Ah, Crete. Land of sunshine, goats, and more feta cheese than you can shake a stick at. I recently took myself off for a solo jaunt to Greece’s largest island, in search of sun, sea, and maybe a little bit of spiritual enlightenment (or at least a decent tan and a good cocktail). What I got instead was a week of sunburn, stray cats, Greek karaoke, and an ongoing war with my hotel fridge. Let’s just say it was memorable.
Here’s the unfiltered, sun-drenched tale of one mature woman versus the Cretan summer.
Day 1: Of Delays and Disgusted Seatmates
The trip began as all great adventures do – with a flight delay. Only 50 minutes, mind you, which in airport time is practically early.
My seatmate was a woman who looked like I’d personally ruined her life just by sitting in the centre seat. Every time I so much as exhaled, she recoiled in horror like I’d asked to share her in-flight peanuts. Thank heavens I didn’t need the loo – climbing over her might’ve ended in a mid-air diplomatic incident.
First Impressions and First Degree Burns
The hotel surprised me (pleasantly, not horrifically). Free shots at check-in. Yes, actual alcohol – not just the metaphorical “here’s your key, now get lost”. The room was spacious, with a proper double bed (none of this two-singles-pushed-together nonsense), a little kitchen, and a balcony that faced the sea and the mountains – the holy grail of holiday views. Shame about the busy main road, but you can’t have it all.
I decided to explore. Mistake. It was hot enough to roast a courgette on the pavement. I walked up to a tiny church on the headland for some culture and possibly redemption for the number of baklavas I was about to consume over the next few days. My feet were scorched, my mascara melted off, and I was sweating in places I didn’t know had sweat glands. HOT. HOT. HOT.
Note to self: Greek traffic rules seem more like friendly suggestions. Crossing the road felt like auditioning for a stunt role in a Jason Bourne film.
When in Greece, Eat Everything
There was a national holiday, which meant the beach was absolutely heaving. Mainly Greek families – none of your “Brits Abroad” nonsense here. Refreshing. I stocked up on fridge essentials (water, cheese, wine – the Holy Trinity) and ate at the hotel restaurant, which turned out to be surprisingly fabulous. Delicious food, brilliant service. 10/10, would dine again in sandals.
Watched a fiery sunset on the beach, which felt very “Eat, Pray, Love” until I got sand in my bra and had to do an awkward crab shuffle back to the hotel. Slept like a log… until the fridge started rumbling every 20 minutes like it was trying to communicate with me in Morse code. Possibly possessed.
Chania or Bust (Preferably Not the Fridge Again)
I ventured to Chania (pronounced Haa-nya – try saying it like you’re clearing your throat politely). It was utterly charming. Cobbled lanes, colourful buildings, and enough cafes to caffeinate an army.
Lunch was in the harbour, overpriced because… well, harbour. Took a glass-bottom boat ride which was less “wow, look at all the sea life!” and more “yep, those are definitely my feet”. Still, the swimming stop was lovely.
Dinner back at the restaurant next door this time. Less wow – clearly the chef was off and someone’s nephew had taken over. Still edible. Walked the beach in the moonlight like a tragic heroine in a rom-com. Only difference? No romance. Just me, some sand fleas, and a rumbling fridge.
The Train of Mild Regrets
Next up: a ride on the Little Fun Train to tour the Seven Villages. Spoiler alert – only fun if you enjoy being herded like a school group on a sugar high. The lady at the ticket kiosk made me feel really guilty for booking online. Apparently, this is not the Greek way. I might as well have announced I’d brought my own hummus.
The train was packed. We stopped every five minutes to pick up more passengers. I lost track of how many villages we saw – possibly four, but we definitely saw goats, and orange groves.
Still, the hill village we visited was lovely – traditional stone houses, olive groves, and Greek grannies who eyed me like I was their long-lost niece. The tiny village church (which we were allowed to enter, shoulders covered, of course, just to be respectful), was totally over the top for a village of less than 150 people, but who am I to judge? Bought some knick-knacks. Discovered that card machines don’t exist in the hills. Thank God I’d brought cash and not just good intentions.
Evening meal at Artemis restaurant. They had a singer. He sang My Way in Greek, then in English, then (I swear) in Italian. Slightly confusing but highly entertaining. Also, the food was divine. I had a main course I couldn’t pronounce and a pudding I’ll dream about forever.
Beach Life: Sun, Sand and a Suspicious Smell
There are four beaches near the hotel. I went with Golden Beach because I like things that sound expensive. Hired a sun lounger. No parasol, unless you get two loungers. (Who am I, Beyoncé?)
It cost 15 euros to have shade, but it was worth it to avoid resembling a cooked lobster by noon. I brought my own juice and water – very smug – and took a waterproof belt bag so I could swim without having to trust my valuables to the mercy of the seagulls (or the opportunist child sent on a trinket finding mission by parents who didn’t fancy doing their own dirty work).
The beach itself was lovely – shallow waters, turquoise sea, soft sand. Until someone nearby opened a tuna sandwich that had clearly died some time last week. Nothing ruins the moment quite like eau de fish gut.
Dinner was back at the hotel restaurant. I think I’m on first-name terms with the waiter now. Excellent meal. They should really change the name from ‘Piato’ to ‘Honestly, Just Eat Here Every Night’.
Day of Doom (Or: How Not to Sunbathe Like a Pro)
I overdid it. There, I said it. Too much sun, not enough sense. Woke up feeling like I’d been hit by a rogue wave of nausea. Either I had mild sunstroke, heatstroke, or I was turning into a raisin.
I stayed in the air-conditioned room all day, sipping water, cursing my enthusiasm for sunbathing, and wondering whether the fridge’s mysterious rumblings were a call to the underworld.
Note to fellow travellers: no matter how tempting it is to get that golden goddess glow, apply sunscreen like you’re icing a cake, and don’t fall asleep on the beach.
Final Thoughts: Would I Do It Again? Absolutely. With SPF 50.
Despite the odd hiccup (sunburn, strange fridge behaviour, and a brief encounter with food poisoning in the form of suspicious tzatziki), this trip was exactly what I needed.
Crete has a charm that’s hard to bottle. Whether it’s the friendly locals, the sunsets that make your heart skip a beat, or the sheer joy of sipping ouzo while watching a cat saunter off with someone’s moussaka – it’s got soul.
For solo female travellers over 50, it’s the perfect mix of relaxing and adventurous. Just pack a hat, carry cash for the villages, and don’t book train tickets online unless you fancy being guilt-tripped by an elderly Greek woman.
Would I go again? In a heartbeat. But next time, I’m bringing aloe vera. And earplugs. For the fridge.
Quick Tips for the Mature Solo Traveller in Crete:
- Stay Hydrated: Bottled water is cheap, and you’ll need gallons.
- Sunscreen Is Not Optional: The sun is not your friend after 10am.
- Local Buses Are Brilliant: Cheap, efficient, and full of character (and characters).
- Cash Is King in the Villages: Those adorable ceramic bowls don’t accept Visa.
- Eat All the Things: Even if you can’t pronounce them.
- Talk to Stray Cats: They’re excellent company and surprisingly photogenic.
Like this? Don’t forget to share with your fellow wanderers.
#SoloTravelOver50 #CreteAdventures #WomenWhoTravelAlone #GreekIslandLife #FunnyTravelBlog #StrayCatsWelcome
