Maisie and I trekked across the open scrub land in search of an ancient palace which we had spotted on a map. We had taken the local bus from Heraklion which was quite different from the tour buses we had used on previous days. It was full of locals returning from the market, men in flat caps and women in black dresses with baskets loaded with produce.
The bus was hot and stuffy with the smell of unwashed humanity. The top windows were open, letting in the hot dusty air. We were jolted along the road on seats hard and shiny from years of wear. Maisie asked the driver to let us know when we got to our stop, but we were unsure whether he had understood us, so we gazed out of the dirt encrusted windows trying to spot our destination.
Eventually, the bus stopped. No one moved. The driver shouted something incomprehensible and people looked at us and gestured. We staggered to the front of the bus, stiff after the uncomfortable journey and uttered our thanks to the driver. He nodded, raising his eyebrows as if we were crazy.
We stood by the side of the road as the bus drove off in a cloud of dust. We were in the middle of barren countryside. It was late morning by now and getting hotter, but a breeze raised our spirits after the intense stuffiness of the bus.
Maisie studied her map, consulted her compass and set off on an upward path. Rough grasses and thistles scratched our sandalled feet.
“It’s over that hill,” she said encouragingly. I noted with relief that there were trees up ahead; however, when we reached them, they were gnarled and leafless and provided scant cover.
We plodded up the lower slopes, stopping frequently to rest and sip water. Gradually, I became aware of beautiful, haunting music, quite unlike anything I had heard before. Nearing the summit of the hill, sitting on a rock under the shade of a bush, I saw an unkempt man playing a wooden shepherd’s flute. He was dressed in old clothes, his long hair tied back with a piece of string. He smiled and muttered a greeting before reaching into an old cotton bag at his feet, producing a lump of bread which he broke and held it out to us. I stepped back, but Maisie smiled and took the bread, giving her thanks. He delved in the bag again and offered cheese and a drink of water from his old leather flask. Maisie didn’t hesitate and expressed her pleasure at the gesture.
We left him playing his music and descended the other side of the hill where we could see our destination spread out before us, between the coastal plain and the distant and intensely blue sea.
“Why did you do that?” I asked. “Nothing looked very clean. You could be ill.”
“But it’s his hospitality – to share his food and drink with strangers. It would have been impolite to refuse. I expect he’s a goatherd having a break.”
I nodded. All around, goats clambered around, rooting for grass on the hillside.
Arriving at our destination, we examined the palace in detail, following our guidebook and shading from the sun under the rudimentary shelters placed randomly around the site. We climbed the ancient staircase, touching the weathered walls, and sat on stone Minoan benches before descending the steps to the King’s “lustral basin”, a square tank sunk into the ground. Tired but happy, we walked down to the coast road, to wait for a bus to take us back.
The next day, we had tickets for a grand open-air concert at the castle. We got there early and sat in the front row on hard, wooden seats from where we could look up and see the stars. A warm breeze was blowing.
There was a hush as the main soloist was announced, followed by rapturous applause. He came out in evening dress, his glossy dark hair brushed back from his face. In his hands, he held an exquisite silver flute. It was the man we had taken for a goatherd. I nudged Maisie, but she had already realised and was transfixed.
The audience was silent and he began to play. When he had finished, he looked straight at Maisie. Plucking a flower from his buttonhole, he blew her a kiss and threw her the rose.
The bus was hot and stuffy with the smell of unwashed humanity. The top windows were open, letting in the hot dusty air. We were jolted along the road on seats hard and shiny from years of wear. Maisie asked the driver to let us know when we got to our stop, but we were unsure whether he had understood us, so we gazed out of the dirt encrusted windows trying to spot our destination.
Eventually, the bus stopped. No one moved. The driver shouted something incomprehensible and people looked at us and gestured. We staggered to the front of the bus, stiff after the uncomfortable journey and uttered our thanks to the driver. He nodded, raising his eyebrows as if we were crazy.
We stood by the side of the road as the bus drove off in a cloud of dust. We were in the middle of barren countryside. It was late morning by now and getting hotter, but a breeze raised our spirits after the intense stuffiness of the bus.
Maisie studied her map, consulted her compass and set off on an upward path. Rough grasses and thistles scratched our sandalled feet.
“It’s over that hill,” she said encouragingly. I noted with relief that there were trees up ahead; however, when we reached them, they were gnarled and leafless and provided scant cover.
We plodded up the lower slopes, stopping frequently to rest and sip water. Gradually, I became aware of beautiful, haunting music, quite unlike anything I had heard before. Nearing the summit of the hill, sitting on a rock under the shade of a bush, I saw an unkempt man playing a wooden shepherd’s flute. He was dressed in old clothes, his long hair tied back with a piece of string. He smiled and muttered a greeting before reaching into an old cotton bag at his feet, producing a lump of bread which he broke and held it out to us. I stepped back, but Maisie smiled and took the bread, giving her thanks. He delved in the bag again and offered cheese and a drink of water from his old leather flask. Maisie didn’t hesitate and expressed her pleasure at the gesture.
We left him playing his music and descended the other side of the hill where we could see our destination spread out before us, between the coastal plain and the distant and intensely blue sea.
“Why did you do that?” I asked. “Nothing looked very clean. You could be ill.”
“But it’s his hospitality – to share his food and drink with strangers. It would have been impolite to refuse. I expect he’s a goatherd having a break.”
I nodded. All around, goats clambered around, rooting for grass on the hillside.
Arriving at our destination, we examined the palace in detail, following our guidebook and shading from the sun under the rudimentary shelters placed randomly around the site. We climbed the ancient staircase, touching the weathered walls, and sat on stone Minoan benches before descending the steps to the King’s “lustral basin”, a square tank sunk into the ground. Tired but happy, we walked down to the coast road, to wait for a bus to take us back.
The next day, we had tickets for a grand open-air concert at the castle. We got there early and sat in the front row on hard, wooden seats from where we could look up and see the stars. A warm breeze was blowing.
There was a hush as the main soloist was announced, followed by rapturous applause. He came out in evening dress, his glossy dark hair brushed back from his face. In his hands, he held an exquisite silver flute. It was the man we had taken for a goatherd. I nudged Maisie, but she had already realised and was transfixed.
The audience was silent and he began to play. When he had finished, he looked straight at Maisie. Plucking a flower from his buttonhole, he blew her a kiss and threw her the rose.