‘Here’s to Greece!’ shouted Lana.

‘To Greece!’ shouted Judith and Catrin, and off they ran, towards Gate Twenty-Three.

6

Catrin

Catrin need not have worried. Three weeks later, her anxiety about leaving home had vanished without a trace into the hot Aegean. She couldn’t believe she’d ever doubted coming – she was having the time of her life. The three of them had soaked up the sun to saturation point and were living on a diet that largely comprised ouzo and olives.

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.