A Moral or Two

Quite often in my days as a real estate agent, my clients were young couples looking for a holiday home.  Many chose to search in the busy towns, a few chose to look in the surrounding villages.  Some of these holiday home hunters were ill-equipped to handle the lifestyle here in Crete.  Many of course were, and went on to buy their home and live the dream we Cretaholics all know and love.

It was late afternoon as I wandered through the shady alleyways with my clients.  The heat was overbearing, the breeze non-existent.  After viewing two old properties for renovation, I knew instinctively that my clients weren`t “sold” on any of the viewings.  As we wandered back up the path to the car, I detected a hint of smoke in the air.  A light shower of condensation breezed across our upturned faces, giving a lovely sense of refreshing cool in the oppressive heat.

Although I suspected the source of this unexpected shower, I wasn`t 100 % sure.

Reaching the peak of the path, a craggy faced, smiling Cretan gentleman was occupied with something at the path side.  Spying me with my two clients, automatically, his hand raised in welcome and then flowed down into the characteristic Cretan beckoning (a downward hand stroke with open palm).  “Ela, elate”.  I smiled a knowing smile and explained to my clients that we were taking a little detour.  I led them towards the open door, where the heady, grapey aroma invaded my every sense.

Inside, suspicions confirmed a fully fledged raki distillation in progress.

I have to admit it was one of the better organised distilleries.  The “hot spot”, ie. the place where the cauldron (καζάνι) was housed, was separated off in a side room.  This room had only three walls. Quite a blessing, as the wood burning fire was fierce.  The wall-less side, yawned down over the mountain, where the spent pomace was unceremoniously dumped over the edge after each boiling.

From the hilt of the cauldron, the pipe containing the condensating raki, coiled through a deep barrel of cold water, was then fed through a small hole in the wall into the room next door, where it dripped it`s liquid fire onto a pad of cotton wool to catch impurities, and into the bucket below.

The seating area cum kitchen, was large enough to seat about a dozen or so visitors.

Very often, a group of people possessing the much sought after pomace, would accumulate their efforts (and of course their pomace), in making the year`s raki supply.  Taking turns at the hot spot, but each sharing the various duties involved in distilling. This could often take several days, and even run into weeks, depending on how many were in the group and how much pomace was available.

Of course, like many things here in Crete, the distillery is always an excuse to celebrate.  Friends and family would accumulate, evenings would always liven up, when more visitors would arrive, each bringing their contributions, either to the cauldron, or the table.  The wives would work their magic and provide the never-ending supply of traditional Cretan fare in an effortless blink of an eye.  The men would rake out hot jacket potatoes from the fire below the cauldron. Youngsters would oft bring their lyres to entertain the guests, simultaneously testing their musical abilities.

But I digress………..

Being mid afternoon, there were no visitors, just us.  I needed no encouragement to take a seat, assuring my “non clients” that this was fine and the Cretan thing to do.  They were totally unsure of what was happening.  I reassured them once more, as the stumpy little raki glasses were plonked down in front of us, along with a small carafe of fresh from the still, slightly warm, liquid fire.

There was an aged lady sat at a table.  The enormous pile of greens (χόρτα) piled before her, was so impressive, it could seemingly feed a small herd of sheep for a day or so.   I greeted γιαγιά (grannie) and we exchanged light banter, all the while she worked the plastic handled knife on the horta, her grimed hand occasionally diving into her apron pocket, she`d pull out a small clutch of almonds and pop them into her toothless mouth, where she would shatter them with her gums, chatting simultaneously, oblivious to the fact that she was showering us with almond crumbs as she chattered.  I felt my “non clients” cringe.

The normal accompaniments of fresh tomatoes, olives and rusks, a plate of snails and buck wheat with tomato sauce quickly appeared, along with other bits and bobs so readily available in every Cretan kitchen.  My “non clients`” eyes popped wide at the snails. The smoke blackened face of our Cretan host creased into a smile with each “yamas!”

The better side of three glasses of raki, and seeing my “non clients`” unease, I decided it was time to depart.

This brief encounter with the raki distillery was a complete coincidence.  In hindsight, I consider the event a vital procedure in separating the men from the boys.  In other words:  If you aren`t willing to embrace every single inch of the way Cretans live, grimy hands, snails `n all, then perhaps Crete is not the place for you.

Raki Distillery (2)

Note (In reality, this post is a protest, a great big, fat protestation !)

I consider many Cretan traditions to be the back bone of today`s society.  One of the many traditions, is of course, the raki distillery. Certain powers that be, perhaps without fully acknowledging the consequences of their laws, (or perhaps they do acknowledge the consequences, who knows?) are speeding this country into the 21st century, and as a result, stamping on every traditional past time, one by one.

To have a raki distillery at home, now demands a permit, which is not cheap.  Any and all produce from said distillery is taxed at a whopping 0.59 cents per litre!   (Source: http://www.agronews.gr/?pid=186&aid=102490&la=1), August 2016.

The home distillery permit comes with a huge array of restrictions and regulations, where the distillery is officially sealed by the Customs Authority, and subsequently unsealed, again, by the Customs Authority, to allow the distillery to operate, on the stated date of the permit, only.

The consequences:  Many of our distilling friends and acquaintances, have decided to “hang up their hat”, declining to fire up their stills.

Sad, so sad!  More to the point, unacceptable !

The Evolution of Treading Grapes at Kanakary

Treading grapes (Small)

It started in the kitchen in a washing bowl

Barrell for treading (1) (Small)

Then we progressed to a large plastic barrel, which I have to admit, was so much easier to get in to, than it was to get out of.

Treading Grapes `16 (4) (Small)

As our grape crop increased, the need for a true grape tread became very apparent.  So, Vags set on and built this nifty little corner unit, especially made to hold friends and family whilst partaking in this enjoyable event.


The photographer (me), was unfortunately indisposed, (up to her knees actually), in wonderful, sweet, sticky grapes, hence the lack of photographic material for this post.

This year, 2016, due to the extremely dry conditions, the grapes ripened early.

We began harvesting the grapes early afternoon.  This was our grape tread`s virgin run, and I MUST say, (`scuse the pun), it was well and truly christened.  Despite having one or two teething problems, we identified them and improvised where needed. Once I`d clambered into into the tread, I was not allowed to exit.

Around midnight, we realised we`d trodden all of our harvest.

Exhausted, and extremely sticky, we left the clearing up till the next day. Gathering up the remaining pomace (stems, pips and skins) the next morning, we packed it into hesian sacks, and Vags took over the stomping process to press out the last dregs of juice.

Treading Grapes `16 (8) (Small)

All in all, we brought into the world about 130 kilos of white wine, now safely stashed in barrels, to await the results.

With a robust 16 ish degrees on the hydrometer worrying me slightly, I discussed the must`s strength with more experienced wine makers.  Sharp intakes of breath, accompanied by heads shaken from side to side, oohs and aahs, set my mind to thinking that maybe the must was too strong and the wine would ruin.

Now, it`s too late.  We` ll just have to wait and see.

85 days and counting!


Ooops (Small) (2)

The hot and sultry days of late, provoke a tendency to lull around idly, the only urgency seemingly, is the necessity to avoid the heat. It can also result in the “Cretan Shuffle”, generally done in flip flops, (ie the sound of footwear being dragged across the floor whilst walking), accompanied by various huffs and puffs.  Grappling with these constant high temperatures, and what appears to be the perpetual existence of the “Meltemia“, seems also to create a “dry spell” in my flow of recipes.

So off I go to my favourite village to call in at the local kafenion for a dose of Cretan life and a coffee.

Whilst sitting and perusing the every day happenings from my advantageous position, nothing seemed unusual, yet, the events are far from normal, they`re special, unique, adorable.

Observing a row of middle-aged moustached Cretans seated in a kafenion, one of whom had bartered a bag of small hard pears from a passing peddlar. Sharing his prize with his companians, they sat in a row, observing the world go by.  Three portly torsos, each with hairless domes, sheeny from the relentless afternoon heat, chomped away at the hard pears, rotund jowls munching, making fat lips bulge and jut, moustaches bobbed and jounced in unison, like a line of mellow walruses.  I smiled quietly at this enjoyable scene.

The swifts swept down low over the diminished water along the riverbed.  Vibrantly coloured dragon flies dipping amongst the reeds.

Also grappling with the constantly high temperatures, are our three dogs.  Claiming dibs on the heels of the receding sun, where shadow profers cool afternoon repose amongst the flower beds, only to be begrudgingly forced to move on, as the automated watering system kicks in.  Demmi, emerging from his muddy wallowing hole, trails a muddy path across the tiles, worthy of a scene from some swamp monster movie.

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“Leave me alone – it`s too hot”

A Memory from Mid 1990`s

K. Sterios`s wife had dodgy knees.  Whenever I had the pleasure of meeting him through the work we did together, in the cute courtyard with laden grape vines for shade, over the obligatory coffee, a rather impressive collection of  x-rays would reverantly be brought to the table, and be handed around for all to peruse the poor condition of his wife s old knees.  Not wanting to offend my host, I would inspect the x-rays carefully, nodding and shaking my head accordingly, expressing concern for his lady wife.  Hard of hearing, short in stature, this gentleman had a heart of gold.

One day, he had been down into Agios, to attend to some jobs.  The once monthly trip usually took the full morning.  Departing from Kritsa at sun rise, plodding downhill on his mule would take a couple of hours, whereupon various civil servants would find him waiting on their doorsteps for them to assume their post, so he could tend to his business. The need to pick up bits and pieces he couldn`t find in his village was also seen to on his monthly foray.  With goods carefully stashed in his donkey`s saddle and duties fullfilled, the slow uphill journey would begin.

As the aged mule plodded along the tarmac, Sterios`s head would nod gently from side to side in an agreeable doze.  The traffic curving gently around him did little to interfere with his early afternoon snooze.  Approaching the recently installed traffic lights at the Kritsa/Agios Nikolaos junction*, the mule instinctively knew his way home.  Needing no guidance from his owner, whom, anyway, was away with the fairies, it trudged across the somewhat busy crossroads as the traffic lights showed RED.   Locals slowed down, passively allowing this familiar twosome to track by, with scarcely a second glance.  Tourists, pulled forward on their steering wheels to get a better look at this fragment of old.

* This transpired when the traffic lights at the Kritsa/Agios Nikolaos junction were relatively new, a couple of decades ago.

Today, with the new hazardous priorities junction, I wonder if he`d dare doze whilst crossing !

Beetroot Salad (Παντζαροσαλάτα)

Quick and simple, with super vibrant colour for the Summer table. A side salad for meats, omelette or on it`s own with crusty bread.


3 large boiled beetroot

2 cloves of garlic

3/4 to 1 cup full fat yogurt – adjust quantity accordingly

2 soup spoons white vinegar

4 soup spoons olive oil

A handful of crushed walnuts

S & P (preferably ground)


Beet Salad (2) (Small)

Dice the beets quite small.  Crush the garlic cloves into the beets, add the yogurt, vinegar, olive oil, S & P.  Lastly add the walnuts. Stir well and serve.

Beet Salad (1) (Small)


Μayonnaise can be added if desired – just reduce the quantity of yogurt (I find beets are sweet enough without mayo though)

Zap the beetroot in the blender, before you add the other ingredients, to make a smoother salad for use in sandwiches or as a dip with pita bread

Pink Cheeks, Shaved Bits and Ceiling Blowers! Day Three

Insistent on seeing at least one sun rise on our vacation, I set the alarm for 5.30 am.  Stumbling out of bed after just 4 hours sleep, I hoped it would be worth it. The air was warm, the breeze slight.  Fishing boats flashed their lanterns on the gentle swell.  We drove a couple of kilometres to a more advantageous position and parked.  Waiting for the event, we met 78 year old Konstantinos, whom stopped to chat as he strode past our car.  The 6 kilometre walk between Mirtos and Tertsa, which he takes daily, keeps him young.

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Sun Rise Tertsa.jpg (Small)

I, in the meantime, returned to my bed to top up my sleep battery.

One last dip in the ocean and we were off along the coastline again, heading further East, towards Makry Gialos, our initial intention was to walk the Pefki Gorge in the foothills of Thripti mountain range.  But 7 klicks in fierce temperatures however, seemed unfeasible. Disappointed, we abandoned our plans.

Following a sign with the suggestion of a cave, we trudged along a stony path for 10 minutes or so, to Vreikos Cave, where two verdant fig trees sprouting, marked its hidden entrance. Descending down a reasonably sturdy wooden stair, we discovered two chambers, one rather more impressive than the other, with natural daylight seeping through a hidden crevice.  Again, perfect silence blanketed our presence.  Spending time in the sublime cool of this relatively unknown cave, revived our flagging energy levels.

Vreikos Cave (1) (Small)

Vreikos Cave (3) (Small)Vreikos Cave (2) (Small)

Revitalized and ready for sustenance, we meandered back down the snaking road towards the coast, our ultimate destination in mind, Koutsouras.

A slightly more accessible location, but equally as appealing as Tertsa, Koutsouras.

On the last dip of our vacation, the Libyan sea rare to disappoint, was no exception today.  With beach shoes to cross the rocky shelving which gives entrance to the sea, the cool water embraced our perspiring bodies, sparkling a million diamonds atop the aqua blue expanse around us.  Such luxury.

Finding a shady tamarisk tree, we relaxed to dry off.  The trees salty secretions dripped softened liquid around us, whilst leaf warblers, or chiff chaffs  (Δεντροφυλλοσκόποι η Λαδεράκια) skittered around the branches above us, churring their song.

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We considered we`d resisted the delights of Kalliotzinas cuisine long enough and made our way over lava hot sand to the only eating establishment worth mentioning, the small taverna, Kalliotzina.   The best Cretan traditional cuisine I have ever sampled.

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I was more than tempted to stay just one more night in local accommodation, when offered a room which proudly announced as being equipped with “ceiling blowers” – if only to eliminate the concocted vision I had in my mind of a line of dwarves, with puffed out red cheeks, keenly blasting the room with cool air!

Our whistle stop tour of select areas in Crete, was sadly at an end. Commitments pulled us back home to our water starved Kanakary, where crisped, parched gardens awaited us.

Pink Cheeks, Shaved Bits and Ceiling Blowers! Day Two

Truth be known, Vags kinda forgot my birthday, but indulging in a swift morning in the old town of Rethymno, being the pertinent day, I carefully guided him in the direction of a suitable clothes shop and a nice eating establishment, hence ensuring my meagre needs were catered for.

Rethymno (1) (Small)

It is always a pleasure to see the Westerners (the West of Crete that is) slant on catering for tourism, so different from “our end”. Not to mention sauntering the cool, shady alleyways with tiny shops tucked away to explore.  But I must say the temperatures were brutal, and our stamina limited. so we beat a hasty retreat to the car and sped off to our next destination, coastal of course, to cool off.

Rethymno (2) (Small)

We decided we`d return to “our back yard”, as they say, chosing a favourite place of ours, becoming all the more popular as the newly opened road gives easier access to tourists.  Tertsa. Fortunately, these tourists are looking for peace and quiet too, so do little to disturb the tranquility of the place.

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Tertsa Beach (1) (Small)

The long rambling beaches would take some filling, and bathers are spread far and wide.

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Beware though, only the open-minded can pass through these gates to the land of the uninhibited.  Bravely, we ventured through the two familiar monolithic gate posts, which provide a natural division between clothed and unclothed sun worshippers, where rosy red cheeks and boldly shaved privy parts lay out on display like shilling dinners.  Oblivious to our intrusion, the unclothed sun worshippers continued their private worship, some genially, others glaringly.  It did nothing to disturb my inner peace, just served to placate a mild curiosity.

In the evening, we ate supper on the beach, a kilo of local white wine quieted our moods yet further, my birthday cake – a slice of apple pie with a candle atop.  With windows open, we fell asleep with a cool breeze and perfect music – the waves crashing on shingle.

Pink Cheeks, Shaved Bits and Ceiling Blowers! Day One

What an extraordinary three days away!

As we hurtled along the main national highway at seemingly a 150 kph, cusses and grizzles spilling from Vags`s mouth, I lurched like a rag doll over craters and ridges in the tarmac. Whilst dodging dawdling tourists hovering uncertainly in the central lane, or a careless driver pulling out of side road in front of him, he adeptly dealt the obligatory verbal tirade.  I clung to the car door handle grimly, in an attempt to keep from been tossed from my seat as we took the corner.  I swear I could see devils horns sprouting amongst his hair, but dared not stare too long, for fear of prompting another venting of what was very obviously, a perhaps abnormal amount of tension.

I quietly suggested I take the wheel to give him a break, but the response was far from positive.  I sat back and wondered how hubbie had become so “wired”.

Ironically, we had decided that to celebrate my birthday we`d get away for a couple of days.  Despite his various attempts to postpone and insistence that he had too much to do, I managed to book one night and bundled a bag together with basics and told him we would be leaving the next morning.

Once we exited the chaotic main national highway though, I could see Vags`s shoulders relax, the horns retracted, the bulging veins eased with each elevated metre.

Arriving at our destination of Argyroupoli, West of Rethymno, at a modest 260 metres elevation, with population of a mere 400 or so, we parked up in the central square for refreshments.  I could tell immediately, I`d made a great choice.  The village is adorable, with fabulous views down the valley towards the coast. Venetian monuments and imposing churches stood out on the sky line, charming courtyards, blissfully overgrown with grape vines and beauganvillias, ancient mosaic flooring displayed, carefully protected from the elements, pretty alleyways snaking around the gently sloping hillside.  A modest selection of tourist shops with distinct wares.  There was no hampering of the few tourists wandering the streets, just pleasant greetings and smiles.

Argyroupoli Village (2) (Small)

Argyroupoli Village (1) (Small)

Argyroupoli Village (4) (Small)







I`d booked to stay in a revamped Venetian home, which was set around a central courtyard, multi leveled and charming.  From here, we could enjoy trips out to local sights, including the natural springs and icy cold rivers running through mini ravines and shady forests.

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Even chickens welcome in this tavernaLake Kournas.jpg (Small)





Our host, the larger than life Manolis, entertained us in the late afternoon over coffee, regaling stories from his interesting life, an ex commander in the Greek army, sea-captain and well-travelled with three nationalities.  The epilogue to his conversation left me quite speechless.  He resolutely told us, that there would be a Cretan revolution before the year is through.  I listened avidly, not quite able to decide whether I was conversing with somebody serious, having a firm grasp on the unspoken undercurrents of Crete, or whether he`d been over exposed to the sun.  He spoke with such tenacity and seriousness, I found it difficult to not believe his version.  He was a source of much information about Crete, and specifically his village, Argyroupoli.

Argyroupoli Village (3) (Small)

We excused ourselves from this intriguing conversation, and ventured out to eat. It was late.  The village had transformed into a haven of stillness, quietness, where small groups of locals sat in gardens and balconies, reviewing the spent day.   As we finished our simple meal, doors around us pulled closed, we almost felt that the street lamps would be turned off, as this village went to sleep and we`d be left with just the moonlight to guide us home.

Serenity filled our senses, blotting out stresses and anguished thoughts with its gentleness. Aromas of mint, carob and jasmine crept along the cooling tarmac.  Bats, swooping low, accompanied us back to our room.

We woke again to utter peacefulness, no car or truck noise, no barking dogs, no noisy chattering housewives, or whiney children.  A beautiful, simple breakfast awaited us on the terrace, where we drank in the magnificent views.

Spring Thru` Summer

As usual, it`s been a busy few months.

After managing to complete my marathon painting session

I weeded my gardens

Brightened our nest

Created hanging baskets

Orchestrated my annual plant pot shuffle

Tried my hand at weaving ancient bayonets (!)

Swords (Small)

Sheared my dogs (no minor task)

Saved a tortoise found struggling on our road

Fed a hungry bee

Bee (Small)

Chutney-ed the first beets brought in from the garden

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Gathered and brined this year`s vine leaves for dolmathes

Vine Leaves (Small)

Preserved this year`s artichokes

Brought into the world a couple o` dozen or so new pips in the `bator (chickens and turkeys)

`Bator Hatchlings (Small)

Chicks (2) (Small)

Chicks (1) (Small)

There`s always one!.jpg

Hand raised a half dozen fine young turkeys, whom now resemble mini ostriches and follow us around the courtyard, tweeting for treats

Entertained some dear, holidaying, loved ones

Of course, ate tooooo much!

Feet barely touching the ground, I ran straight into a job in a boutique in the lovely village of Kritsa, hence my noted absence recently!

My first week up in the village, I encountered lots of my old acquantances, and made some new acquantances too.

I also discovered that my language skills should indeed be widened,  I`m talking football pitch dimensions, widened.  The variety of nationalities visiting Kritsa is impressive.  I`ve learnt that 97 % of French wont buy, unless you can converse with them, in French, of course.  The remaining 3 % will converse in English and very happily too.  I`ve learnt how to make a pretty bow on a parceled pair of sandals.  I`ve learnt that you can mop the same floor 5 times a day and it will still be dusty.

Also, that you can clean silver with toothpaste ! (See footnote)

I`ve learnt that the Russian language I laboured over is virtually useless, as very few are with us this year.

I also learnt that a bee can successfully sting you as it bumps off your hand, whilst riding your scooter at 50 kmh.

Also, I learnt that sometimes whilst riding the scooter, you can enter an apparent stationary bubble, when the wind blowing from behind you, is travelling at the same speed as you on your scooter, giving you the very surreal effect of no wind resistence as you are travelling.

Finally due to adversely hot and windy weather of late, resigned myself to owning a shrivelled, water starved garden, which resembles the Saharan Desert, more each day.


To clean silver, rub a small amount of toothpaste onto the item with your finger, work it over gently, you`ll see your fingers blackening.  Clean off under running water, dry, and pop on your sunglasses !

Custard Pie (Γαλακτομπούρεκο)

There`s absolutely no discussion about which dessert to choose when this one`s on the menu !  Served with a nice dollop of kaimaki ice cream……….





1.1  litres fresh milk

1 1/2 cups sugar

1 cup fine semolina

5 small to medium eggs

3 heaped dessertspoons butter

2 vanillas

1 packet filo pastry (the paper thin type)

250 g butter melted, for the filo pastry


3 1/2 cups sugar

2 1/2 cups water

A strip of lemon peel

1 tsp lemon juice

These quantites fill a 38 cm x 28 cm ish baking tray


Heat the milk in a saucepan, just before it boils, add the semolina slowly, through a sieve.  Stir continuously with a wooden spoon. If the semolina is added too quickly, lumps will form, * so make sure the flow is steady, slow and that you stir well as you add.  As it begins to boil, it will thicken.  Remove from the heat.  In a separate bowl, beat the eggs with the sugar and vanilla, then pour into the mixture steadily. stirring as you go. Add the butter, stir well to melt and leave to one side.  Stir occasionally to avoid a skin forming.

Preheat your oven to 170/175 degrees.

Butter the baking tray well.  Using half of the packet of filo (usually each packet has 10 sheets), for the base of the pie, begin laying the sheets over the base and up the sides of the tray, one at a time, brushing each sheet generously with the melted butter.

Pour in the custard mixture, spread evenly. Fold inwards any filo edges which overlap the sides, brush with butter.

Continue laying the remainder of the sheets over the mixture, brushing each sheet with melted butter, including the surface of the last one.

Cut portions through the sheets very gently with a good sharp knife.  Sprinkle a little water over the surface and bake for approx. 30 minutes, or until golden brown.

In the meantime, prepare the syrup, boiling the sugar and water with the lemon peel for 5 minutes, add the lemon juice and boil for a further 2/3 minutes and remove from the heat.

When the pie is cooked, using a ladle, spoon slowly 3/4 of the syrup over the pie, allowing it to absorb.**  Pop the remaining 1/4 of the syrup back on to the heat and reduce further, then pour over the pie.  This allows the finishing syrup to be slightly thicker.


If you end up with lumps in the custard, you can push it through a sieve

The trick with syruping desserts, is one should be cooler than the other, ie, the pie straight from the oven, and the syrup slightly cooler.  You should hear the filo pastry crackling as you pour the syrup over.


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“Stone, iron, steel, will not withstand – man, however, will… ” Captain Mixalis «ΚΑΠΕΤΑΝ ΜΙΧΑΛΗΣ»            A character in Kazantzakis`s novel, based on the guerilla group`s rebellion against the Ottoman rule in Crete 1889

“Once, it was people whom had worth, now it`s just bricks which have worth”  A wise old lady in a                                                            mountainside village,                                                                                         Hania

“Where you are now, I was once.  Where I am now, one day, you will be too”       An old Cretan, to                                                                    his impatient kin

“We should not say that Greeks fight like heroes, but that heroes fight like Greeks”       Winston Churchill

“Since we cannot change reality, let us change the eyes which see reality”                                                                                                                 Nikos Kazantzakis

“No amount of wisdom can ward off death”                                                                                 Unknown Greek

“Man is least himself when he talks in his own person.  Give him a mask, and he will tell you the truth”                                                                                                                                                       Oscar Wilde

“Words, empty as the wind, are best left unsaid”                                                                             Homer

“True friends appear less moved, than counterfeit friends”                                                     Homer