a cashier in Bavaria to have a complete meltdown by trying to pay for our shopping using a bank card. It was for €70 worth of food, yet when we handed over the card the cashier looked at it with unmitigated horror. She had a card machine but had no idea how to use it; all around us other shoppers were handing over wads of notes to pay for their purchases. She actually ended up with her head in her hands and had to call for assistance from a supervisor. After that we made sure we had plenty of ‘real’ money. In some cases we were able to use cards but mostly we paid cash in restaurants, even in cities like Freiburg. Without exception, whenever visiting Germany we are given receipts without hesitation.

Which brings me to Greece, another country where cash rules supreme, but not quite in the same fashion. I mentioned receipts for a reason. When we’re working we need them. On Crete a couple of years ago this occasionally proved a contentious point. In some restaurants we had to pay by cash because ‘the card machine didn’t start working until May’ – the official start of the season (we visited in April). Asking for receipts often led to a heated debate. In one case, the owner of the poshest taxi I’ve ever been in simply refused to give us a receipt. When we stood our ground, he ripped a piece of paper from his car – a receipt for a far lesser amount from a previous journey – and threw it at us in a temper. Similar happened in a couple of supermarkets, more than once we were reluctantly handed someone else’s receipt (always for a lesser amount) when we insisted on having one. Having visited Greece many times in the past it wasn’t something we’d been particularly aware of before. But this had been the first time we needed proof of purchases. By contrast, on the island of Andros, not far from Athens, getting a receipt was never an issue. Why there should be such differences between the two islands who knows?

It’s fascinating that on the northern fringes of Europe there exists an almost cashless society whilst on its southern flank there can be more of what’s basically bordering on a money under the mattress approach.

Apart from bartering for receipts in some locations, we don’t have a problem when visiting European countries. Knowing there can be varying cultural practices, we’re prepared for both cash and card societies. The exception is moving from the north of Britain to the south and trying to use Scottish banknotes in England. But that’s a rant topic for another day.

An easy, early morning stroll beside the beach below Chora took us past a brace of proud swans and a family of geese which stood, alert, like the points of the compass, on the lookout for danger as their goslings foraged among wild flowers.

Although ridge one was barely 100m above sea level, it was enough for beads of sweat to gather on foreheads to share the view. Only 100m, yet of sufficient altitude to elevate the view of the town with its unusual ostracised rock lighthouse and broken fort to, maybe rather obviously, a different level.

Reaching ridge two at 200m turned the sweaty beads into an unruly crowd, running riotously down my face. The reward was even better views of town and a concealed cove, framed by a posse of spring blooms at their striking best.

At this point, the lowly valleys decided ridges had hogged the show enough and noisily muscled in on attempts to seduce our senses as tiny, hotchpotch Sinetti exploded into view. The cluster of pretty houses tucked into the slope on one side of the valley should have been the archetypal tranquil Greek village. However, one of the villagers had managed to procure the loudest fireworks in the history of pyrotechnics. As we descended, via narrow walkways decorated with simple chalk flowers, to a church bedecked with colourful bunting, ear-drum shattering/heart-stopping booms at unexpected intervals announced our increasingly nervy arrival.

The next valley was a far more tranquil affair, the only sounds being soothing ones from a gently gurgling brook. We’d hoped to lunch in the shade of old water mills, but the sun was high in the sky, making the shadows cast by their ruined walls too mean to use. We huddled under a slightly more generous dark band beside a dry-stone wall, which at least gave respite to hot heads if not legs. Munching our sandwiches, we traced the line of the cobbled path as it curved its way up the hillside to a point at around 500m, below the formidable walls of a natural rock fortress, where our ascending for the day would be over.

From the rocky fort we dropped on a wide, knee-friendly path through stepped terraces toward the welcoming smile of the crescent bay at Ormos Korthiu.

Mid-afternoon and Ormos Korthiu was a ghost town. The first living thing we saw was a swan which waddled from the shoreline to a shallow hollow in the centre of the sandy main street where it proceeded to have a long, leisurely dirt bath. The two cars which passed had to drive around the indulgent creature.

With our remaining water supplies more suitable for dipping a teabag into, we thirstily sought out an open taverna for some liquid that was refreshingly cool. Sanctuary was offered by Allegria, a tapas bar with shaded tables and a blackboard menu whose daily offerings were in Greek save for pizza and something called a ‘bapger’.

Using internationally recognised mime for ‘we urgently need cold beer’, two icy Hellas Fix beers were promptly ordered from a sleepy-eyed owner who had the demeanor of a friendly grandfather.
Sipping cold beer under a hot sun in a Greek taverna overlooking the sea is one of those travel moments which is akin to being able to press a big button with ‘AND RELAX’ printed across it. Both soul and thirst were quenched as time was put briefly on hold.

There was still the question of how we were going to get back to Chora from a town which, although of decent size, was doing a passable impression of the Mary Celeste. We decided to extend the feel-good factor by ordering another beer and worry about such logistics later.

I sauntered into the bar for another Fix to find the owner, head in hands at one of the tables, pushing out quiet Zs.

As I watched him snooze, mentally tossing a coin to decide whether my desire for beer was worth waking him for, I also wondered how I was going to describe this place; the term sleepy village being dismissed in travel writing as a cliché.

I opted to wake him. It was a question which required serious consideration. For that sort of pondering a beer was an essential accompaniment.

We were there to help pull together a new Slow Travel holiday for UK specialists Inntravel. It’s an island whose charms are as abundant as the wild flowers which decorate its walking routes in spring and yet, thankfully, it remains in the mainstream holiday shadows. Better known near neighbour Mykonos isn’t as pretty, so Andriots told us, but it attracts the rumbustious holiday crowd. As long as there’s sunshine and beaches then there’s a huge chunk of sun-starved travellers who don’t care for the aesthetics of pleasing countryside scenes. Which leaves Andros for those of us who do.

Over the course of a week’s walking from north to south we passed a grand total of seven other walkers. Three of these were Greek, the others were a Dutch couple we passed twice.

The glorious paths

I don’t care if I sound like a trading trail geek, but many of the paths (stenes) on Andros had us in walking raptures. We’ve tread many former merchant trails in various countries, most have had us bitching about their unevenness and toll they take on the soles of feet after numerous kilometres. Not so on Andros where many paths consist of wide, flat stones – veritable walking avenues you could stroll along in your walking finery. Flanked by the most elaborate dry-stone walls we’ve seen they are works of art, and beautifully maintained by a group of dedicated, passionate volunteers, Andros Routes.

Green scene

Underground springs keep Andros green even when there hasn’t been a cloud in that intense Greek blue sky for weeks. The gurgling from springs and streams was a common accompaniment on our walks across hill, dale and ravine after ravine. There are oaks, chestnut trees, maples, hawthorns and poplars as well as figs and that proud evergreen which adds a distinctive Mediterranean stamp to vistas, cypress trees. Each route we walked threw up different landscapes. At some point every morning we’d clamber onto a wall for an energy-giving cereal bar hit and spend some quiet moments enjoying whatever green scenes lay before our eyes.

History

Similar to our experiences of walking on Crete, the island’s past felt close at all times. The paths themselves are an obvious link to former times. But Venetian bridges; ancient ruins; perfectly preserved towers from 3rd century BC; intriguingly fancy dovecotes and hundreds upon hundreds of small churches all add their tales, painting an evocative picture of island life. For example, the multitudinous churches exist because this is an island with a seafaring heritage; everyone needs to have a place close by in which to pray for the safety of loved ones at sea.

Quaint harbours

A Greek island wouldn’t be a Greek island if there weren’t harbours backed by tavernas. What made me smile on Andros is that places described by some as bustling and busy seemed more on the tranquil and sleepy side to us. But we were there in April rather than summer. Gavrio, where the ferry arrives, isn’t the prettiest Greek harbour around, but as ferry ports go it isn’t bad. Basti is closer to stereotype whilst the place in the picture above was described in some literature we read as “everywhere apartment complexes are being built…” Not the impression we got as we sat at a taverna opposite the sea on a road so quiet a swan took up residence in a hollow in the centre of the dusty street.

The other island

There’s something special about archipelagos where neighbouring islands are visible; in former times being able to see other lands must have woken many travel bugs and launched countless mini odysseys. As we walked from north to south, on the horizon drawing our gaze was a mysterious island with a lone peak. Gyaros has no water or trees and was a concentration camp for political prisoners up until as recently as 1974. What’s unsettling is it remains completely out of bounds, even fishermen are not allowed into the waters around the island.

It’s sophisticated

I come from a small island. There are certain traits small places completely enclosed by water share, no matter where they are. There’s an insularity which can be both positive and negative. Andros felt as though it broke the mould. For a tiny island it seemed surprisingly sophisticated, especially in Chora, the main town, where many restaurants and coffee shops had a more cosmopolitan style than I’d expect. The Athenian influence may be a factor. But being an island of mariners as well as having links to the shipping industry, and therefore a travelling mentality, must also have helped shaped its character. Whatever the reason, it made it quite different from other islands I’ve visited.

People with big personalities

This might be linked to above. As well as being bend-over-backwards friendly, many of the local people we met were smart, interesting, direct (as a Scot it’s something I always respond well to) and with big personalities. People seemed passionate about their island and also about sustainable tourism. Even the clergy surprised me. On one occasion we watched two playful Greek Orthodox priests ‘steal’ food from each other’s table to give to their own flock. In a monastery high in the hills, a young priest invited us in for coffee and sweets; possibly the first time I’ve ever been in a place of worship that actually felt more like a welcoming sanctuary.

Feasting on local food

Arriving the night before Easter Sunday, we were invited to the family Easter Sunday dinner at our accommodation. Having to almost run around our first walking route in order to make it back in time for a 2pm lunch date, we found ourselves surrounded by generations of family and friends, none of whom apart from our hostess could speak English. Thankfully, embarrassing attempts at trying to communicate were interrupted by a feast which included a full lamb, buckets of tzatziki, country sausages, fried liver, Greek salad, trays of spinach and feta pies, and potent home-made wine. It was a good introduction to Andros’ culinary scene.

Full of flowers

Being spring, the island was looking at its colourful best; many paths were lined by a scarlet poppy army. Perfumed orange blossom and the sweet aroma of ripe figs are fragrances I associate with Greek islands anyway, but on an island with a thousand types of plants, 400 species of mushrooms and over 170 varieties of herbs; the Andros air is scented with so much more than orange blossom and figs.

Chora

The biggest town on the island Chora, aka Andros Town, boasts not one but two sandy beaches, and the main town doesn’t back either. Instead, it runs from the ruins of an old fort across a dodgy looking bride and along a ridge inland. It’s curious and unlike any other Greek coastal town we’d seen before. But as picturesque Greek coastal villages are ten a penny, it makes it stand out from the pretty crowd and in many ways gave it extra depth and made it more of an interesting place to explore.

As he drove us to the ferry at the end of our visit, Dino, the owner of apartments we stayed at on the outskirts of Chora, sort of summed up Andros after asking which other Greek Islands we’d visited.

“So until now you’ve only been to the touristy islands.”

Eyeless cockroaches – Cueva del Viento, Tenerife
Once you’ve been told the cave, or volcanic tube to be more exact, was once home to eyeless cockroaches and giant rats it’s hard to banish thoughts of mutant creepy crawlies from your mind. It’s especially difficult when you can see webs which show that insects of some sort still inhabit the Cueva del Viento on Tenerife. Stretching 18km, it’s one of the longest of its type in the world. A guided tour makes it feel more comfortable and the beasties are now extinct… or so scientists believe. There’s still a lot of cave to be explored, so who knows what really lies in its darkest depths. At one point visitors are asked to switch off head torches – the blackness which falls is as complete as you can imagine. Nothing exists, nothing. I became only what lay inside my head… and then my stomach rumbled loudly and all philosophic pondering was stopped rudely in its tracks.

A mythical creature – Cyclop’s Cave, Crete
Google ‘Polyphemus Cave’ and a few different locations come up. I’m discounting the one in Alexandroupoli as fake as those who have visited it describe it as a den. The one we scrabbled our way up a hillside to above Sougia in western Crete was the size of a small cathedral inside. Neither did it have hordes of tourist scouring about looking, as I did, for human bones which had been picked dry by a hungry, one-eyed giant. It’s not easy to get to if you’re not reasonably fit. It’s also ideally placed for flinging rocks at an escaping ship as described in Homer’s Odyssey. And, unlike another Cyclop’s Cave in Sicily, a giant could easily roll a boulder across the entrance to trap ‘dinner’ inside. But the entrance is a problem. A Cyclops may be able to stand tall and proud once inside, but there’s no way he could squeeze his bulk through the small entrance which makes the cave hard to find. Maybe there’d been a rockfall or two since Odysseus made his escape clinging to the underside of a sheep.

Bats – Phra Nang Nai Cave, Krabi Thailand
Phra Nang Nai Cave in Krabi looks as though it’s been tarted up so it’s all bright, shiny and tourist friendly. When we made the attempt to walk the fifteen minutes or so it was supposed to take from its inland entrance to the beach things were very different. There were no lights, no entrance fee, no other tourists and we had no torch. But there was a wooden walkway, visible in the faint light from the entrance. After a few minutes on the rickety walkway we were engulfed by a black hole, the way forward an impenetrable inky curtain. It would have been silent apart from intermittent odd noises in the darkness, sometimes alarmingly close, at other times a flutter in the distance. With each ginger step the noises grew in intensity until our nerve broke and we turned and bolted for the entrance pursued by a dense, erratic cloud – the resident colony of bats.

A ghost – Ajuy, Fuerteventura
What could be scary about a sea cave visited by bus loads of excursionists daily? Ajuy Caves on Fuerteventura is hardly a hidden natural oddity. But the steep access reduces the number of people who actually explore these enormous caves. Plus, the second cave takes a bit of agile scrambling to get to, cutting numbers even further. It is here, in the damp murky interior where a smaller cave leads deeper into the rock, the atmosphere morphs from an interesting natural attracting to something more unnerving. A strange aura hangs in the air, the sea (maybe, maybe it isn’t) sounds like the whisper of the corsairs and pirates who were said to have carried out their illicit trade in the caves. Maybe an overactive imagination caused my spine to go all shiver me timbers. All I know is there’s a Ghostbuster-esque slimer on the photos I took in there.

Ice sculptures – Dachstein, Austria
With names like Castle of the Holy Grail and King Arthur’s Dome, the Dachstein Ice Cave in Saltzkammergut could easily have fallen into the overly sanitised, theme cave category. But it doesn’t. For a start, maybe stating the obvious given what makes it an attraction, it’s cold, -2C. Even warmer water which makes it way into the cave in summer months can only make minor adjustments to the naturally forming gigantic blue ice sculptures before it too becomes part of the exhibit. It is an enchanting cave with a hard edge, the sort of place where Game of Thrones’ Night King would throw a party for his undead legions. As a bonus, the mountain which hosts it is full of other quirks – a mammoth cave, the five finger viewing platform… a shark.

Blind faith – somewhere in Sheffield
The first proper cave I entered was whilst on a works outward bound course in the Peak District. I can’t remember which cave, possibly because the experience erased it from my memory. Not that it was bad… not for me at least. One girl had to be carted out of the cave after suffering a serious anxiety attack. To be fair, it was intense; that was the point. Two memories remain deeply etched into my brain. The first involved crawling through a gap where the roof of the cave was only a few inches above my back and my hard-hatted head kept scraping the rock. I couldn’t shake the thought if the earth shifted even slightly, we’d be trapped underground. The second involved using a rope to descend into a black abyss, so black it was impossible to see the bottom. When it was my turn I lowered myself backwards, feet edging backwards down the rock face until a voice from the darkness instructed me to stop, lower my feet from the rock and then to let go even though I couldn’t see terra firma below. It required total trust. I did what was instructed and fell… about three inches before my feet made contact with the ground. It was quite bizarre, and immensely liberating.

What do you find when you venture into the deep, dark depths of caves?

You never know until you take the plunge and delve into the blackness.