Lord knows I needed my holiday to Crete last week, the first proper getaway I managed to enjoy since the same time last year. Having only visited the Greek island as a child with my family, and mostly staying inside our hotel complex, this was my first proper experience of it, and I was left feeling like I was inside a massive factory. Having landed at about 10.30pm at Heraklion Airport after a delayed flight, there was only time to check into my hotel – the Capsis Astoria.
The next day, I had a full schedule. First was a visit to the more than 3,800-year-old Minoan Palace at Knossos (yes, I am aware of the similarities between myself and Will McKenzie). To get there, I had to take one of the city’s buses – only €2.50 per trip. It’s 50 cents cheaper if you get a ticket from a machine rather than from the driver, but I couldn’t do this for the life of me after either being bamboozled by the user interface or not being able to find a dispenser in the first place.
I apparently look a bit Germanic, as a tour guide outside the palace approached and asked me: “Sprechen sie deutsch?”
After politely declining her services (I had bought an audio guide online), I very much enjoyed the historic site, and found it fascinating.
The place is well worth seeing if you haven’t already.
It particularly struck me how much we still don’t know about the ancient civilisation.
This is despite rather a lot of it being reconstructed according to the thinking of the British archeologist Sir Arthur Evans, and the artwork on display being replicas.
The queue for the throne room was unreasonably long, meaning I didn’t bother waiting in it, especially given it would be in the blazing sun, and the combination of narrow walkways and huge tour groups made the going very frustrating at times.
I found myself at times subconsciously walking with my hands behind my back – a prime pose to strike when observing wonderful structures – like a member of the Royal Family.
I may be plagiarising a Noel Fielding joke here.
Having finished my look around, I waited for my bus back, and it suddenly struck me as a large tour bus drove out of the car park how much the area resembled a very efficient production line.
The centre of a long-gone, mysterious religion and the pinnacle of Bronze age Cretian art and architecture is now the centre of the island’s tourism industry.
Constant queues made up of limitless customers from around the globe shuffled through turnstiles, past a food outlet and gift shop.
In 2023, ticket sales reached all-time highs, according to Argophilia, with the palace, owned by the Greek states, bringing in 60% of the more than €18.5million garnered by Crete’s museums and archaeological sites.
Topping off the industrial vibe was my visit to the a restaurant for lunch, before a visit to the island’s archeological museum – also worth seeing, by the way.
I decided upon Sea Avra, given the port’s emphasis on sea food.
Feeling adventurous, I chose octopus, the dish consisting of a single tentacle, salad and chips.
If I had to guess, going by my limited culinary expertise, I would say the meat was quite cheap, and maybe frozen, as the poor creature, whatever their name was, was a bit fatty and tasted a bit dull.
My guilt was exacerbated by seeing many vases decorated with images of octopuses in the museum.
After my meal, during which I couldn’t help feeling a tad rushed as covers were turned over and staff went about their business with brutal urgency around me, I was straight away asked by a waiter at the place next door if I wanted to sit down and have some food.
I explained that I had finished my lunch merely seconds ago.
The pursuit of custom was clearly relentless.
My route back to my hotel included a walk down what seemed to be Crete’s main shopping street.
Positively bustling, plenty of cash was being made by a variety of souvenir, clothing and hospitality businesses.
There’s even a Marks and Spencer on the island, which felt very strange inside, as if it belonged in some sort of parallel universe where Dominic Cummings’s campaign to thwart the rollout of the Euro in Britain had been unsuccessful.
The rest of my holiday, you’ll be glad to know, was more relaxing.
Although reality returned with real force when I was forced to pay €40 in “city tax” when checking out, and as I was about to board my plane, I was reminded of the chaos I was returning to as news broke of Angela Rayner’s resignation.
One gentleman showed the alert on his phone to his wife, who met it with a disinterested look.