We cannot go back, and we don’t know where we’re headed
The road from Rethymno to my village in the mountains of central Crete — which is nearly abandoned now that an easier route has opened — is a living organism with its history, its patchwork of new and old pieces, memories of small and great joys, tragedies, miracles, votive offerings, old detours taken over by the forest, with bridges, cliffs, landslides and endless turns.

