Een bibliotheek, brief voor brief

Een nieuwsbrief is voor de inbox. Een brief is voor de plank.

Door Steven Keen, MSc-kandidaat in Responsible Tourism Management

De meeste reisverhalen zijn gepolijst, van buitenaf geschreven. Deze is ongefilterd, van binnenuit geschreven. Een maandelijkse brief uit een piepklein bergdorp op Kreta. Schrijf je vandaag in, zodat de volgende brief je vindt. Eén keer per maand. Geen ruis.

Wat erin staat

De brief zelf

Een persoonlijke, ongefilterde brief uit mijn dorp.

Goed om te weten

Een cijfer dat omverwerpt wat je dacht te weten.

Op de kaart

Eén reden om te stoppen waar iedereen voorbijraast.

Wat ik lees

Een boek, artikel of tijdschrift dat je tijd waard is.

De foto

Eén vastgelegd moment uit de afgelopen maand.

Een staande uitnodiging

Antwoord gewoon om contact te leggen—ik lees elke e-mail.

Lees hem voordat je beslist

De brief zoals abonnees hem ontvangen. Lees hem en zie of hij een plek op je plank verdient.

Rows of empty sun loungers along a Crete beach at sunset, the sea burning gold—Don’t come now.

Achlada, Crete · August 2026

It’s no coincidence that my first letter reaches you in the month I’d tell you not to come.

I drove down to Heraklion yesterday, along a coastal road that hugs the water the entire way. On a clear morning it is one of the great drives on the island.

Yesterday it was coaches, nose to tail, on a road with one lane each way. Safari jeeps in convoy. Quad bikes on the dirt tracks in packs of twenty-five. Jet skis and speedboats fanning out from every beach. Umbrellas as far as I could see.

All of them traveled a long way and paid a great deal to come here. What most of them will see is each other.

Then I drove forty minutes home, up into the hills, and passed almost no one. The cicadas were deafening. Bees were working the last of the thyme. The shepherd’s flock had pressed into the shade under the olive trees and would not move until evening. The mountain does not know it is high season.

Two Cretes exist at the same time, an hour apart. Most people who fly here in summer meet only one of them, then go home and say they have seen the island.

I started this letter to write about the other one. Once a month, from here. You are reading the first.

A red harvest crate heaped with fresh-picked oranges at the edge of a Fodele grove, in the last light.

Fodele, ten kilometers from my door—a valley of orange groves.

Worth knowing

1,096,944

That is how many people flew into Crete from abroad last July. In February, the figure was 2,859.

Same island. Same coastline, same mountains, same villages holding knowledge they have held for 4,000 years. For every traveler who arrived in February, 383 arrived in July. The only thing that changed was the month.

Worse, the gap is widening. That July figure was up 3.3 percent on the year before. February was down 23 percent.

The fault is not with the people on those flights. Almost every one of them is kind, curious, and glad to be here. It lies in the model, which decided long ago that this island is worth coming to in July and worth almost nothing in February.

The answer is not fewer people. It is other months, and other places. Crete has both in abundance. Almost nobody is selling them.

Source: INSETE, international air arrivals to Crete, January–November 2025.

On the map

Fodele, ten kilometers from my door. Most people pass it at speed, on their way to a beach. Those who turn off find a valley of orange groves, but the fruit is just the introduction. Above the village, Fodele lays a proud, unyielding claim to one of the greatest painters in European history.

Domenikos Theotokopoulos was born in 1541 and became El Greco. The official record belongs to the capital: documents from Toledo where the painter himself swore he was born in Heraklion. The capital also holds the only two original El Grecos left on the island. But paper is fragile, and Fodele is made of stone.

The village simply ignores the archives. The house they keep as his museum stands opposite an 11th-century Byzantine chapel, guarded by a local conviction so deep it has outlasted centuries. The museum may hold only reproductions, but Fodele holds the earth. It holds the fierce Cretan light that first shaped his eyes, and a village of a few hundred that refuses to let him go.

The extraordinary hides in the places everybody drives past.

What I’m reading

The New Tourist by Paige McClanahan. I am recommending it partly because I disagree with it. McClanahan argues there is no meaningful line between a traveler and a tourist. I have built my life on the opposite belief. She reports it honestly, including her own mistakes, and it sharpened my thinking rather than softening it. Read it, and argue with me.

If you have found the other Crete—the village that does not know it is August—hit reply and tell me where. And if you haven’t, write to me if you’d like to find it. I reply to every email.

Letter from Crete · No 02

A vanishing trade.

Achlada, Crete · September 2026

A grape grown nowhere else, pressed in a village you cannot carry it out of.

The vineyard is older than the road that reaches it, and the man who works it counts the harvests he has left the way other people count the loose change in a pocket.

We drank the last of the ’19 standing between the vines, and he would not sell me a bottle to take home. It does not travel, he said, and I do not think he meant only the wine.

Some things you simply have to come for. That is the whole point of them, and it is the whole point of this letter too.

Letter from Crete · No 03

After the Fires

Achlada, Crete · October 2026

What a burned hillside quietly asks of the people who come back to walk it.

By autumn the smell is almost gone and the first green is a rumor under the black. The trail is open again. The only question left is how you choose to walk it.

A burned place is not a ruin. It is a slow instruction, if you are willing to stand still long enough to read it, and most of us are not.

The village lost its groves and kept its stubbornness. They are replanting the way you rebuild trust, one season at a time, expecting nothing back for years.