Me with my F. W. Evans bicycle, on the brink of the Gorge of Samaria, mid-April, about to head back north, downhill... The trail through the Gorge drops down behind me, and bends around behind the mountain to the right.

hen I'd been planning my trip during rainy Vancouver winter months, it was Greece which had pulled me the most. And when I reached Crete, after two weeks in the urban sprawl of Athens, I was eager to explore.

On my map, the road which wandered vaguely south from Chania petered out into a dotted line which trickled down to finally touch the island's southern shore. That dotted line ran through the Gorge of Samaria, the longest and deepest true gorge in Europe. At points it cuts nearly 2000 feet down into the heart of the Lefka Ori range, plunging sheer from the snow-capped peaks to the valley floor below. At its narrowest point - the "Iron Gates" - the walls close in to form a narrow slit, the towering rock faces a mere few yards apart.

It was a day's ride from Chania, pedalling up from sea-level through the mountains to the chill air of 1800 meters. After a night's rest, with my bike left locked behind the tourist pavilion, I set off down the trail with one pannier pressed into service as a day pack, my sleeping bag strapped on top. Each switchback on the trail dropped me deeper down. A stream runs the length of the Gorge, tumbling over boulders towards the sea, fresh water seeking salt. At the "Iron Gates" the sound of water rebounded noisily from the rock walls. High above, a ribbon of blue sky stretched thin between the sunlit cliff tops, twin to the stream below.

Beyond, the canyon walls bent back, cupping the sun's rays. With my shoes slung around my neck, I waded barefoot into the stream, felt it rushing on, and passed through the Gates as sand passes through an hourglass' narrow waist, emerging from the shadows into sun.

On the southern coast itself, at trail's end, sits the small village of Agia Roumeli, cut off from the rest of Crete. From a taverna's outside table I could watch the sun set over Africa, out of sight across the sea. When I left, the sky was littered with stars, and I picked my way along the beach by moonlight while the sounds of revelry faded into the velvet night. Snug in my sleeping bag beneath the pines, I fell asleep to the sound of waves.

Other adventures still lay ahead of me on Crete, those many years ago. But what I remember most was the downhill ride back north towards the coast. I remember a fantastic tail-wind, which had swept up from the sea and over the mountains now at my back. I remember that it felt like flying...

It was magic, pure and unalloyed, to match speeds and coast with it, breeze-blown down hill, cradled in the wind's still heart. Caught up and carried on in silence, without the rush of air past ears. Beside me the roadside bushes bent and bowed down, shaken and shivered by the wind. They clung, rooted, to the earth, while I zipped past, footloose and freewheeling.