The first night I stay at a lake with a huge dam. It might be the quietest place I’ve camped at so far. The road around the lake is hardly used, there are no villages here, and no reason to visit. My spot beautifully overlooks the lake, facing east, so I’m treated to a sunset over the mountains when I wake up the next morning. Just before I fall asleep, I smell smoke. “Must be other campers”, I tell myself. Better to get out and talk to them, build report, be at ease. But once I exit my tent, I see a substantial forest fire across the lake. Last years’ summer’s news stories and people advising me not to build fires come to mind. The other side is about 200 meters away from me, this is a big-but-not-that-big lake. It has been raining yesterday, but I reckon I should check every now and then. Fires spread easily and there’s a possibility I might have to pack up and move! I get back into my tent – it’s not warm outside – to check back 15 minutes later. When I do I see two fire trucks coming down the mountain. I fall asleep peacefully after that reassurance.

The next day I challenge myself to a mountain stage. I pick one that’s relatively close, but with an elevation profile of 2000 meters over the whole ride, most of it at the end, a challenging one too. I climb and climb and look for a place to set up camp. Having not ridden for a month, I’m surprised by nightfall. Dusk starts at 16h, and at around 17h it’s completely dark. I have another problem; this mountain is completely inhabitable for campers. Everything is hostile, the bushes thorned, the boulders that cover every inch of the ground where the bushes don’t grow are as sharp as a knife. At two-thirds of the climb I find a patch of red-brown mud. Perfect. The views are otherworldly and I’m there early enough to watch the sunset. After cooking in the dark the milky way lights up the sky above me with ferocity. It’s beauty it (literally) otherworldly. After staring at it until it’s I’m too cold to do so I fall asleep with the sound of clapping beaks of the birds above me, and the bells of the herds of goats running around. The next morning is not as idyllic. Rain has started and my patch of mud is in a tiny valley. The pool that was 50 meters away from my tent last night, has now grown to include me too. I wait nice and dry for about an hour but according to my weather apps, the rain will continue to fall until late afternoon. When the rain changes from heavy to regular I get out and pack everything up. It usually takes about an hour to pack my bags, tent, get dressed, have breakfast and by the end the rain has intensified and all is soaked, covered in that reddish mud. I had planned to continue over the mountain towards the south of Crete but decide to go back to the northern city of Heraklion because I need some warmth and a place to clean my tent and myself. Getting down the mountain I stop at the nearest village. The place is small enough to not have a café or supermarket so I wait out the rain at somebody’s roofed porch. I wait until I’m completely frozen and decide to continue towards the hostel because I’d rather be warm and wet than be cold and wet. When I arrive at the hostel, leaking mud from every imaginable corner of the bike and myself – the road has luckily mostly been a 50 kilometres descent – the sky clears up and rainbows appear. I question my patience but I’m happy I’ve arrived.

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As I was waiting underneath at that porch, some girl called Anna texted me. She and her boyfriend Lucas had just arrived on Crete that day and had gotten my number through Yiannos, the bike-bag-maker from my previous story. They were also east bound and a mere 35 kilometres from Iraklion. Good people recommending people must be good people too! I leave the hostel early the next day with a nicely cleaned tent and dry clothes to meet them at the beach they camped at. From that moment on we ride together for three days towards Sitia, where I have to take a ferry again. These three days are more than wonderful. Their energy is so welcoming and relaxed that it makes me feel right at home with them. As if we’ve been cycling together for ages. Anna’s from Germany, Lucas is Swiss and had been roommates before they started dating. Both avid bike adventurers, they’ve been criss-crossing Europe and getting their vaccines here and there. We spend both of our nights together camping on different beaches on the north coast. It's comforting falling asleep hearing the crackle of bodies repositioning themselves on inflatable mattresses, zippers of tents and bags and their whispering voices in the tent next to mine. Camping alone can be a bit sketchy, but I’m completely comfortable now. In-between those nights we cross northern Crete. Surrounded by the goat bells around us, we exchange stories of our travels, plans for the future and stories of our past. The mountainous landscape forms the backdrop of our newfound friendship. I wish I could’ve stayed longer, but I already booked a ferry to Santorini. Over our second, and thereby last dinner that we have over a campfire (that is an incredible meal in which we buy half of the ingredients and all offer whatever we have left in our food bags so it results in a feast of a variety of components) I consider cancelling Santorini all together and ride Crete with them for however long it takes. A good friend of mine once told me; “Some people are balloons and they will lift you up. Some people are anchors, and they will pull you down.” Anna and Lukas are definitely balloons. Only the next morning I decide not to. I’ve been in Athens for a while and I feel like it’s time to move on. I consider Crete as a cycling holiday within my cycling travels. I’d like to move forwards and my eye is on Istanbul.

The time I’ve had in Crete has had everything that I was looking for and more. New friends, challenging situations, the continuation of my journey after Athens and sleeping outside again. I’ve been here twice before. Once as a high school graduation trip (read: drinking holiday) and once with my family. The former, although thoroughly enjoyed holds less value in my memory as the latter. I must’ve been around seven years old. I think these are the first memories I have of holidays ever, and they’re perfect. An age where bad things and worries didn’t exist yet. All I vaguely remember from the place we stayed at are the old stone walls, and the window my mom would call us from when we were playing in the garden. I remember the goats, and searching for mountain crystals with my brother. I vividly remember seeing the milky way for the first time and how amazed I was. That memory only got more vivid when I saw it again this trip. Cycling Crete has made all of those memories more colourful. Especially the smells of the island take me back. Fragments of once forgotten pictures of that vacation return to me when the wind carries waves of the cypress, seawater, goat, and soil scent. Oftentimes I ride here half in the now and half in the past.