Harbour Hotel

It was around 1986 that we booked a hotel in Elounda. That was before well known areas of Crete became the tourist hub they are today. I've no idea how we got to Elounda but I think we had to fly via London.
Our harbour hotel was full when we arrived in the middle of the night. We were given a small room at the very top of the house. It was like a crows' nest. In the morning we went to the window for our first view of the sea. What we saw was the island of Spinalonga rising from the Gulf of Corfu like the crinkle cut back of a dinosaur.
Our host Manolis, explained that the room we had booked was not available -- there had been a death in the family and the hotel was occupied by aunts, uncles and cousins. He would secure a room for us in another hotel. Of course if we were happy to stay where we were he could not under any circumstances charge us.
We stayed and in as far as was possible in two weeks we became part of the family. We were invited to attend the funeral service and to join in the meal for everyone which followed. Photos of the deceased uncle were passed around.He was pictured working in the olive grove, in his army, uniform and looking magnificent on the day of his marriage to Irene. Five beautiful children followed who now in middle age mourned their father.
One evening we walked along the seashore with Manolis and he offered to take us to Spinalonga. Next morning we set off in his blue and white boat. As we approached the island, the Venetian Fortress gleamed in the bright morning light. Manolis explained that this fortress had been built with stone from the now sunken city of Oleos which was once  a place of worship for Greek Gods and Goddesses. But the saddest part of the island's history was its years as a leper colony in the nineteen thirties.
Leaving the boat we climbed the stone steps which led to the crest of the island. I tried to imagine how the people who were forcibly taken to Spinalonga had resisted. They must have felt degraded, unloved, forgotten? Peering over high walls I saw huge rocks down below where mighty waves crashed and tumbled. Surely during times of desperation the idea of jumping into this cauldron must have crossed the mind of many a sufferer. And did any person with withered limbs and oozing sores ever claw at the stone inch by inch in an effort to escape? It would be a dream surely to be carried pain free forever on a soft blue sea?
Manolis who had been talking to my husband may have read my mind. 'In time' he said, 'life for the community on Spinalonga improved. The inhabitants had their own shops, medical care, a church and a library. And there was electricity on the island too -- before it came to the mainland.' he laughed.
Did electric light prevent them from crying at night for the relatives they had left behind? Did it erase from memory the healthy children they would never hug again or end those dreams once shared with separated spouses? I didn't think so.
Manolis told us about a woman who tried to infect herself with leprosy so that she could join her husband on the island and about the father who churned his way through the water and came ashore on Crete with his small son hanging onto his neck. They were promptly returned to the island.
There was a story too about a husband and wife who were permitted, as were others at the time, to go back to Athens to settle their affairs. They had a row and he killed her -- and sent her pickled body back in a barrel of fish! He was captured and left to serve out his sentence as the gods intended.
Manolis took us to see the forty remaining graves on the island.  A stone slab covered each burial place for the whitened bones of those who did not survive long enough to be allowed off the island when the leprosy scare eased. Here slumber the noble souls who were deprived of a healthy life in the olive groves, who never trod the wine-press with fellow villagers and for whom the scent of orange, lemon and jasmine had become a memory.They were deprived of that tranquility and sureness which comes from being held close in one's own place.
We returned to Elounda later in the evening. Sitting in our crow's nest we listened to bouzouki music and the chatter and laughter of people dining in traditional restaurants down below. As the sun set in the west, Spinalonga soared in the distance solid and enduring against the sky. I remembered those lonely graves and I wondered if the bones could hear the music too. Maybe they clapped their bony hands and smiled through bleached teeth before returning to their slumbers.
Much has been written about Spinalonga since I was there with my husband and Manolis in 1986. It is an unforgettable place -- it provoked the thoughts written above which in no way do justice to those who lived there.

Feature

   When Linda Talbot, former London based journalist, book, art and theatre critic and well known author of children's fantasy stories asked me for an interview I agreed. Here is a copy of what she's written.
   I am embarrassed and at the same time delighted by Linda's observations. I am very grateful to her for taking the time to do this. I hope my answers to Linda's questions will give you an insight into why and how I write

    Marie Quirke-Smith has a mischevious sense of humour and a rapid response to atmosphere and character.

   As a writer this leads her into explorations of society, a potent sense of place and an incisive insight into people. Her book 'A PLACE IN THE CHOIR' has been published as a paperback and is now on Amazon Kindle. It traces the life of Ellie and her Catholic upbringing, spicing her experiences with humour and trenchant domestic detail.

   Marie, who comes from Ireland and now lives in Crete, explains, “The idea for this book developed when issues arose about scandals within religious institutions. I wondered why this happened. How were the entrants to religious life chosen and how were they trained?

   “I write about nuns in this novel although by no means exclusively. But I must emphasise that the nuns who educated me in boarding school bear no resemblance to a couple of unpleasant characters in my book. My teachers were dedicated holy women, highly educated, caring and forward-looking. The novel to some extent is semi-autobiographical – it’s difficult to write without shadows from one’s own life intruding. But the book is essentially fiction and whatever may ring true to life within the pages is purely coincidental.”

What are Marie’s current views on Catholic education?
She says, “I think Catholic education continues to have much to offer even though the church itself may be on a learning curve and its influence, especially on youth, has lessened. Education is an ongoing process and any educational institution needs to re-evaluate its role from time to time. Each has its own ethos which will influence how people interact and affect the way they live.

How did the story evolved?
“I had an idea in my mind at the beginning of the book but the story took on a life of its own as I wrote. Since the paperback edition was published I undertook a complete revision of the novel. Now I feel I have a more authentic offering.

I began to write the book in Ireland. When we moved to Crete I didn't have time to continue on a regular basis.”

But it was finished and she is now writing a sequel. (which can also stand alone).

“This has suddenly taken off”, she admits, “The main character faces huge challenges which will have to be tackled. It’s an interesting story based in Ireland and Israel in the 1970s and 1980s.”

Marie shares a common dilemma with many writers: “I want to write when I can’t. Sometimes when I’m having a meal with friends I want to be at home writing. Often I’m not mentally present because I’m coming up with ideas which I go crazy trying to recall later.

“I have a problem too – that all the odd jobs must be completed and the house looking tidy before I sit down to write. So I’m often tired by the time I decide to start, then it’s time for  cup of tea – even lunch – any excuse to put off the inevitable. But the urge to write is relentless and a day doesn't go by without a few sentences being jotted down. It’s often a scene which ignites me – like watching the simple contentment of a man quietly drinking alone, before his friends join him in a café.”

Now she is writing a novel set mainly in Crete. She says, “Crete is an influence beyond price. The slow pace of life, the hospitality of the people, the freedom to have the life you desire, the beauty of the mountains, the tranquillity and sometimes power of the sea. Sheep bells and bird song in the early morning. The sound of olive trees rustling in the wind. The valleys, villages hanging onto rocks, wild flowers, sandy beaches and sun umbrellas. The ever changing colours of the sky, those little hillside churches and ancient monasteries, the history of the place, friendships formed, concern for the elderly, love for the children, lights on the night ferry leaving for the mainland, old cities with their harbours, forts and fishing vessels. Village festivals in August – food, wine and raki. And the value of family ties; weddings, baptisms and name days.”

Marie Quirke-Smith has come a long way from her first writing as a child when she was given a pencil of her own and wrote about the animals on the farm where she lived. She has responded to  social situations, delved the motives of those involved, vividly absorbed a sense of place and infused her characters with convincing traits and intriguing behaviour.

It is these qualities born of a natural talent that will render her books timeless.

cuttings & clippings

We had to disconnect all technology for some time because of bad storms. Today having had to catch up on things left undone I've just a few clippings and a memory to share with you.

A father's name is most important in Crete. It has to appear on every official document and on most non official ones too. On my first visit to the Health Clinic I was suffering from an ear infection. The doctor began questioning me.
'And what is your father's name?' he asked.
'Oh no, I said, 'it's my ear.'
The doctor smiled. I need to know your father's name,' he said,' before I can treat you.'
I wonder how many father's, some deceased, and from other countries, ever expected their name to be of such importance in Greece?

When I attended the eye doctor he said me during a particular part of the exam 'look at my ear.' I thought he said 'look at my hair.' Since he was follicle challenged to quite a degree this was embarrassing.
'Where exactly would you like me to look?' I enquired.
Tweaking his right ear he said, 'here, it's usually attached to the side of my head.'
'Of course,' I stuttered. 'I'll be going to the hearing specialist tomorrow.
'Why not,' he smiled.

A family friend celebrated her one hundred and fourth birthday recently.
'How, I asked her have you managed to live so long?'
'I took a deep breath at one time,' she smiled 'and I have kept doing that.'

On New Year's Eve, not too long after our arrival in Crete, there was a party in a nearby taverna. The patrons were mostly local people who were determined to enjoy the festivities. When the dancing began there were stunning performances. Young men in white boots danced in line until unexpectedly one jumped into the air and tipped his heels together. Everyone cheered which encouraged him to new heights. The young women in national costume were composed and danced impeccably afterwards. When it was time for men of all ages to take the floor for a special dance my husband joined them. I watched him doing the steps almost as well as any Greek.
'What if he tries that jump?' I asked my friend.
'Don't be daft, he won't.' she answered.
He did.
He rose into the air, flipped over, and miraculously landed on his feet. He received a rousing cheer and was presented with a cigar for his efforts.
'How did you do that?' I asked.
'With more than a little help from my friends.' he laughed

When snow follows rain

Following days of heavy rain and strong winds we were warned to expect snow. It arrived yesterday morning. We awoke to whiteness everywhere. Great mounds of snow stood out in the landscape, and trees, now looking like fantastic characters, spread wide their magnificent snowy branches. Rooftops and Church domes glistened. The peaks of the White Mountains around us were lost in a heavenly sea of drifts which gleamed in the winter sun. A week ago I'd been marveling at the sight of anemone already in bloom. I hope they will survive this cold snap and reappear to brighten the land.


The rain which preceded the snow storms caused much misery in the surrounding area and in the city of Chania. Houses were flooded, falling rocks and landslides disrupted the daily flow of traffic and the loss of electricity made life miserable for many people. While we marveled at the beauty of the pine trees in the forest and took our photographs others were desperately trying to salvage household goods. It was very cold too -- much lower temperatures than we've ever experienced here in the past. We were eager to light a log fire early in the day.Villages high up in the mountains were cut off while those farther down in the foothills battled a steady flow of water streaming downhill towards their basements.

Although assistance was at hand from the Local Authority, Agencies, and Support Groups a little water can go a long way. In the aftermath of flooding help is needed even more. The support, goodness and neighborliness of people who live on Crete (and in places all over the world) inspires     us during such times of crisis.

Resolutions What Resolutions?

I haven't made any New Year Resolution(s). I'm not buying another track suit and I won't be running up our lane like the neighbour I glimpsed puffing his way uphill this morning. Why would anyone want to  endure such torture -- maybe it's good preparation for running a marathon?

Years ago I went to the first Dublin City Marathon -- not as a participant but as a willing observer. I was accompanied by 'a friendly neighbour' named Matt. He's now my husband and we are far away from Dublin, which has nothing at all to do with what I'm about to tell you.

To look suitably athletic on the day I'd bought a deep purple track suit with silver trim. My shoes -- were a black patent creation with kitten heels. I suppose designer runners were available but I didn't know anything about this. My 'friendly neighbour' wore a green anorak with fur lined hood -- it was a cold morning in October.

We positioned ourselves where we'd be able to see a good number of participants. The crowd stirred en mass when runners rounded a bend, loud clapping and cheering began. There were calls of, 'your almost there,'when there was still about twenty miles left to cover! I saw our butcher run by looking very serious. An onlooker shouted 'fine leg of lamb Mick!'

The atmosphere was one of power and physicality. Feet pounded the tarmac, hot breath condensed into the air, sweat streamed off  oiled bodies, fancy dress and clever logos made the onlookers laugh.
Then runners arrived in groups as the leaders disappeared down the road. I clapped wildly when a company of girls came into sight. Watching them I didn't see a runner in trouble. 'Watch out,' Matt warned, when a man began to stagger forward. He grasped the air as a fellow runner tried to steady him. He stumbled out of reach and fell face down at Matt's feet.

Fortunately there was an Ambulance in position nearby. It arrived at the place where we and others were trying to comfort the injured man. The rear doors of the ambulance opened and a very strong looking nurse with black hair severely arranged leaped out. 'Can you help me to lift him inside?' she asked Matt. He, always willing to oblige, did so. The doors closed and the ambulance moved away but reversed again very quickly. Simultaneously,  I spotted a large leather bag on the ground. Opening the ambulance door for a second time the strong black haired nurse shouted, 'That's my medical bag on the ground there, can you give it up to me?'  Matt, once again was more than willing to oblige -- so willing that he allowed the nurse to grab his arm as well as her bag. Before I realised what was happening the ambulance moved away, siren blaring, with Matt inside.

Stupidly I ran after the ambulance in my kitten heels and deep purple suit. I was crying out, 'where are they taking him?'
'Was that your fella?' a woman asked. 'The poor devil, sure he did his best.'
I ran up the road against the groups of runners coming towards me.
'Hey,' a runner dressed like Big Bird called 'You're going the wrong way. It's a one way race.'
'I'm only going one way,' I shouted -- Chicken.'

What a relief to see Matt's green anorak again. 'What happened?' I cried.
'Nothing much,' he replied. 'They checked my pulse, took my temperature, said ''you'll do'' and dropped me off here at the traffic lights.'

A New Year

   Nature provided the pyrotechnics which ushered 2015 into north western Crete. When the thunder crashed outside and lightning illuminated the surrounding area I recalled a New Year's night several years ago.With friends we were invited to a renovated old village house on New Year's Eve.The couple who had undertaken this project were truly dedicated to preserving the architectural remnants of the past. Within the dwelling there were old arches and alcoves, wood beamed ceilings, and a simple but very large fireplace.

   While we each enjoyed a warm drink (warm being open to interpretation) the weather changed. A sudden storm began to rage bringing with it wind, rain, thunder and lightning. The sturdy walls of the house withstood a terrible battering but as the rain increased in volume it became obvious that the old chimney was more open to the elements than expected. Great raindrops landed on the burning logs to create assorted bubbles which sizzled before exploding. Black smuts floated here and there while smoke which made our eyes water billowed around the room
.
   Our hostess went into the kitchen and returned with an assortment of plastic basins She handed each guest a basin. 'Orange is for the area beside our bedroom,' she said. 'George, take charge there and Irene take this pink basin and leave it on top of the kitchen table. Tom, the yellow basin will do in the bathroom and Julie go to the back bedroom with this purple one.' My basin was pillar box red and my husband's was white. We were to take command in the hallway. 'The roof will leak,' our host explained 'but the exact site is unknown. You see, there's a gap somewhere and when rain gets in under the tiles it flows along under the roof looking for a suitable exit into the house. So far we've failed to solve this problem.'

   It became the duty of each guest to check from time to time to see if there was water in the basin assigned to them. While we enjoyed more drinks, lovely food, music and chat there was a sudden splashing noise. 'Red Alert, it was in the hall.' My husband and I ran to our stations to find the red basin already overflowing. The hall had become a stream. Soon the water flowed down some internal steps and formed a pool in the lower level. 'We need help here my husband shouted.'

   Our fellow revelers didn't hear us. They remained seated by the hissing fire until a great rush of water splashed fountain like from somewhere overhead. Meandering rain water had found another outlet. 'Oh my hair, it's soaked,' Julie screeched and then the lights went out.
'Darlings, don't move,' our hostess cried. 'I'll fetch towels and candles too.'

At midnight, in a scented sauna of jasmine, cranberry, ginger, magnolia, cinnamon, and peach we held hands to sing, Auld Lang Syne. By candlelight I read the logo on my husband's beach towel --

                                                         CRETE  the island  for
                                                           SUN
                                                           Sea  and
                                                           SURPRISES