Matala

By John Freedman Posted June 22, 2026

This post has a few prehistories that I am compelled to mention. 1) To my own amazement, I find myself returning to this blog space today for the first time in four and a half years. My life and my work were abruptly interrupted - let's say, hijacked - on February 24, 2022 when the Russian Federation launched a full-scale invasion of the sovereign state of Ukraine. Until that time I was making all kinds of lovely plans in my adopted home of Crete. One of them was to begin developing various possible writing projects organized around my experiences on the island. This blog was intended to lay the experimental groundwork for that. Right. The best-laid plans of mice and men... For all the years since I have not only had no time to devote to personal exploration (since the end of February 2022 I have been curating a life-consuming project called the Worldwide Ukrainian Play Readings), I have had no desire to do so. I don't know what happened today, and I don't know what will happen tomorrow, but this afternoon I had the urge to sit down and contemplate Crete again. So here I am. 2) My wife Oksana and I first visited Matala approximately eight years ago. I have no photos of it, and I have no impressions other than seeing a swarming, seething, daunting, undulating sea of human flesh and automobiles jackknifed every this way and that on the sides of the road as we approached the town in the dead of summer. There was no place to park, no way to move forward, and we had no desire to do anything but turn around as fast as possible and get the hell out of there. Which is precisely what we did. To be honest, Matala was henceforth erased from the active corners of my mind. I might read about Joni Mitchell hanging out there in the '70s, or watch a film of Donovan visiting with a flower power entourage, and I'd think: Good for them! They can have it! Matala still retains the reputation of a hippie town and I can't say that I found this to have any attraction for me. Sure, I grew up wearing my own handmade tie-dyed T-shirts, but, good God, that was 50 or 60 years ago.

3) But then my friend David White visited us with his son August in March this year. As we discussed places we could visit together, he kept bringing up Matala. I thought, I'll just keep silent on this awful idea and it, too, shall pass. But it didn't, and David ended up making reservations for us all in a small hotel tucked behind a bunch of leafy trees, and underneath a mountain just off the Gortinas-Matalon road - the very same one that had sent Oksana and me into hasty retreat some eight years ago.

Matala in March, as it turns out, is nothing - and I mean nothing - like Matala in July. As we drove into the village we saw nary a soul nor automobile. The place looked like it ought to have had a great big paddle lock hung out at the entrance to town. Nobody home; go away. None of the ATMs worked - nobody needs your money here. After settling into our rooms (we were the only tenants in the place beside the ever-present cats), we walked back down some empty streets past empty hotels, darkened rental houses and deserted cafes onto the spacious, empty, famous, beach. I must say: That is an iconic view if ever there was one. I realized that this sloping wall of sandstone with the weather-carved caves cut into its crevices was deeply engrained in my consciousness even though I had never seen it in real life. It seemed bigger than I expected, and smaller at the same time. "Is this all there is?" coupled with, "Wow, this is spectacular!" I struggled to place myself in this location that I had thought I had written off forever. They have mostly blocked off access to the caves these days. You can't do a Joni Mitchell and just go unfurl your bedroll and spend the night there any more. And you have to assume that's a good thing. You can still check them out if you want to take an official tour - not my style, and probably not possible in March anyway. The beach is gorgeous, deep and sandy, embraced by pincer-like cliffs on either side. The little village - and it is quite tiny - rises up into a cliff on the east side, and occupies about half of the space of the beach. It was a chilly, partly overcast day and the churning white surf was beautiful to watch, but not particularly inviting. There are hearty souls on Crete who swim year-round, but I am not one of them. Late April, or, more likely, early May is the optimal time for me to start. Not March. Not with churning waves. Not with dark clouds darting here and there in the windy skies. Which is what brought me to my rather unexpected discovery of Matala. Aside from hotels and rentals, there really are only a few layers, or narrow streets, to the town. I did not see any street names, and I don't find many on Google maps either, so, apparently, you just either know your way around town already, or you find it. Our walk took us to a colorful, painted street that led right to a colorful, painted cafe called Mad Irie. The internet tells me it's located on Old Church Road, but who woulda known? It's run by a fabulous woman named Michu Alcee. Originally from Guyana, she told us that she landed in Matala several years ago with her Italian husband and their great, big dog. Michu has turned Mad Irie into one of the great hubs of the town, with live music, dancing, impromptu fashion shows and easy-going camaraderie. Aside from the smiles and hospitality we saw none of that, however - March was way too early. In fact, we happened upon Mad Irie as Michu was still prepping her cafe for the season to come. She was planning to open up the next day - after we would be gone. That night we were drawn to a kind of bar a few doors down from Mad Irie, located right on Matalon Square. In the utterly dead town drowning in dimness and growing darker, there were lights in these windows, and you could even see a few people coming and going. Life! We were getting hungry and it looked like a place worth trying out. Or, more to the point, it was the only place that wasn't locked up and bolted. What a sight we walked in upon! The place was packed! If it wasn't rocking, it was at least rolling. People shouting over other people shouting, who were shouting over the music drifting down over us all. The joint was - is - very aptly named the Music Cafe. No need to get fancy here. Every table but one was taken, the bar was full up, and table-less people hung out leaning on various objects and structures talking to anybody that passed them by carrying a drink, food, or nothing at all. People kicking around all kinds of languages, although, curiously, English definitely prevailed. And the predominant accent was - you guessed it - American. Although that was not exclusively true. Euro-English was definitely part of the stew. We grabbed the last free table and joined the happy community. I think every person in Matala was at the Music Cafe that night. (The internet informs me that a grand sum of 100 people live there permanently.) Indeed, twenty minutes after we sat down, Michu herself walked in, every bit the queen of town, greeting everyone - ourselves included - as if they, we, were all old friends. I do think there was more hair, more colorful, flowing clothes, and more tie-dyed material in that one small space than I had seen since my first day in high school in the late 1960s. Being a great fan of hair, I loved it. By the time we walked out two hours later, our bellies full and our ears ringing, we felt as though we actually belonged. The next morning we had a fine breakfast at the efficiently named Kafenio Coffee Shop, which basically translates to the Coffee Shop Coffee Shop. The Music Cafe. The Coffee Shop Coffee Shop - you get the picture. What you see is what you get. Well, except for Michu Alcee's Mad Irie, which, I guarantee, you have never seen the likes of anywhere. When we headed back out of town again, I did so in a completely different frame of mind than when we drove in. Matala had gotten under my skin. It had worked its way into my thoughts. I felt like I knew the place, or, at least, it felt familiar in a very personal way. I was curious to know more about it. And I have a feeling it could get to know me if I were to give it the chance. As long as that's in March. Not July.

All photos and text © copyright 2026 by John Freedman. If you wish to use either text or photos, I will almost surely grant permission as long as you do the courtesy of asking.

The Mad Irie cafe, Matala.

A sign at the Mad Irie cafe.