Crete, day three: Sweat, sand, and stuffed zucchini flowers

Some days you wake up on a Greek island and decide to walk straight into madness. A 1.5-hour hike from the quiet charm of Piskopiano Crete Greece to Stalis Beach, Crete doesn’t sound crazy — until you’re halfway there, uphill, downhill, weaving through sun-soaked villages and realising you’re committed. There’s no turning back when you’re thirty minutes in and starting to glisten like a spit-roasted lamb.

But here’s the thing about Crete — even the tough walks give you gifts. That hike took us through winding backstreets and sleepy corners of little villages you’d otherwise miss in a car. Beach resorts peppered with palm trees, old men playing tavli outside cafés, souvenir shops selling everything from evil eye bracelets to leather sandals — it was Greece in all its hot, chaotic, romantic glory. You earn your beach here.

And Stalis Beach? Worth every blister and every drop of sweat. We planted ourselves at Edem Stalis, a beach hut and restaurant that felt like some secret society of leisure. For €12, we scored two very comfortable wooden loungers with thick mattresses, pillows, and the kind of beside service that makes you never want to move again. Cold drinks arrived with a smile. Food orders came quickly. The sea stretched out in front of us like a postcard someone forgot to Photoshop.

Lunch? A déjà vu of greatness — kalamari, fried to crisp, golden perfection but tender enough to cut with a fork, served with a Greek salad that once again proved this island doesn’t mess around with tomatoes. Add in tzatziki so fresh and garlicky it could punch through a hangover, and you’ve got the ultimate beachside feast.

Then came the climb back.

You think walking to the beach is the hard part? Try trudging back up to Piskopiano with the sun laughing at your life choices. We were sweaty, borderline delusional, and desperately clinging to any excuse to stop — and Crete delivered. Little tavernas along the way became our oasis pit stops. Cold beers. Wine. Ciders. Lemonades. The occasional ice cream. A slow return, but a rich one — the kind of slog that strips away all pretension. Just you, your aching legs, and the promise of a good dinner at the top.

And oh, dinner.

David Vegera Restaurant — a name that now lives rent-free in my culinary memory. We started with a spicy dip of grilled spicy peppers and feta, creamy, fiery, and just aggressive enough to earn your respect. Fava, soft and luxurious, practically drinking in the olive oil it was bathed in. Then came the meatballs, delicate and juicy, comfort food for the soul, especially when slathered in that tomato sauce and dragged through the remnants of the spicy cheese.

The dolmades and stuffed zucchini flowers were a revelation — the kind of dish that makes you fall in love with the word “stuffed” all over again. Earthy, bright, tender. A celebration of everything that makes Greek food more than just grilled meat and olives. Speaking of which — the grilled pork belly was perfection. Crisp on the outside, melting within, with seasoning that whispered instead of screamed. Paired with salty chips and a carafe of red house wine, it all came together like a table of old friends who know each other’s secrets.

And then — dessert.

myzithropitakia — sweet cream cheese pies, drizzled with honey and dusted with cinnamon. Warm, soft, sweet, and deeply satisfying. Finished with the obligatory (and unavoidably bracing) rakki, because that’s how Crete says thank you and goodnight.

We stumbled back to the hotel full, slightly drunk, sun-kissed, and happier than we had any right to be.

Crete doesn’t just feed your stomach — it humbles your legs, seduces your taste buds, and makes you sweat for your stories.