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Published: August 2nd 2012
Like delectable smoked salmon bwtween two slices of stale bread Hotel Thodorou sits right in the middle of the hectic resort strip West of Xania.
For those of you who have been following our progress you probably last remember the phone call in the rain in Cornwall which precipitated this journey. It hadn't augered well. Incessant heavy rain had caused immense flooding in our neck of the woods in West Dorset and our journey to London was fraught with flood signs and redirections. Our arrival at Masslink Guest House on the infamous Massetts Road in Horley was less than propitious. We were greeted with a maniacal landlady, a cross between Basil Fawlty and one of Bill Bryson's landladies in Notes from a Small Island, ranting and raving about the Bongo and how we should have let her know it wasn't a car and it took up two parking spaces. In vain we tried to reason with her that in fact it was no longer or wider than most medium sized cars, higher I grant you, but to no avail.
We were on the point of walking out and telling her to stuff her accommodation and
parking but common sense overcome the irritation and we meekly paid more for parking and sloped off to our room, reeling from the unexpectedness of it and wondering when the customer is always right maxim had gone out of style! We consoled ourselves with some good Italian food at Il Sosirro, where indeed smiles were in order and the delicious crab, shrimp and mozzarella stuffed pockets of ravioli went a long way to restoring our equilibrium.
At any rate, the rest passed without event and here we were after an awfully early start, (who has heard of Aurelea Airlines/Small Planet Airlines anyway?) plonked in the Mediterranean at this very pleasant hotel in a basic but comfortable room with a kitchenette 100 yeards from the beach and pool.
Agia Marina, where daily migratory flocks of bronze-plumaged birds descend on the sands. Their mating rituals easily visible as they jump, swoop and stretch for the balls repetitively batted, showing flashes of blue, orange and yellow as they aim for dominance.
An incessant rhythm accompanies the daily show, pulsing and pulsating and as the sun sets creating a soft, pink light they have flown.
'This is not real Crete,' we had been told by Sharon the rep on the journey to the hotel, 'all these shops and tavernas shut down in Winter. This is a ghost town. You'll have to get into the mountains and villages to experience real Crete.'
This is probably why we 'don't do' arranged package holidays, to travel cheek by jowl with a disparate group of tourists eager for their day in the sun.
The excitement of the magical mystery tour was waning. My determination not to research to death our destination had been made easy by not having known it! As we hurried down for Graeme's first swim since his Arctic plunge into the waters off Burton Bradstock some months ago we were faced with the 'golden sands.' Maybe by European standards but rather dirty-brown by Australian and of course rows upon rows of sunbeds and umbrellas.
Graeme plonks his stuff down on a blue and white striped sunbed by the water. 'They'll charge us,' I say. A look of sheer disbelief crosses his face, but I remember from another life how indeed this is true.
We wander the length of the beach searching for a real Greek taverna. We eventually find Katos at the end, tables balanced out over the seawall on boards nestled between ancient Cypress partially hidden by huge urns.
A full platter of fried zucchini/courgette strips, aubergines/eggplant and mushrooms meant I barely was able to tackle the seafood salad. A fresh catch of the day somewhat smothered and overpowered by an admittedly tasty Greek tomato sauce was Graeme's choice. The utterly beautiful Romanian girls who served us were lured here by jobs and good weather. Mostly by jobs! Getta said,
'Things not so good. (in Romania) I work but little money. My first year here but he ask me to come back in January.'
The Greek economy in tatters but providing hope and employment to Romanians which sure beats the terrible trafficking of prostitutes that fills our newspapers and literature. The vagaries of the European community.
Graeme and I sat there admiring the sunset over the water towards Thodorou Island or Kri Kri Island home to the goats of the same name. A scrubby, rocky outcrop with a few shepherd's huts and
the invisible goats. Too small to spot, too far away.
We talked of past family holidays as the sun darkened and we contemplated another plunge in the warm waves lapping at our feet. The hotel pool, out of bounds at this hour, was too inviting and we disturbed its smooth surfac with our wallowings.
Shelling out our five Euros the next day we sat and contemplated on the sunbeds. Ladies what massage were patrolling the beach. Repeatedly soliciting business. What credentials? Questionable.
Men with boobs walk by, a four year old blonde girl, her hair scraped back in corn rows races to the water clutching a blow-up seal far larger than herself. A bronzed father and son play tackle with a multi-coloured football, the father increasing his pace to sweep the ball from the son's feet. Refreshing to see virgin skin unsullied by ink and trite remarks or quotations.
'I'm just going for a stroll around the headland.' I stop aghast; umbrellas and sunbeds as far as the eye can see. We really are right in the middle of resort heaven, or hell, depending on whose point of
view you take. I retreat to the pool to do a hundred laps and contemplate our next move.
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The Travel Camel
Shane Dallas
Heaven or hell
I'd vote for hell myself, but I'm sure others could argue the opposite. The low-light photos in this blog are gorgeous!