Leaving Albania, we crossed into Greece—a unremarkable border crossing other than the slight embarrassment of being waved straight through whilst other travellers were enduring full-scale vehicle inspections.  Always grateful for an easy border, this one was particularly timely as we had plans to rendezvous with friends on Crete which meant driving down to the port of Piraeus.    

Opting for an inland route, we passed through Greece’s northern mountains, pausing briefly for lunch in Ioannina.  Famed as the mainland’s wettest city it certainly wasn’t short of green parks and lakes and despite a somewhat damp atmosphere was completely packed with Greek weekenders who were queueing around the block to get into restaurant Balsamico where the portions were so huge they were falling off the plates.  This was our first introduction to the Greeks’ obsession with food and in a culture where food is a physical show of love we witnessed a whole lot of lovin’ throughout our stay.  Next up was Agrinio, a rather overlooked city that for a long time was entrenched in the tobacco industry but is now known for its production of Agrinion olives that come from some of the oldest olive trees in the world.    

Yes, we would have liked a more leisurely exploration of the Greek mainland but, already short on time, an unexpected seamen's strike meant we had to depart for Crete a day earlier than expected.  We were soon to learn that strikes in Greece are something of a national pastime, as commonplace as a three-hour lunch and debates over which island makes the best feta.  From what we could surmise, Crete was right up there in the ‘best of’ league which gave us even more motivation to get to Piraeus in time to catch the overnight ferry.  We just made it, relieved to be on board but somewhat unimpressed with the 6 a.m. disembarkation time.  Fortunately, we didn’t have to go far to find a local cafe where tiny cups of thick, black coffee proved as effective as a cold shower.

Why Crete? Well, it’s the largest and southernmost Greek island, floating between the Aegean and Libyan Seas, offering ample sunshine long after the departure of summer.  With a population of 630,000 we figured there would be enough off-season activity to keep us occupied unlike some of the smaller islands which virtually close for the winter.

Crete’s history has been quite a wild ride - a drama that started with the Minoans back around 2000 BCE.  During this Bronze-age time, the island and particularly Knossos was the centre of a dazzling civilization that built monumental palaces, played sports, and created vibrant art works and intricate pottery.  For the most part, the Minoans were farmers and traders and thus proved no match for the war faring Mycenaeans that arrived from the mainland around 1450 BCE.   After a reasonable run, Mycenaean Crete perished along with the collapse of the Bronze-age around 1200 BCE, possibly due to several factors including volcanic eruptions, droughts, wide-spread disease and invasion from the mysterious “Sea Peoples”, naval raiders who terrorised the eastern mediterranean for almost a century.  Fast forward and Crete got cozy with the ancient Greeks, Romans, Venetians, and even the Ottomans - each of whom left their own mark, from ruins to baklava and it wasn’t until the 20th century that Crete finally gained independence. 

We docked in northern-facing Souda, a not-quite-charming locale near Chania’s picturesque Venetian harbor.  Despite ongoing construction that gave it all the ambiance of a hard-hat area, it served as a functional base from where we explored endless sandy beaches to the east and west as well as the surrounding mountains that revealed cute little villages, wineries, botanical gardens, and vast swathes of unexpected, rugged beauty. 

Crete is one of Europe’s most mountainous islands and offers stark contrasts: a cloud-laden northern coast facing Europe, and a sunnier southern coast facing Africa. The latter proved more our speed, especially out of season, and once we were over the mountains that stood between us and the sun, our pace slowed to match that of the locals.   Lazy days on southern beaches blurred together, a cruel paradox of wanting time to stretch while doing absolutely nothing to slow it down.

It required a bit of an effort to check out a few highlights, but we did visit the Balos and Elafonissi lagoons, the hidden beach at Preveli and a few of the dramatic mountain gorges.  Crete boasts over 400 gorges and despite the famed Samaria Gorge being closed for winter, less famous options offered plenty of hiking trails.  We checked out the Minoan palace at Knossos and were impressed by the sophisticated plumbing techniques and the ceremonial chamber room that still contained what is generally agreed to be the oldest surviving throne in the world.  Mythology has the throne belonging to King Minos, son of Zeus and the legendary ruler of Crete.  He was famous for commissioning a Labyrinth underneath the palace for the purposes of imprisoning the Minotaur, a beast that was the unfortunate result of a pairing between Minos’ wife Pasiphae and a bull.  This creature apparently had a penchant for eating children and hoping to prevent some unforeseen disaster, 7 boys and 7 girls were despatched from Athens as a sacrificial offering every 9 years.  You can take it or leave it, but Crete holds an esteemed position in the annals of Greek mythology, although we did draw the line at visiting the sacred cave when Zeus is said to have sprouted.

Inevitably, island time ended, and we boarded the 9-hour ferry from Heraklion back to Piraeus, followed by a 2.5-hour drive to Patras and another 16-hour ferry that delivered us to Bari on the Italian mainland.  Disembarking at 9am we left Bob in a secure parking lot and jumped on a flight to the UK via Milan.  Our logistical masterpiece had so much potential to fail but for once public transport aligned in our favour, culminating in our arrival into Manchester at 8pm - a total travel tine of 49 hours. 

Shorts and tee-shirts were quickly replaced with several layers of winter wear and once we had caught up with family in Wales we set off for London in a grotty little red Vauxhall Corsa hire car.  Driving into London is always testing, even more so when the option of fully comprehensive insurance has been deemed an unnecessary expense, and we were relieved to arrive at our destination unscathed – the Algerian Consulate in North Acton.  We were quite familiar with the area having visited some weeks before in order to submit our applications for a tourist visa.  An application that had to be deferred as due to our overzealous timing the visas would have expired before we even reached the Algerian border.  This time, our visit was a bit more thought through and the Consulate proved mercifully efficient; within 15 minutes the visas were firmly affixed in our passports and we were able to make a triumphant, traffic-choked escape. 

We delayed heading back to Italy for a few days as despite the cold, gloomy wet weather, Christmas loomed with its uniquely British mix of cheer and commercialism, and we enjoyed the nostalgia of wandering beneath the festive lights of Regent Street.  We even tried to get on one of the sight-seeing red buses where we could see everyone on the top deck wearing santa hats and with access to an on-board bar, but it appeared they had been booked out weeks in advance!

One thing we don’t miss about the UK is how expensive everything is and after a couple of budget-busting days in London we were ready to get back to Italy.  Re-uniting with Bob and delighted to see our bicycles still attached to his rear end, we set a course for Lauria.  Although a dramatically positioned, cliff clinging, medieval town, we weren’t there to sight-see, rather our focus was to visit Elcar, a Defender specialist garage that we had been in contact with regarding our constantly failing reversing camera.  We had been running the after-market camera off the reverse switch which was also supplying power to about 4 reversing lights.  A set up that was proving to be too much as we had now replaced the burnt-out switch four times.  It was obviously one of those tricky jobs that nobody wants to do as everyone we had dealt with previously hadn’t been prepared to do anything other than put a new switch in.  Fortunately, Raffaele, the second-generation owner of this off-road loving business was the man for the job and by the time we left he had moved all the lights onto another relay and assured us that we wouldn’t be needing to replace the reverse switch anytime soon.  Result!

For the first time in a long time, it appeared that there was nothing we needed to do or sort out other than to drive down Calabria, the foot of Italy.  Described in the guidebooks as a sun-baked region of rugged mountains, old-fashioned hilltop villages and dramatic coastlines, we were a bit disappointed to be greeted by heavy rain and thick fog.  Poor visibility, pot-holed roads and a general air of poverty would have been a better description but this southern most region of mainland Italy has long been known as a land of striking contrasts.  On the few occasions that the fog cleared sufficiently, we were able to appreciate its breathtaking natural landscapes and regardless of the gloomy winter weather the people were extremely friendly and hospitable.  However, this is one of Italy’s poorest regions, the presence of the ‘Ndrangheta, one of the most powerful criminal organisations in the world, a continual hindrance to economic growth, foreign investment and social trust.   

Preferring the mountain villages to the somewhat forlorn and tatty looking coastal developments, we chugged up and down what must surely have been the steepest and narrowest roads in the whole of Europe.  Doing our best to ignore the impatient horn honking that accompanied us throughout, poor Bob (and his driver) was severely tested as he did his best – usually on steep gradients - to navigate 90 degree turns in high walled alleyways and squeeze into parking spaces that were only ever meant for a couple of smart cars.  Arriving at the ferry port of Villa San Giovanni was a relief like no other, marred only by choosing the wrong lane for ferry tickets resulting in a 15km loop through manic traffic (something the Italians excel at) in order to come back around and correct our error.

The ferry crossing over to Messina, Sicily only took 20 minutes, but that short distance took us away from the rain and back into the sunshine and tee-shirts were once again back in vogue.  Our objective now was to cross Sicily in order to reach Palermo, the departure point for a new continent.  Our route took us through Taormina, the islands most popular and exclusive destination which lived up to its lofty reputation with its elaborately sculpted gardens, cobbled streets, boutique shops and wine bars.  And the cherry on the top, the 10,000-seat capacity Greek amphitheatre with amazing views over the Calabrian and Ionian coastlines as well as the snowy dome of Mt Etna.  The fact that it was yet again perched on the side of a hill did detract somewhat as we were starting to show symptoms of PTSD every time a narrow road with a gradient of more than 10% presented itself.

After viewing the world’s most active stratovolcano, we ummed and ahhed a bit as to whether or not it was a good idea to drive up it.   Still not really convinced, we set a course for Rifugio Sapienze, the mountain’s highest accommodation at just under 2,000 metres.  The well tarmacked road up is about 25km and it wasn’t long before we were driving through vast fields of black lava rock before reaching the snowline at around 1600m.  We arrived at the Rifugio in a light flurry of snow with not much going on.  There were a small number of wooden huts that were firmly closed and Bob was one of just half a dozen vehicles that had also made the climb up.  It is not permitted to go above 2,500m without a guide and unable to find a tour group still operating we ended up hiring a private guide who could take us as high as possible towards the fluctuating peak which currently stands at 3,400m.  We pretty much had the Rifugio restaurant to ourselves that evening as we dined on pizza washed down with vino frizzante and after a good night’s sleep we met up with our Volcanologist/Alpine guide early the following morning.  Due to wind conditions, the cable car wasn’t working and we were taken higher up the mountain by a big white Unimog, its snow chained front tyres climbing up the fresh snow with ease.  As we disembarked, our guide spotted another guide with two young women in tow and so the six of us, wrapped up as if we were heading off to the Antarctic and carrying helmets and crampons, trudged off into a vast expanse of white.

Etna is one of the most active volcanoes in the world, its activity dating back at least 500,000 years.  It is built up of layers of hardened lava, tephra, pumice and ash from previous eruptions which classifies it as a stratovolcano.  Ongoing volcanic activity has resulted in a dynamic and ever-changing geological landscape, the most recent activity was in August 2024 when a violent eruption sent an ash cloud some 9.5 km into the atmosphere.

Due to the deep snow and also the higher sections of the mountain being off-limits for safety reasons, we only managed to get up to 3,000m but were fortunate to have a clear, if somewhat cold window of a couple of hours in which to survey the pristine, surreal and otherworldly vista.  As the weather closed in, and a howling wind started pelting us with horizontal snow, our guides sensibly decided it was time to retreat and demonstrated why we needed them as we followed them blindly downhill in a complete white-out.

Over the past couple of years we have mainly been in Europe, the southern parts of which have proved quite challenging with a vehicle such as Bob.  Italy in particular, with its poorly maintained narrow roads and bad drivers – nearly every day we saw multi car pile-ups  - has been hard work and we are more than ready for a change of scenery.  With this is mind, it was the worst time for Bob to suddenly die whilst heading up to yet another elevated town on a narrow bendy road in the dark.  We couldn’t believe it as he just ran out of power, leaving us with no option other than to steer him as far over to the right of the road as possible so all the tooting drivers behind could pass.  With hearts somewhere around our mid sections we just sat and looked at each other fearing the worst.  Not feeling terribly optimistic and with a lack of alternatives, I turned the ignition key and lo and behold, thank you universe, Bob roared into life and continued up the hill good as gold.  Yes, disaster was averted, but the situation was far from ideal given future plans. 

Arriving into Palermo the next morning we drove into the first garage we could find that was sporting a Land Rover sign outside.  With Google acting as translator, we explained the problem and the guys ran some basic tests whilst topping up the coolant and oil.  Not finding anything out of the ordinary the chief mechanic announced "Ora lo portiamo a fare un giro di prova”  What!!  You have got to be kidding me!!!!  We might have only been in Palermo for less than an hour but the traffic was some of the most aggressive yet.  Bumper to bumper chaos, no regard for red lights, no indicating, no staying in lane, and don’t get me started on the mopeds that undertook, overtook and went every which way at top speed.  I looked at Ian who, without pausing for breath, said “I’m not going” and so I reluctantly climbed into the passenger’s seat and even more reluctantly handed over the keys.

The garage was sub ground level and we had entered down a ridiculously steep and narrow ramp.  With no room to turn around, the mechanic attempted to reverse back up the slope before shaking his head and muttering “troppo presanto”.  With a quick flick of the wrist he engaged low diff and we crawled backwards and upwards with Bob’s horn blaring, straight out into four lanes of traffic.  What followed was pure hell as with driving skills better suited to an Aston Martin, the  driver determined to push the accelerator to the ground in all of Bob’s gears.  Given the crush of traffic, each sudden surge of power was followed by an emergency stop, or in Bob’s case a rather spongy gradual reduction in speed.  We avoided collision after collision by less than a hair’s breadth and any previous ideas of ‘fixing’ Bob were now way down on the lost of priorities.  Now I just wanted the mechanic out of the driving seat and to put as much distance between us and the garage as possible.  The ordeal finally came to an end when, as is always the way, Bob refused to give any clues as to what the problem had been.

And so, with fingers crossed that Bob isn’t going to pull the same stunt again, we joined the disorderly line at Palermo port and waited to board for our 11-hour crossing to Tunis, Africa.