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Lassithi Plateau It was a splendid ride along the rugged coastline to Ayios Nikólaos. Enchanting bluegreen water sparkled in the coves below. The colors of the sea were a myriad of aqua blues as the sun's rays reflected off the rocky bottom. Stone arches and jutting cliffs provided even greater visual appeal. Ayios Nikólaos was the jewel at the end of our morning's ride. We refueled with water and groceries, then headed for the municipal beach for breakfast. The beach, without houses or hotels, was a long section of shoreline preserved solely for day use. Four cats came to check us out while we made pineapple, ham and cheese sandwiches. A piece of pineapple fell on the ground. I picked it up and threw it to the cats. Sharon started to say "They won't eat that," but before she had the words out two cats pounced and gobbled it. They were hungry strays. I gave them what milk we had left and they eagerly lapped it up. We took the old road towards Heraklion, leaving the traffic behind after cutting off to the Lassithi Plateau. From sea level to the high plateau we inched our way toward snow covered mountain peaks. Snaking our way up the mountainside, we covered very little distance horizontally. Not so soon, we hit 1000 meters and were still climbing. Snow was alongside the road. We clambered upwards for thirtysix long kilometers-most of it in my lowest gear. The seacoast of Ayios Nikólaos was easily visible the entire time, mocking us. After all our effort it was still ridiculously close. Mountain villages, apparently forgotten by the rest of Crete (and the world), dotted the slopes. Villages were collections of crumbling buildings, garden terraces, animal enclosures and the mandatory meeting place: the coffee shop. Time had stood still in those relatively isolated villages. Most of the aged residents still dressed in traditional black. All the women had their heads covered. The men looked as if they had just returned from tending sheep. In fact, many had. The only traffic we encountered was the four legged variety with horns and hair so curly they made the wildest hairdo pale in comparison. Shepherds greeted us, their low trills echoing off rocky mountains. I didn't stop for fear I may not want to start again. Consequently, the faces I passed were but brief glimpses, frozen snapshots as I blinked sweat from my eyes. An old man at a small table with a bowl of fruit, standing unsteadily, motioned for us to stop and join him in his humble abode; a toothless fellow with his cane, grinning at us with a wide gummed smile; a group of elderly men, deep in conversation clustered around a coffee shop table; a seasoned woman dressed in black from head to foot greeted the coffee shop men and sat to join them; two aged women and an antiquated man sat on front steps, staring at us incredulously as we slowly rode past. We finally reached the top. The fertile plateau was a checkerboard of cultivated fields. It was the only spot on the island where I had seen actual fields of soil. Fruit trees and many other crops were being grown. I imagined that in the spring it must be breathtaking with all the fruit trees in blossom. Thousands of windmills used for pumping water to the fields dotted the landscape. During the summer their arms are clothed in white cloth to catch the wind; but during our winter visit they were mere skeletons-cloth arms tightly wound round wooden spindles. All we saw were ten-thousand stick umbrellas. We crossed to the far side of the plateau and were ready to begin our descent, but it was almost dark. We could see the sea and valley floor far below. Mountain roads coiled wildly down the mountainsides. Our plan to ride down was altered as we looked at the steepness of the grade and realized how dangerous it would be in the fading light. It would be impossible to see rocks or potholes. We erected our tent on a mountain ledge overlooking the sea. The lights of villages below twinkled like Christmas lights. The moon set and stars above the ridge starkly outlined fifteen windmills in a row. It was quite the sight. |
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