At Skiathos they’d landed unwittingly on a naturist beach, where they were reprimanded by a naked Scot with a droopy moustache for not being nude enough, and on Kos they’d naïvely accepted the offer of a bed for the night from some friendly young men who turned out to be Armenian terrorists. They’d dressed up in togas for a Greek-themed night on Paros and watched the royal wedding of Fergie and Prince Andrew in a beach bar on Mykonos, where Lana had sung the Welsh national anthem at the top of her voice in an attempt to express her republicanism. And now, with eight Greek islands under their belts, they’d finally landed in Crete.
The Samaria Gorge had been at the top of Catrin’s must-see list for this entire trip. She’d read about it in her dad’s National Geographic magazine and was mesmerized by the photos of this ancient gorge, snaking its way between the Lefka Ori and Mount Volakias. The daytrip wasn’t cheap, but Catrin promised Judith and Lana that they wouldn’t regret a single drachma of the eighteen hundred it was costing them. Despite protests from Lana the night before about wanting a few beers at Lexi’s Bar, Catrin had put her foot down and insisted they had an early night. ‘We’ll need to be up at six, and then it’s at least an eight-hour hike. You’ll thank me in the end.’ And she’d poured them each a glass of Sprite and shuffled the cards for canasta on the balcony.
The bus was parked by a row of cafés on the north side of Chania Harbour. Angelina the tour guide was ticking off names on her clipboard, smiling a kalimera at every passenger. Those clambering aboard were a mixture of ages and nationalities and Catrin was impressed at how lively everyone was, considering it was only seven a.m.
Checking the final head-count, Angelina looked at her watch – and, tapping a hand-held microphone to check it was switched on, she explained that although there were still two more passengers to arrive, they couldn’t wait any longer.
Mikos the driver closed the doors and started the engine, accompanied by some enthusiastic cheers.
Just as they began pulling away there was a frantic banging on the side of the bus and Mikos put on the brakes. The doors opened again and a young guy, mixed race, late teens, climbed aboard, breathless, in shorts and a vest with a small rucksack on his back. He looked like he’d been running for hours. ‘Sorry, so sorry.’ He could barely speak.
Angelina smiled sympathetically. ‘And you are Mr … Cook? Or Mr …’
‘Blythe. Mr Blythe,’ said the guy. ‘Eddie couldn’t make it. He’s the Cook. Well, no, he’s not a cook, he’s gonna be a vet, I just mean he’s the Cook, on your list. Mr Cook.’
Angelina looked thoroughly confused. She ticked off his name from her list and invited him to find a seat. He headed up to the back of the bus. Catrin, who had been momentarily distracted by the kerfuffle, returned to reading in her guidebook about the abandoned village of Samaria, which it said they would reach halfway into their hike.
Suddenly a voice.
‘Can I sit here?’ It was the latecomer.
‘Er … yeah!’ She moved her sunglasses and cardigan to make room for him, inwardly disappointed that she no longer had two seats to herself on which to stretch out.
He put his small rucksack in the rack above them, along with the sweatshirt he’d had tied around his waist, and sat down hard into the seat.
He took several glugs from his water bottle and sighed with relief. ‘That’s better,’ he said to no one in particular.
Hidden behind her guidebook, Catrin watched curiously as a drop of sweat scurried from the guy’s forehead, trickled down his nose and loitered uncertainly on the top of his lip. He wiped it away with the back of his hand, then turned to her.
‘I’m Solomon,’ he said.
And Catrin was completely floored by his unexpectedly beautiful smile.
They’d ended up chatting for the whole journey whilst Judith and Lana both slept in the seats in front of them. She was fascinated by his faint Geordie twang and the way he lit up when talking about stuff that excited him. They had a huge amount in common. A startling amount, in fact.
He, too, was on his travels before going to university – spending a gap year seeing the world with his mate Eddie. ‘The no-show Mr Cook?’ Catrin smiled.
‘That’s the one,’ said Solomon, smiling back. ‘And he was meant to be coming today, but the stupid dork got so drunk last night he couldn’t even move this morning. He went to this bar called Lexi’s?’
Catrin laughed, thinking how Lana could so easily have been Eddie, had she not put her foot down the night before. ‘Yeah, I know it,’ she said.
‘I should probably have stayed with him this morning just to make sure he was OK – he could be dead now, for all I know! But the thing is, I’ve been looking forward to the Samaria Gorge for almost the whole trip.’
‘Me too,’ she said.
‘And Eddie knows that! Like, I first read about it when I was, like, ten.’
‘National Geographic?’ she asked, catching him off-guard.
‘Yeah! How d’you know?’
‘Me too!’ she replied.
There were a lot of ‘me too’ moments in the conversation, both from Catrin and from Solomon. Two lifetime summaries crammed into a forty-five-minute bus journey. They both had an older brother called Tom, a love of Elvis Presley and an allergy to cats. ‘And yes, the irony’s not lost on me,’ said Catrin.
‘Sorry?’ Solomon looked confused.
‘That my name is Cat and I can’t go near them!’
‘Oh yes!’ And his eyes lit up as they carried on discovering common ground: neither was remotely artistic, both were good swimmers, and they shared a passion for maps and globes. But weirdest of all – really weirdest – was that they were both left-handed lapsed Catholics who were off to study medicine in October.
‘Cardiff. What about you?’ she said when he asked which medical school.
‘Cambridge, actually. Trinity,’ he said, a bit embarrassed.
‘Wow – brain box then,’ she laughed.
‘No, not really. Just lucky. I had a cousin went to Cardiff,’ he said, changing the subject. ‘He had an amazing time.’
‘Yeah, I’m looking forward to it. And it’s far enough away from home for me to feel like I’m doing my own thing, but near enough if I run out of food or can’t afford the launderette.’ Catrin smiled.
It was like discovering a long-lost friend. When he was talking she’d steal secret glances at him. Not in the way strangers look at each other when they’re engaged in polite chat on a bus journey to a Cretan gorge. These glances felt almost voyeuristic: she was absorbing him, taking in the texture of his cropped, black hair and the way he ruffled it when he was trying to remember a name; taking in the deep brown tones of his laughing eyes, which she noticed were flecked with hazel. She’d just begun following the contours of his lips when she realized he’d asked her a question.
‘Sorry?’ she asked, feeling caught out.
‘The Agia Irini Gorge?’ Just wondered if you’d done it,’ he said. ‘It’s much shorter than the Samaria – like, three hours? And loads quieter, ’cos less people know about it.’
‘Oh right – well, to be honest I had to persuade the girls to come today, so it’s doubtful they’d do a second gorge. I suppose I could always go on my own …’ she mused, aware that she was hinting for him to join her. Ridiculous – she’d only known him half an hour.