Olive Oil To Grease The Wheels – TNT Magazine
Olive Oil to Grease the Wheels
Jay Houhlias gets on his bike
Crete, the big old Island at the bottom of the Mediterranean, is the largest of the Greek Islands. This makes it, in relative terms, big enough for an adventure, but small enough to travel around in reasonable time.
I had just over two weeks, and I decided to see Crete by bike, push bike that is. I’m old school.
I am half Greek myself, although a very sloppy half, and most would not consider me Greek at all. I spent a lot of time in in Khalkidhiki, eastern Greece, where my family was from, in a fishing village where not much happened.
Because of this, I associated Greece with tiny towns of Priests sitting on steps after Church finished smoking cigarettes, local people shrugging and pursing their lips, frappes, large men drinking frappes, street markets, abandoned scaffolding, the smell of melting tar from the road and people driving on both sides of that road because over taking was just as common as driving normally.
So I had my expectations about coming to Crete. However, upon arriving in Chania on the west, I was surprised to find a very modern, English accommodating and speaking society.
It’s considered a tourist town, but I still did not find it so. It was, like most other coastal European places, with its shops selling the same clothes and trinkets, but it was toned down and reasonable.
Its low rise, suburban streets on the ocean with the mountains in the background gave it a special quality of togetherness. In most cities you cannot see boundaries, only endless streets and suburbs. Chania is encapsulated by sea on one side and mountains on the other giving it definitive borders and definitive pride of place. I think anyway.
From Chania, I made my way east to Panormo in the region of Rethymno where I met Manos, owner of Joyride Bike. His place is in The Royal Blue Resort. It looks like one of those places James Bond might go when meeting up with a contact in the Caribbean. Manos offers bike rentals as well as day and multi day tours.
I got to know some trails in Panormo while I stayed at his friend Manolis’ place, Philoxenia Apartments (of course Manos knew a guy), a beautiful spot right in the middle of Panormo.
Manolis even let me leave my second luggage bag with him while I would be galivanting around the island. He gave me the passcode for the room door and trusted me completely despite having met me only a few hours ago. It is these kindnesses which make all the difference to your experience in a new place.
Manos took me to dinner the first night at the best local seafood restaurant. The salads came out and Manos took the olive oil from the table.
“Jay,” he said as he coated the salad, “I hope you like olive oil. In Crete, it comes free with all the meals.”
Most of the tavernas have their olive oil in reusable glass containers and this is how you know it’s good. It means it comes from local sources. It’s a far stronger, richer taste, but it makes anything exclusive and grand. I got to a point where I put it on everything, even the rock melon.
I had already eaten more lamb and goat than I ever have in my life, and I eat a lot of meat. Goat meat is sour and gamier, but the way the Cretan’s cook it extinguishes any sourness or gaminess. They just put everything in an oven or big pot and slow cook it with olive oil and lemon. It ends up tasting like melted chocolate.
Dining in Cretan tavernas is as much about the relaxation as it is about the food. Once you finish eating, you can just sit, and the waiters (Manos’ friends) give you complimentary deserts and treats. Fresh fruit was the main thing, and then there was the raki, the Greek spirit (inner spirit and alcohol spirit).
We stayed late the first night drinking and talking. I brought up an observation about Cretan culture because I felt qualified speaking on it after being there a week. I said it seemed everyone works all kinds of jobs here, regardless of who they are. Work seemed indiscriminate.
In our English speaking societies, I notice there is often an unwillingness to work a certain job because of who you are; if you have a university degree, you should never take a casual job at a supermarket; if you’re a beautiful girl, you should never work as a cleaner; if you’re an engineer, you should never work as a bike instructor.
“Here,” Manos explained, “there is never any shame in work. If you work, and contribute to society, then we will be proud of you. If you sweep the floor or clean the streets or take the garbage, you are helping society.”
“What is shameful is if you do nothing, if you are just leeching off everyone. That is the shame. But if you choose to work, we will be proud of you. You are doing something.”
It made me feel good about having to take off jobs to support myself. I never felt bad about it, but sometimes it’s tiring having to constantly fight against the rest of your society’s expectations.
On the morning of my departure, Manos provided me with everything I needed – some tools in case anything went wrong, tire pump, covers and cases. I would be liaising with him via phone along the way.
My first route was the inland path to Heraklion, a fair slog until the last 8 or so kilometres which was all downhill. Because of the elevation, it was difficult predicting journey times. The first half of the journey (in kms) would take 4 and a half hours while the last half would take thirty minutes.
The small towns along the way have at least one café or taverna, and everybody goes there. You feel you’re entering a deserted town only to realise it’s full of life, just concentrated in that one cafe. Coming into these lively establishments after riding alone always amped my faith in humanity for some reason.
Heraklion is the working hub of Crete. I visited the Palace of Knossos and walked around the city centre. The historical centre loops in a big circle and is full of cafes and tavernas and orange brick.
City of Heraklion and its surrounding suburbs
Because I had departed Panormo early afternoon and the ride had been hard, I was tired and decided to take the easy coastal road to my next stop, Malia. Manos warned me about Malia being trashy touristy, even dangerous. But the allure of a cheap hotel and short ride time was too much, and I went anyway.
No surprise, it was a party town. All along the coastal road from Heraklion were similar kinds of towns too, built up in the same way, flashing shops and souvenir places, loud music too.
Its streets were full of people either going to or coming from some kind of party. While it wasn’t nice, it was fine for me as I collapsed into bed and woke up for a swim and breakfast, then left.
I was off to the east, a place called Agios Nikolas, one of the first built up cities of Crete. It is also one of the first tourist hubs, but unlike the places along the coast from Heraklion, had a great reputation.
Manos said it would be a hard ride, and it was. From Malia I headed straight south, inland, up the mountain. I was riding up slopes for three hours, and, unashamedly, I did hop off my bike and walk a fair bit. Nothing screams desperation and pathetic-ness more than someone walking with a bike.
It’s funny because if you’re on the bike riding up a hill, nobody cares. You are simply a machine and can take care of yourself. As soon as you hop off and start walking, people driving past all slow down and stare at you concernedly, asking “Are you ok?” through the glass of their windows.
Manos gave me a tip and it was don’t look up. If you looked up, you began analysing the mountains and how much further up you’ve got to go. If you constantly track it feels infinitely longer and harder. Your analysis might also include thinking, ‘I wonder if the trail I’m doing goes up that mountain.’
This is a bad idea because if you can see a mountain, you’ll have to go over it. No matter how much you convince yourself it’s not your route, if you see it, you’re climbing it. Crete is not big enough to gaze at mountains in the distance and think how lucky you are you don’t need to cross them.
The hills were at times relentless, but they always gave back something for my effort. Every uphill must come down, and every downhill must go up. I believe it’s derived from an ancient concept called ‘Yin and Yang’, or ‘You get in what you put out’, or ‘Fuck you hills and Fuck yeah hills’.
City of Heraklion and its surrounding suburbs
It means, even while you’re sending it down a hill, not being able to hear anything because of the wind and gleeful screaming, a part of you is worried for the trade off, the steep hill you’ll have to climb in return. Similarly, during a steep climb, a part of you is excited because you know you’re going to be sending it soon.
But it’s sometimes tiring going downhill too, particularly on mountain bike tracks. You have to really focus. You have to sit up on your bike and lean back, putting strain on your quads, and your mind has to be only on what’s in front of you. As soon as you look too far ahead, you make an error. Your bike skids and demands your attention.
It was always the medium sized rocks that got me. The large ones are stable and won’t budge, the small ones you just roll over, but the medium ones will do the worst of both.
But, unharmed, I rode into Agios Nikolas, the great port city. I spent two nights there and found some real gems of local businesses.
My shoulders were killing me, and I really needed a massage. I found a place in the main square called Biorama. When I entered, I realised it was a different kind of wellness place. The whole interior was a recycled health beacon. The walls were made from literal reused soap from the local hotels, and it was built amongst old caves from WW1. It smelt like health and goodness and was exactly what I needed.
After Agios Nikolas I headed directly south. I stopped putting on deodorant at this point. I was sweating so much it was pointless. I got so used to living in my saturated shirt and pants I think I surpassed being smelly.
The sweat just dried and I kept sweating. I was a super-efficient filtration system, and because I was sweating so heavily, the sweat itself lost its oomph, I think, I hope. Ah well, doesn’t matter now. You know you’re hot when a car passes you and its exhaust fumes are refreshing.
I got a massage in their salt room. I spoke with the therapist about how I was riding with a backpack around the island, and she emphasised the importance of stretching by simply saying, “Your shoulders are not ok.”
I also came across one of the most ornate and beautiful pottery shops I had ever seen. I met the owner, Nic Gabriel, whom it turns out, is a renowned artist with his work displayed all around the world.
We chatted and I bought a pot from him to send home to my mother because she loves authentic stuff, and here I was in Crete, watching Nic paint his pottery on his desk, so pretty authentic.
This here is a Greek coffee. Beautiful isn’t it? I was told by another person my age no Greek drinks Greek coffee, except your grandad. I believe Grandad’s know things though.
The Greek coffee is a magnanimous nectar which looks like someone stuck a cup in the dirt after a day’s rain. They make it in a pot over a stove, and when the water boils to a point it starts rising, then they take it off and pour it with the grounds. The grind needs to be extra fine to give it that dirty, muddy texture.
I asked a man at a café what the secret was to making Greek coffee.
“Whenever I try making it, I grind it super fine,” I said, “but it never tastes the same.”
“I think it’s the way they make the coffee bean,” he said subversively, “it’s different.”
That was all he revealed. I think he’s hiding something.
I reached the south coast, a place called Myrtos, a small seaside community. The southern environment was rockier, drier, wilder.
From Myrtos I took the coastal route to Tsoutsouros, and from there I headed up and inland. I reached the top of a treacherously dry hill. I had run out of water even after filling up at a natural spring thirty minutes ago.
The village at the top of the hill was deserted, only a few houses and buildings. I rode through and found a building with an open door. It was a kind of church and café and there was a lady inside. She was alone and calmly cutting up a big hunk of goat meat.
“Nero?” (Greek for water) I asked, exasperated.
She poured a glass of water and handed it to me as I pulled out my card. She looked at the foreign thing.
“No card?” I asked, and she shook her head. I handed back the glass and she put her hand up, almost offended. She pointed to a table where she wanted me to sit. She went over to her stove and motioned at her pot of coffee, “Café?”
She made me a Greek coffee with some treats, and her wanting anything for it on my end was once again offensive. I sat down drinking while she finished cutting up this hunk of goat. She spoke no English, so we just sat in the dark room in the heat of the early afternoon. It was really lovely and so was she.
Things like this happened a few times, wanting coffee and not having cash, then they’d just give it to me for free.
“Sit,” they’d say, “please, no cash it’s ok, doesn’t matter,”
It seems they view coffee not as a speciality commodity, but like table water at a restaurant, just plain decency.
From the hills of the south I headed inland toward the Messara Plain, the largest plain in Crete. This was beautiful, not only because it was farmland, but because it was flat. I listened to music as I cruised along barely peddling.
I don’t travel with cash, and haven’t since, well, ever. I would always say, “Is card ok?”
Then the café owners would say, “Ah no, only cash.”
Then I would say, “Ahh,” then attempt to leave, to which the café owner would eventually say, “Ah ok card is ok,” and they would whip out their card machine.
The Greeks are either very relaxed or very not relaxed. They either shout words at speeds incomprehensible or are so chill they merely use sound effects, grunts, eyebrow raises and shrugs to convey meaning.
People play with what’s in front of them, living the practical as best they can. You connect with people better this way, you see the human in them as they adapt to what’s around them, engaging in the world rather than just default falling back into what’s been established.
Hariklia was a most relaxed host and let me stay well into the afternoon on my check out day. It was a place I could see myself living one day. You could cook yourself breakfast in the communal kitchen and sit out the front eating, looking over the water, feeling the morning begin to heat up.
From here, I was headed back to Panormo. Coming back to the Joyride Bike shop I saw Manos there, in all his glory, shirt off and cigarette hanging from his mouth, working on some bikes. We went out for an early dinner and spoke about where I’d gone and what I’d done.
He listened with a smile, then said I need to come back and do the rest. I’d gone to some cool places and seen some cool things yes, but Manos believed Crete has much more to offer.
He is planning new routes all the time, and he has many returning customers who like to plan multi day trips with him. For these, Manos joins the tour and takes his riders to all his local spots and routes. They ride, they eat, they drink, they fall asleep satisfied and sore from their exercise, then they wake up and do it all again.
I said I’ll be back and it was not just one of those things you say to be nice or to smooth conversation. I will be back, perhaps next time as a little more of a Greek, or a little more of a Cretan.
My last stop was Agia Galini. One of the best rides was coming into this village. It swerved down gradually and I, as a cyclist, was quicker than the cars. That felt good.
The village is a small port amongst steep cliffs. Down at the water were all the restaurants, and above, the streets wound up to hotels and houses, white and blue. I stayed at Hotel Hariklia, a family run hotel by Hariklia, another friend of Manos’.
The place was stunning, overlooking the statues of Daedalus and Icarus beside the ancient amphitheatre which still hosts different events today.
Something I really got to cherish about Crete was how little bureaucracy there was, how little attention they gave to being by the book.
Image Credit: Cora Unk Photo (Shutterstock.com)
Find out more about the places on my journey at:
https://joyride.bike/ – Bike rental and tours with Manos
https://www.philoxenia-apartments.gr/ – Manolis’ accommodation in Panormo
https://www.hotelhariklia.gr/ – Hariklia’s Hotel in Agia Galini
https://www.bioaromacrete.com/ – Wellness centre in Agios Nikolas
https://www.ateliernicgabriel.com/ – Nic’s studio in Agios Nikolas
