Crete, day seven: Spinalonga, ouzo, and the olive oil enlightenment

There are days when you wake up in Crete and think, “Yes, I will go to a former leper colony today.” And then there are days when you actually do it. Day seven was that kind of day.

I started the morning finishing The Island — a novel about Spinalonga that makes your heart feel like it’s been through a cheese grater, but in a moving, literary kind of way. So, naturally, I was ready to go see where the misery actually happened. Nothing says holiday quite like tales of suffering, social exile, and triumph of the human spirit before lunch.

We boarded the bus for Spinalonga, led by a tour guide who was either a ghost or a Victorian governess lost in time. Picture this: 30+ degrees, not a cloud in the sky, and this woman is dressed like she’s heading to a funeral in Siberia. Chemise. Blouse. Navy wool cardigan. Scarf. Wool trousers. The heatstroke was radiating off her.

Then she opened her mouth.

What followed was the softest, most monotone mumble ever to disgrace the art of storytelling. A whisper of a whisper. It was like someone had taught a moth English and given it a megaphone made of dust. So we did the polite thing: ditched the tour and went rogue.

And thank Zeus for that.

Spinalonga was not what I expected. Much closer to the mainland — like, “I could swim this if I had the cardio capacity of a golden retriever” close. The Venetian fortress was gorgeous, a real architectural flex. And then the melancholy hits you. This island was once home to people who were literally cast out of society because of leprosy. The early 1900s here? Brutal. But by the late 1920s, they’d built a functioning, thriving community. Gardens, music, dignity. Humanity with a capital H. These people, cast out and unwanted, turned a cursed island into a home. If that doesn’t move you, check your pulse — you might be a tour guide in wool trousers.

It was beautiful. It was sobering. It was hot as hell.

And then there were The Bus People. Every tour has at least one. We had two — a couple. They weren’t your standard-issue grumblers or queue skippers. No, these two were next-level. A young couple — early twenties — tattooed from head to toe like they were trying to solve a riddle written entirely in tribal ink and poor life choices. The kind of people who seem to believe deodorant is a government conspiracy.

Loud, brash, and very proud of the fact that they were on disability benefits and “perpetually on holiday.” They said this like it was a badge of honour — a kind of low-rent aristocracy of entitlement. “We don’t work, mate. We don’t need to. We’re always on holiday.” I choked on my bottled water. She barked, “I’VE BEEN HERE BEFORE. I KNOW EVERYTHING.” Which would’ve been fine, if she hadn’t proceeded to shoulder-check people like she was late for a Black Friday sale at Lidl. Apparently, queue etiquette is optional when you’re powered by entitlement and instant coffee breath.

After our silent spiritual moment on Spinalonga, it was time for lunch. A lovely seaside taverna in Plaka, where we were served a perfectly respectable gyros and a bottle of water. But here’s the rub: we were told — multiple times — that if you wanted to sit down at the restaurant, you had to buy a drink. Totally fair. This wasn’t a picnic shelter. This was someone’s livelihood.

But Madam Queue-Smasher lost it. “I ALREADY PAID FOR THIS SANDWICH,” she howled, as if the concept of capitalism personally offended her. That was it. I had my limit. I told her, nicely but with enough edge to slice a cucumber: “Had you shut up and listened, you’d have heard the four announcements about buying a drink.”

Andy looked like he wanted to dissolve into the pavement. He gave me the universal partner plea: “Please don’t get into a fight.” But the sun was shining, I was fed, and the gods of restraint smiled upon me. I walked away.

To ice cream.

And ouzo.

Here’s a fun thing about ouzo in Crete: it’s not a shot. It’s a commitment. The first one came out like a half pint. Paired with pistachio ice cream? Divine. I was floating. Euphoric. So obviously, we had another — at a second café, because variety is the spice of both life and alcoholism.

Second ouzo? Another half pint. At this point, I was sloshed. So when the bus arrived and I hadn’t finished my glass, the wonderful, clearly enabling waitress handed me a lidded takeaway coffee cup to bring my ouzo with me.

I sipped it on the bus like it was a pumpkin spice latte from hell.

There I was, tipsy in a moving vehicle, holding a coffee cup full of anise-flavored jet fuel, giggling quietly while the Rude Couple argued over seat selection like it was a matter of national security. The gods were watching. And they were entertained. At this point, I was drunk enough to consider buying olive oil futures. So naturally, it was time for the olive oil factory tour.

Drunk.

At an olive oil factory.

Let me tell you something: if you’ve never been soused while watching cold press machinery slowly extract liquid gold from sun-ripened olives, you haven’t lived. I was rapt. Moved. Nearly wept. I may have tried to hug a stainless steel vat. Andy looked vaguely embarrassed but also accepted this was his reality now.

Back on the bus. Still pickled. And just in time for Amazones Village Suites**** weekly BBQ feast — which, thank Dionysus, was as decadent as it sounds. Pork steaks the size of my head, chicken legs, spicy cheese that burned so good, tzatziki I wanted to swim in, and a chocolate-hazelnut mousse that probably ended wars in a previous life.

I devoured it like someone trying to soak up three glasses of licorice-scented regret. Then, blackout. I don’t remember how I got to bed. But I woke up with olive oil dreams and a hangover that could knock out a Cretan goat.

Moral of the Story: Don’t fight rude tourists. Do drink ouzo responsibly (or not). Always, always respect olive oil.

Crete, you beautiful beast. You got me good.