Kritsotopoulas

Introducing the village of Kritsa

There’s a neatly paved street in the hill village of Kritsa, where I love to walk… It has tall, white houses packed tightly together, colourful shops where embroidery and tablecloths dance in the breeze – and in the early mornings, when I’m heading to the bakery before the summer day trippers arrive, it’s filled with the sweet scent of blossom, and the sound of house martins chattering, as they shuffle through their tightrope performances on the electricity cables that crisscross the narrow sky.  

Halfway along is the bronze sculpture of a girl, head bent over her plekti - traditional crochet work. The Thread of Life was created to capture the continuity of traditional crafts in this place – skills passed down from mother to daughter. In the winter, when I pass by the shop of our friend, Irene, I often glimpse her in the shadows behind the linens, working at her loom. Until a year or so ago, her street companion was Kaliope – an older, smiling lady who wore her headscarf like a crown, and strode down the street to her shop on wiry legs that made you forget she was over eighty. Now she is nursed by her family in Rethymnon, and her crochet work has made way for the shop of fine artist, Eliana – one craft slipping into the place of another.

The Thread of Life sculpted by Nigel Ratcliffe. Photo courtesy of Kritsa is Home

In this street is also the taverna Agadiko – the business run by Toula and her family - with waiter Christophoro sitting outside in the early morning, usually peering at his phone, catching up on the football over a cigarette and coffee before the first visitors of the day arrive. And here is another piece of village life spun out of one continuous thread – Toula used to work with the previous owner, Yianni, who now takes life a little easier, buzzing, whitehaired, through the narrow streets on his trusty moped making deliveries or visiting friends. His legacy: the warm-heartedness of a taverna that draws people in to its squat, cast iron stove in the winter, and to the shade of the ancient plane tree that grows through the front wall of the building in the summer - A cool place, where customers can sip iced drinks, while the resident cats peep down at them from the leafy crown of the tree above.

If I’m a little late to fetch bread, I might see George Afordakis, the former marathon runner turned naturalist, who now governs the Rodanthe Natural History Museum with passionate enthusiasm – his medals winking through their ribbons, alongside displays of plants, fossils, herbs and dyes. Or I’ll bump into Aristidis setting out the brightly coloured cushions that mark the chairs of his cafe in the tiny square, where a life-sized Nativity scene commands the space at Christmas.

Where the road splits into a ‘V’ beneath a younger plane tree, is the shop where lively Rena’s husband once carved and polished our olive wood serving spoons - and the kafenio/taverna Platanos. This is a place with a double life, which sometimes – often seemingly without warning - transforms itself from a sleepy, light-dappled café to a nighttime bouzouki spot, with a raucous flourish of dancing and traditional music that lasts into the wee small hours.

From here, it’s downhill between the stylish clothes shops, to the leather goods store on the corner, where the deaf owner Kostas always signs good morning and greets me with either a thumbs up for beautiful weather, or a thumbs down if the sky is grey – then, past the 19^th century Panagia Odigitria church, where the ‘epitafi’ is decorated with tumbling masses of flowers for the procession every Good Friday night - and on to the place where the smell of freshly baked loaves is calling.

The Fournos – the bakery - is a place where it’s difficult to buy just the single thing you came in for. The bread is fragrant and richly crusted, but there are also tiny chocolate-covered ice cream pops in the freezer, tiropita and hortopitakia – savoury cheese and herb-and-wild-greens pies on the counter shelves – and, my favourite, Kalitsounia - star-shaped parcels of sweet cheese and crimped, crisp pastry - waiting for me by the till.

With the bread and pastries safely wrapped, it’s back a few paces uphill to Massaros’ Café, where the elder men of the village dispute and nod, and pass around the newspaper while they sip tiny, strong cups of coffee. Since we arrived here, this is another place that has been delivered into the hands of a younger generation, tables and chairs spreading from the narrow pavement beside the church wall, to a level terrace with softer chairs set back from the bustle of the road. I always choose a roadside seat – impossible not to take my fill of the view that sweeps down towards the dazzling sea. This is where I people-watch as the day trippers arrive, observing them as they stalk uphill in the heat, pausing – just for a few moments – at the church doorway, before they move on upwards towards the shops...

And, as I sip at my frappé I think of Kaliope again, who once made me a tiny, dark, sweet coffee at her beautiful shop and asked which house was mine. When I said that we were higher up ‘Kritsotopoulas’, she explained that the street was named for Rodanthe, the heroine of the village, but that it meant ‘a girl of Kritsa’

- “And so now you are Kritsotopoula too.”

It’s a good memory - and as I walk back home with my warm bread, I’m thinking of the continuity of this special place - and of being one, tiny part of that silken thread of Kritsa life, spinning out against the mountain sky…