How it all began
It all started when the big, white bird flew out of the shiny leaves and yellow flowers. It rose up suddenly and turned away towards the mountains. I followed it. What else could I do in the middle of such a bright April day, at the foot of the White Mountains of Crete? The road was hot and dusty, but the valley was green and full of the sound of water. The white wings which flew before me moved quickly in and out of the deep shadow of the trees and the air was full of the sweet smell of the lemon grove.
The car from Heraklion had stopped where the path for Agios Georgios leaves the road. I got out and turned to thank the American couple who had brought me this far. Mrs Studebaker looked out of the car window. 'But are you going to be all right? You're sure this is the right place? What does that sign say?'
The sign was in Greek. 'It's all rights,' I laughed. 'That's "Agios Georgios", and the village is not far away, down this path.'
I had been in Athens since January of the year before. I worked as a very unimportant secretary at the British Embassy. I had always wanted to visit Greece, and thought I was lucky, at the age of twenty-one, to get any kind of job there. I had enjoyed my time in Athens and had worked hard to learn Greek.
I was going to spend Easter with my cousin, Frances Scorby. She was coming with some friends, who had hired a boat, but she was going to leave them for a few days to be in Crete with me. We would join her friends later.
Frances was forty, a healthy-looking, strong woman, who was also very understanding. My parents were both dead and I had livet with Frances for three years. She grows and sells rock plants. She also writes about plants, and takes beautiful colour photographs of them. Therefore she was interested in the wonderful flowers which grow in Greece. She had asked me to find some quiet place with the simple peace and beauty of 'te real Greece' and a clean, comfortable hotel. And I believed I had found it.
Someone I knew in Athens had told me about Agios Georgios, a small village on the south coast of Crete. It had everything we wanted. The owner of the one small hotel had been born in Crete, but had lived in London for twenty years. He had run a successtul restaurant there, and made a lot of money, and had now come home. He had bought the village coffee shop, and the house next to it, and was making them into a comfortable little hotel. A friend from his London restaurant had come to help him.
When I had telephoned, the owner had explained that they were still building and painting and that there was nobody else there. However, when he realized that we wanted somewhere simple and quiet, he seemed pleased.
Frances and I had planned to take the plane from Athens to Crete on Monday evening and stay in Heraklion for one night. The next day we were going to take the bus to Agios Georgios. However, on Sunday Frances had telephoned me. The boat had been delayed. She begged me not to wait, but to go to Crete and she would get there as soon as she could.
I had caught the plane on Sunday night, and on Monday morning the Studebakers had brought me to Agios Georgios by car. So here I was, with and extra day, in the middle of this wild and lonely country.
