A Late Cretan Discovery

“The wind is in from Africa, last night I couldn’t sleep” – the opening line of Joni Mitchell’s Carey – has always chimed with my fondness for the Mediterranean. I imagined the song was written in southern Spain during the scirocco season but have just discovered otherwise: it was written here, in Crete, in the tiny coastal village of Matala, where she stayed for a while in the cliff-side cave of one of the resident hippies, the eponymous Carey. There is a clue in the line – “they’re playing that scratchy rock and roll beneath the Matala moon” – but it only makes sense if you have heard of the place and I hadn’t, unfortunately, until this week. Had I been aware that Joni was looking for adventure in Crete in 1970, I might have relocated there from South London, where, at that time, I was not gainfully employed. So, it was Carey who got lucky – though not for long. Joni was already successful and rich enough to have hired a VW van and, as she tells us later in the song, consider splitting to Amsterdam or Rome, where she would rent a grand piano and put flowers round her room. I had not previously considered the attractions of fan-tourism but now I see it has a certain appeal.

However, my main interest is the history of the island and the hippie legacy is but the most recent phase of a long and tortured story. To get a grasp of it requires an acquaintance with the combined studies of classicists, historians and archaeologists: much has happened here since the first inhabitants left their traces 8,500 years ago. Such an historical time-span can be overwhelming at first but, after a little reading, an hour or two in museums and a few picnics among ancient ruins (liberally interspersed with doses of eating, drinking and interacting with locals) it begins to read as one continuous, fascinating story. This time of year – off-season – is ideal for history-tourism. Not only is it cool and, therefore, easier to concentrate the mind, it is also uncrowded or, to be precise, deserted. In museums, there is no one to obscure your view of the exhibits – though it can feel uncomfortable to be the sole object of the security-attendants’ gaze. At archaeological sites there are no queues to gawp at the best bits; in fact, there is nobody at all, which lends a certain piquancy to the experience. Sitting in lone contemplation of several acres of Minoan ruins somehow concentrates the mind on the futility of human pride. Moreover, these considerable advantages are enhanced by an unexpected bonus: all tickets for entry are half-price at this time of year!

I have been using Lonely Planet as an introduction to all things Cretan but there are certain behavioural eccentricities it does not explain. Despite laws to the contrary, many Cretans still smoke in cafes and bars, ride helmet-less on motor bikes and drive belt-free in cars. In fact, I saw one man riding a moped while simultaneously talking on the phone, smoking, carrying a takeaway coffee and giving his dog a pillion ride. The seemingly casual regard for the law – and for health and safety – is puzzling, but some clues may be extrapolated from the island’s cultural history. The Cretan author, Nikos Kazantzakis, in his novel Freedom and Death, portrays characters that inhabit Heraklion around 1880, the dying years of Ottoman rule. A legacy of oppression by foreigners has nourished a culture of resentment and rebellion against their rule and, along with it, an admiration for the traits of extreme machismo characterised by tough, native rebel fighters. Could this explain why Cretans shun sissy seat-belts? Kazantzakis epitaph, “I hope for nothing. I fear nothing. I am free.”, suggests as much: and the anti-authority vibe must also have appealed to the hippies of Matala.