As the surrounding olive filled hillsides prepared to be harvested, we meandered our way east from Hania and south into the mountains choosing increasingly steeper routes and praying the rain would hold off. As always, the quest for milk was on and Basil wandered in to a few small tavernas with the hopes of finding some. Unfortunately, the region was fresh out of fresh milk. All the sheep were either pregnant or nursing, therefore - no milk. We were surprised and pleased to learn that these guys were so serious about their milk that commercially farmed milk is not even available. One taste of their local cheese would fully and proudly allow you to understand why.
So, off we went with our milk starved kefir to find a place to set up camp and dream of a world just like the one we were already in. A world where the men favour camoflague clothing, drive black pick up trucks, eat salad, and homemade unprocessed sheep's milk yogurt, and where the lady in black who bakes your bread, has a beard, and remembers the days when women did the family's laundry at the water starved fountain you can still barely drink from in the middle of town.
No comments:
Post a Comment