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Today was a day of beauty and frustrations. Our plan was to walk to the Preveli Monastery, where the abbot and monks have a long history of supporting Cretan independence, and where many Australian and
We had found a website with detailed notes on how to walk over the mountains close to the sea to reach this spot - only 8 km from Plakias. The detail was amazing – ‘you will see a group of carob trees in the distance, walk towards them until you find two great rocks with a gap between them….’ I also drew a copy of the map with the trails on it. The only problem was that the first headland we had to cross had no notes and there was a lot of recent agricultural development, so there were houses and fences where the note writer had probably found none.
Not to be deterred, nor to have to go back to Plakias and take the 14 km route by road, we decided to go through some gates that blocked the tracks and up through an olive grove. At the end of the olive grove the track ceased, so we went through a fence into a large field of long grass with invisible rocks and ploughing ridges throughout. We could see in one corner of the paddock a broken fence near a road below, so we headed for that. In my mind I was recalling a conversation with Greg in which he had told us that most rural Cretans hunt and have guns, also that they are pretty trigger happy. I hoped we were not trampling some precious crop and that the farmer was elsewhere at that moment. Later, Johannes told us that the farmers are fine with people passing through their lands, as long as they put the fences back together as they found them.
Just as I started to step over the broken fence, a lady appeared, and I lost balance and fell head on. Naturally I said I was fine, and she gave us some directions to the Monastery using the road, but added that it was a long way and would take over two hours. We washed my bleeding elbow and ignored the growing lump on my knee, and set off at a faster pace along the road. We seemed to walk on endlessly, twice more receiving directions from women who all said it was a long way and at least two hours. All our walking seemed to be getting us nowhere.
At last we saw a sign leading to the Skineria beach - the spot where the detailed notes for our walk started. We asked if we could get to the monastery that way and the answer was yes, but it would take over two hours, and that we were too late in the day to attempt it and return. We set off anyway, since the beach was only two km away according to a signpost. It was a very long two km and we could see that for much of the time as we wound up the mountain, we were undoing the progress that we had made on the road.
The views were absolutely magnificent, with the patchwork of farmlands in the valley below and the mountains rising behind. Every now and then we would glimpse the sea and an idyllic inlet. Once again privatisation and progress was ahead of the walking notes, so we took turns that looked to be in the right direction, but which always ended up doubling back in climbing over the peaks. It was a particular handicap that we had no idea of where we were actually heading for in terms of over how many hills and how far back from the sea, nor what the monastery actually looked like.
We set off with renewed vigour when a man, from whom we had sought advice, waved vaguely in the direction we were going. In reality, we were so far from anywhere that there was no going back and no giving up. Time was marching on remorselessly. At last we saw something mentioned in the notes and felt a glow of triumph. Were those ‘the’ carob trees? Could those rocks, set amongst thousands, be the ones mentioned? It didn’t matter since we had no way of reaching them and tramped on along the rapidly deteriorating road.
At least an hour later we reached the spot where the notes said you would catch a glimpse of the monastery and we saw, with great relief, what appeared to be a very large monastery complex far below in a valley. The notes had ceased at this point so we were sure this was our destination. Continuing along for another 45 minutes, this time down hill, my leg started to play up and complain about having been injured, forcing us to go more slowly. At last we emerged, not at the monastery, but at a village where the villagers pointed out the uphill road to the monastery, over another mountain! The sign said 1500 metres, so that cheered us until, after at least another kilometre, another sign said 1500 metres to the monastery! Johannes told us later that the signs are wrong (!) and that it is really six km from that village. No wonder a shepherd had just waved his stick in the right direction and looked amazed at us.
Once again the road looped back on itself in a zig zag so we decided to take a short cut by scrambling down a not too steep slope. That ended us nearer to what we had finally really glimpsed; the real Preveli Monastery, but in a fully fenced no go zone. Once again there was no going back so we had to climb down a small cliff which Keith did successfully but which I managed with assistance for a bit but then slid down, at least with only minor scratches. Nevertheless, my clothes told the tale of my adventures so I tried to clean them up a bit for our arrival.
The monastery has some ancient parts which are used for monks’ quarters, and a fairly new church where a service was in progress. Standing outside, there was silence all around save for the melodic chanting. The sun was sliding beneath the horizon and the blurring colours of early dusk were creeping over the mountains and the sea. We went into the church for a while, listening to readings and chanting, and looking at the enormous array of icons. Some Greek people had come up from the village to the monastery to attend the service. They had driven there along the perfect road leading out of the opposite side to the one we had approached from.
The courtyards of the monastery are immaculately paved, having been restored after the reprisal destruction by the Germans in 1941. There is a fountain, donated by Geoff and Beryl Edwards of Australia in 1991, marking the 50th anniversary of the time when Geoff and other soldiers had been befriended, hidden, sheltered, fed and assisted to escape by the monks and the people of the district.
The museum was already closed so, after looking around, observing the monastery animals and pondering the monks’ predilection for plants with thorns, we began to contemplate our return.
The way we had come was definitely not viable, the other way was 14 km along unknown roads, with much of it necessarily in the dark. We rang Johannes and he immediately offered to come and get us. We didn’t make it down to the beach where the troops left from – we decided to keep that for next time since our legs might have got us down there but maybe not back up in the 15 minutes we had before the car arrived.
In all we would have walked over 20 km on rough uphill and steep downhill tracks, from 11.30 to 5.20 with only a twenty minute stop for lunch. We were so pleased to see Johannes when he arrived. He was not at all worried by having to add rescuing to his hosting activities, and we were extremely grateful to be driven back. Keith fell asleep at 8.30 while I blogged on, and we both slept solidly until 7.30 the next morning.
Lessons learnt - more research, allow more time, ask better questions eg not “Can we get to the monastery this way?” but “What is the quickest and easiest way to get to the monastery?”.
All in all though, we walked through really beautiful areas, visited two more villages, saw more rural activities at close quarters and learnt more about the area we were visiting, as well as making it to the monastery, so it was a great day.
Many sheep have bells on, particularly those kept in remote areas where there are few fences.
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