Cretan Adventure

The battered, mustard-yellow Citroen Pony stood lonely in the corner of the plot. With the thickest of accents, the swarthy rentals clerk was explaining that it was holiday season, "no car left - yust one". My father turned to my mother, a look of helpless resignation smeared across his face. He lifted his hands outwards, palms up, in a gesture that mirrored his impotence.

"What do you think, darling?"

"If we are going to go anywhere, do anything, not be stuck in this deserted little cove, then what choice do we have?"

Personally, I loved that deserted little cove. It was dark and volcanic; the brilliance of the sand white-gold dust. I could have stayed there happily, exploring, every day of the holiday. But it wasn't about me or my tomboy ways. My mother wasn't one for beach-lingering. She wanted to be up and at 'em, filling our heads with the wonders of the world. Of course she was right, but it didn't feel like it at that tender age, nor would I ever have admitted it. Not for all the ice cream Ben & Jerry make.

So, the Citroen Pony was ours for the week. It was open, boxy, shaped like a jeep and had a canvas roof that fastened onto the sides with poppers. We didn't bother with the roof; didn't have to. The sun shone relentlessly and we piled in, our family of seven: parents in the front, three kids in the middle and two on box seats in the boot.

We visited beaches over the mountain on the other side of the island, reached by winding, narrow roads, with death-defying drop-aways and dotted with shrines to those who had lost their lives in the endeavour. Every so often, a coach laden with holiday-makers would career around the corner on the wrong side of the road and my father make the sign of the cross and grip the steering wheel harder. My mother clasped her handbag and breathed in, as though that would make the car thinner.

We visited Knossos to search for the Minotaur and marvel at the reconstructed palace. At least, we children hunted the Minotaur. My parents marvelled while we dragged our feet in the chalky white dried-out earth and chased lizards over the walls. It was calm, balmy, beautiful.

Returning from one of these adventures, snaking round the shrunken roads, my little brother piped up in his most plaintive voice:

"I need to do a wee!"

"Darling, you're a boy. You have the equipment. We're not stopping here: it's too dangerous. You'll have to do one over the side of the car."

Horror.

"I can't wee while we're driving along!"

At this point, my father saw fit to interject:

"If another of those coaches comes around this next bend, I very well might!"