A CAFÉ IN CRETE

I was high in the mountains of Crete, visiting the famed birthplace of Zeus. I climbed the precipitous path, passed every so often by middle-aged ladies perched on donkeys, grim faced and alarmed, especially when the donkeys slipped on the treacherous path. I reached the cave and clambered down rickety wooden ladders until I eventually reached the shelf where the King of the Gods had been born. He wasn’t there.

I returned to my little jeep and drove along dizzying roads ever higher into the mountains. After a few miles, the road turned left towards a tiny, almost deserted village. It consisted of a straggle of houses, a church and, thankfully, a small bar. It had been a nerve-racking drive and I needed a drink. I took a seat at a table at the front of the café and ordered a glass of retsina from the smiling owner.

He brought the wine and a small plate of olives, tomatoes and cubes of local cheese. I swallowed half the retsina in one gulp and looked around.

I did a double take. I know I did because I thought: I’ve just done my first ever double take. It was as if I’d gone back in time. To the nineteenth century at least. Perhaps even further.

The inside of the café was dark and foggy with tobacco smoke from two men committed to getting lung cancer. The furniture was ancient and ramshackle. There was a bar of sorts, more a counter, with a basket of bread and an array of plates of appetisers like the one I was picking at. A shelf above the counter held bottles of wine, Metaxa Brandy, reiki and ouzo. Everything looked tired and very, very old. If the café were to make a noise it would have been moans and groans and a creaking of joints.

I looked at the other customers. A middle-aged couple were huddled over plates of food, eating with silent application. Two old friends played what looked like dominoes in companionable silence. An even older man sat whistling to himself, his hand working his worry beads without cease.

But my gaze was drawn by something other than customers. Sitting on a wall to one side of the café were four old women. Ancient women to be more exact. They were dressed from head to foot in black. Black shoes, black skirts, black tops, even tight black scarves around their heads. The only colour on display were their faces which were brown as chestnuts and as wrinkled as old apples left to pucker in a bowl. Even their eyes were black and they stared at me with blank yet somehow menacing gaze.

The owner appeared in front of me. ‘Food?’ he asked.

I realised I was hungry and nodded. ‘What do you have?’

‘Iman Bayildi.’ He turned and sniffed the air. ‘And my wife is grilling lamb.’

‘Iman Bayildi?’ I asked.

‘It’s good.’ He decided to choose for me. ‘I’ll give you half lamb and half Bayildi.’

He brought a large plate with a skewer of blistering, blackened lamb scented with fresh herbs. A mound of something dark and fragrant lay beside it. I took a forkful. ‘It’s aubergine,’ I said. ‘Delicious.’

The man shrugged. ‘I might tell her.’

I ate slowly, savouring every mouthful. If I’d gone back in time then things were certainly appetising; much better than the greasy fare on offer at the tavernas in Agios Nikolaos.

I heard a motor scooter back-fire and glanced up. Another ancient woman, also in black, was riding it side-saddle. She cackled at the four old women and they cackled in reply. There was a basket at the back of the scooter. It held a goat which looked at me with bored eyes. Somehow this did not seem at all strange.

And then I heard the sound of tinkling bells.

The four old ladies grew animated and began to wave. A herd of sheep meandered up the street, bleating loudly, fertilising the road with their droppings. The old ladies grew frantic and began to call out to the shepherd who was driving his flock. He gave them a lazy wave. I looked at him with astonishment.

He was in his thirties, I guessed, with huge moustache and resplendent in traditional Cretan clothes such as his great-great-grandfather might have worn. High boots made of supple leather, picked out with swirling patterns, scarlet trousers like pyjamas, billowing in the breeze, a blue shirt with elaborate trimmings, an embroidered woollen coat all topped off by a hat which was first cousin to a fez. I had seen pictures of fighters from the Greek War of Independence who looked exactly the same.

He turned towards me and gave a smile so huge and friendly I felt I was being bathed in sunshine. Perhaps he’s Zeus, I thought. It seemed that this strange café was a type of heaven.