Crete, day one point two: Wine, ants, and the gospel according to Nikos

If paradise had a lobby, it would probably look something like the Amazones Village Suites**** in Piskopiano Crete Greece. Not the fake, polished, soulless kind of resort paradise — but the real deal. Perched up a hill with sea air in its lungs, it’s the kind of place that wraps its arms around you before you even know you need a hug.

Daria and George run the show. And when I say run, I mean orchestrate. Like a symphony of kindness, hospitality, and effortless charm. These aren’t just hoteliers — they’re the kind of people who greet you like an old friend who’s finally made it home. No stress. No pretense. Just warmth, like family — the good kind, not the ones who argue about politics at dinner.

The bar is its own little universe — and it didn’t take long to find out why it’s buzzing all afternoon. One drink turns into three when you start chatting with guests who have been coming twice a year for the last two decades. This place doesn’t get “visitors.” It collects loyalists. Converts. People who’ve made this hilltop Eden a second home. After a few sips, I could already feel the hook sinking in.

Poolside? Glorious. Sunbeds for miles. A breeze that makes you forget about anything happening outside this blue-and-white bubble. The rooms are big, beds are plush, and the pillows feel like clouds that’ve been bribed to stick around just for you.

Then came the most amazing chips (crisps for you British folk) that I bought at the local Spar.

Roasted garlic chips. Not the synthetic-flavor-dusted kind, but the real-deal, oily, crunchy, fragrant bombs of savory heaven. Chips that make you believe in flavour again. I had a few, folded the bag, left them on the counter like a fool. Came back hours later, ready to snack like a king, only to find the bag absolutely swarming with red ants.

Inside. Outside. Ants throwing a rave on every crisp. It was like Antmageddon. Apparently, these little bastards have a sixth sense for roasted garlic. Lesson learned: everything goes in the fridge now. Even water, probably.

In a bid to walk off the existential despair of chip loss, we headed down to the beach — a 30-minute stroll through winding lanes, cheerful markets, tavernas spilling the scent of grilled meats, oregano, and promise. The walk down is charming. The walk back is… a hill that laughs at your cardio illusions. I questioned my life choices at least three times before I got to the bottom.

The beach itself? Classic Crete. A few beach clubs, some shacks with sun-bleached wood and slightly overpriced menus, but who cares? I ordered a carafe of local wine and a spread of meze so fresh it could’ve been cooked by Poseidon’s mother.

After the uphill battle back — part hike, part spiritual test — I collapsed by the pool, floated into a nap, then drifted back to the bar where we met Nikos. A bartender? Staff? Owner? Oracle? Doesn’t matter — he’s a fixture of the place, like the sound of laughter echoing off the tile.

He told us about his blog @Crete’s travel guide: information and tips about visiting Crete – https://facebook.com/groups/1294583267926764/ — a love letter to Cretan food, politics, life, and philosophy. No fluff. No filters. Just raw, rich insight from a man who gets it. The kind of perspective that makes you think while you drink. You read his writing, and suddenly the feta on your plate and the politics of the Aegean start making strange, beautiful sense together.

Dinner that night was at Gevsi in Piskopiano, a tucked-away gem that doesn’t scream for attention — because it doesn’t need to. We ordered the stifado meal for two, which turned out to be a full-blown celebration of Cretan comfort food. Picture this: tender beef stifado so rich, so slow-cooked, it barely held together under the fork — like carving into warm butter. Alongside it came generous plates of large white beans swimming in a tomato sauce that tasted like someone’s yiayia had been simmering it since morning. A crisp mixed salad — tomatoes so ripe they should be illegal, crunchy cucumbers, and bitey onions — balanced things out with a cool crunch. Then there were the warm dolmades, little vine-wrapped gifts that melted in your mouth like lemony silk, a bowl of creamy tzatziki with just the right garlicky punch, and slices of garlic bread for unapologetic scooping. It wasn’t just a meal — it was a love letter from Crete, written in olive oil and served with wine.

We turned in early, hearts full, stomachs satisfied, and ants — hopefully — evicted for good.

Tomorrow? We do it all again. Maybe even better. And definitely ant-free.