Cliffs, Courage & Calm — A Day That Taught Me What I’m Made Of

Some days are calm and gentle.

And some days… teach you what you’re made of.

Carolyn and I set out that morning feeling curious and light, heading toward Tzermiadon, an area rich with ancient ruins and quiet echoes of history. We wandered slowly, imagining where myths might once have walked, the land still holding its ancient soul beneath our feet.

I can’t rush places layered with history.
I can walk gently and imagine.
I am connected to something older than myself.

From there, we drove on to the palm-lined beauty of Vai Beach — a moment of pure calm. The sea shimmered, palms whispered in the breeze, and for a while, the world felt perfectly balanced.

Then we decided to drive into the mountains.

What we thought would be a scenic route home became… something else entirely.

High above the olive groves, Google Maps insisted we turn left.

Straight off a cliff.

No signal.
No guidance.
No reassurance.

Just silence, stone, and the sudden realisation that we were very, very lost.

I can’t rely blindly on technology.
I can pause and assess.
I am still learning when to trust myself instead.

I got out of the car to move rocks from the path, hoping to create a safer way forward. Carolyn wanted to call for rescue. I laughed it off — but inside, my heart was racing.

This was my first real drive in months after surgery.
This was not the confidence booster I’d imagined.

I can’t pretend fear doesn’t exist.
I can move carefully through it.
I am braver than I feel in this moment.

Eventually — blessedly — we found our way back down the mountain. Relief washed through us just as the road widened and the tension softened.

And then…

Six enormous dogs appeared, standing squarely in the road like ancient sentinels. Calm. Watchful. Unmoving.

Thankfully, we were still in the car.

That was our sign.

Time to go home.

Back at Oleander Garden, we poured a strong glass of raki, exhaled deeply, and let the adrenaline fade. Laughter bubbled up, shaky but genuine.

Not every day goes to plan.

But every day gives you something.

A story.
A laugh.
A reminder of your strength.

I can’t control every road I take.
I can respond with courage and humour.
I am stronger than I realised this morning.

And sometimes… a very deep appreciation for paved roads, phone signal, and locked car doors.

Crete, once again, taught me exactly what I needed to learn.