Unsure of the road conditions through the White Mountains, we took a bus to the south coast town of Chóra Sfakíon. (Although the bus driver attempted to sneak out of the station unannounced, without stopping at the platform, a young Cretan woman on her bicycle raced after the bus and hailed it so that a friend of hers could board. We ran down the street to jump on too.)  As a consequence of the warm, dry climate, the landscape in Chóra Sfakíon is as barren as Arizona. Hardly a tree at all. Even the drought-tolerant olive trees are irrigated. We easily found a room for the night in that small, slow-moving town. A pebble beach was close by. At the beach I removed my shoes, walked gingerly on the large pebbles and waded into the cold waters of the Mediterranean. It amazed me that this water—which had appeared a deep turquoise from the road as we arrived—seems transparent when you step into it: your feet don't disappear!  I tasted it to prove to myself it really was sea water. The harbor was partially protected by a breakwater built of mammoth four-pronged concrete objects piled up in the water haphazard­ly, like a game of jacks for giants. With the exception of this eyesore, the landscape was pristine.

Chóra Sfakíon provided the greatest variety of auditory experiences of our trip. Just outside the window of our room a coop of chickens clucked nonstop, punctuated now and then by a small gang of “inner city” sheep that roamed the narrow lanes, bleating loudly. On the steep hills far above the town, large herds of free-range sheep migrated among the meager pastures, trotting after each other like animals with a purpose. Their bells clanged in free rhythm like a Javanese gamelan, and their distant bleats almost blended into a meditative chant. On the walk back to our room, our path crossed the skull of a sheep among the rocks. At dinner lamb showed up on the plate. Along with the meal we had our first taste of Greek television. Maryl and I tried to catch the gist of a news broadcast, then tried to ignore a Greek version of “The Dating Game.”  Both programs (and many we would see later) were periodically interrupted by a 15-second animated cartoon with a Mr. McGoo-type character whose theme music was the first phrase of “Sleigh Ride,” played fast on saxophone.

Having seen all of Chóra Sfakíon in an evening, we walked to the bus stop on Saturday morning, only to learn that the bus back to Chaniá had left at 7am, and that another would not come until Monday morning. Faced with the prospect of three nights in Chóra Sfakíon, we quickly adapted to a slower pace. It turned out to be the most relaxing part of the trip, free from the bustle of traffic that we found nearly everywhere else. At the same time, it was the most strenuous, with little to do but hike—east one day and west the next—on rugged trails that pounded the feet. On Sunday we hiked for several hours along a rocky trail gouged into the cliff above the turquoise waters. The trail dropped sharply to a secluded, rocky beach where we nibbled crackers with γραβιερα (Greek gruyere) cheese and drank retsina from tin cups. Then I stepped again into the frigid blue Mediterranean waters, this time waist-deep. I had not brought along my Speedos, so I improvised. Wading back out through shallow water, I tried to strike the pose of the bronze Poseidon I had seen in pictures from the National Museum in Athens. But lacking both a trident and the requisite physique, I am sure I succeeded only in striking laughter into the hearts of anyone who might be watching. The return hike on the hard, jagged path set my aging feet and knees to aching. Later, reclining in our room, sipping ouzo and recording the day's events in my journal, I could hear the clang of bells and the bleating of sheep as yet another herd rounded the rocky point above us. Even in Crete the sheep enunciate “baaaah!” with the same accent as California sheep.