Crete or Bust: A tale of delays, diverts, and damn good tomatoes

4am. Handcross. Dark. Quiet. The kind of quiet that hums in your ears and makes your thoughts louder than they should be. But there’s something romantic about starting a journey before the world wakes up — like you’re stealing a march on life.

The ride to the airport? Smooth. Suspiciously smooth. No traffic. No fuss. The kind of start that makes you feel like the travel gods are smiling down on you, whispering “this trip will be effortless.”

Liars. Fucking liars.

We boarded slightly late. Air traffic control in Crete was having “issues” — a vague phrase that felt inconsequential at the time. What we didn’t know then was that Crete wasn’t just having issues. It was having a full-blown tantrum. High winds — twice the safe landing limit — and a sandstorm straight out of Lawrence of Arabia.

The descent into Crete? We thought we were going in. Wheels out. Cabin tense. Then — nope. Diverted to Athens like a bad Tinder date who gets stood up at the bar.

So we land in Athens. Sit on the tarmac. For hours. No word. No plan. Just that special airline silence where everyone stares at their phones pretending this is fine. Eventually, we’re airborne again — back to Crete. Apparently for an “attempted landing,” which turned out to be a polite euphemism for a joyride to burn fuel and turn right back around.

Cue the descent into madness.

EasyJet, bless their non-communicative hearts, offered no information, no help, no plan. So we did what any street-smart traveler does: booked our own salvation. A nearby spot called the Honeywell Inn — which, to our delight, turned out to be an absolute gem.

Gorgeous apartment. Clean, calm, and stocked with three — yes, three — large jars of homemade cookies. I hadn’t eaten in hours. I made short work of those cookies. No regrets.

With sugar rushing through my veins and a deep sense of survival pride, I ventured up the road. Found a local spot serving chicken gyros platters, and dear god — those tomatoes. The kind that makes you question everything you thought you knew about tomatoes. I would’ve eaten a plate of just those if they’d let me. Bright, tangy, sun-kissed little bombs of flavour that tasted like Crete itself, even though I still wasn’t there.

Midnight rolled around. Still no word from EasyJet. Nothing. Nada. Ghosted harder than a holiday fling. We gave it till just after midnight, then pulled the trigger on a morning flight with Aegean Airlines — because we wanted control back. And because sanity has a price.

At 1:06am, EasyJet finally slid into our DMs: no hotel, no apology, and a rebooked flight for 4pm. Thank God for good instincts and Wi-Fi.

Now, it’s barely noon. I’m in Crete. I’ve got a carafe of chilled white wine sweating gently in the heat. A plate of Davos bread topped with crushed tomatoes, herbs, and feta, and golden-fried zucchini and eggplant — still sizzling and unapologetically greasy in the best way.

Could I be in an airport lounge right now? Sure. But I’m not. I’m exactly where I should be: sipping wine, licking olive oil from my fingers, and toasting to chaos, cookies, and the kind of tomatoes that make all the turbulence worth it.

Yamas!!