The road climbed toward Drapanos, where a small chapel stood square in the morning light. Drapanos sits on the eastern fringe of the Apokoronas plateau, its name possibly from the Greek drapani (sickle), reflecting the curve of the ridge above. The chapel’s short flight of whitewashed steps led to a gate that swung open without resistance. In the shade of the olive trees, the bell rope hung loose, as though waiting for a hand that had not yet arrived. I pushed open the iron door to find a space no bigger than a shepherd’s hut, its air heavy with beeswax and the faintest scent of incense. Such rural chapels — ekklisakia — are scattered across Crete, often built by families in thanks for surviving hardship, fulfilling a vow, or marking the site of a vision or miracle. Icons lined the iconostasis, their colours softened by years of candle flame. Saints looked down through the glassy calm of tempera eyes — St. Nicholas, St. George, the Virgin — and above them, a lace valance framed the gateway to the altar. No one was there, but the place carried the sense of having been left only moments ago, the way a kitchen feels after bread has just been taken from the oven. Leaving the village, the road dipped between olive groves. In a hollow lay the ruins of old cisterns, their dry-stone walls studded with pigeon holes for doves. Pigeon holes were once more than ornamental — doves and pigeons provided both meat and fertiliser, their manure prized for vineyards and fields. Beside the cisterns, troughs carved from single blocks of stone sat empty, their rims worn smooth by centuries of animal muzzles. I imagined the sound they once knew — water spilling from the hills, sheep and goats jostling for place, shepherds calling across the terraces in the old Cretan mantinada rhyme. The ride carried me onward to Paleloni, whose name comes from palio (old) and aloni (threshing floor). Once, every family had its own threshing floor here — circular platforms where wheat and barley were separated from the chaff using donkeys or mules. The entrance to the churchyard was guarded by a wrought-iron gate set in a baroque arch of honeyed stone. Inside stood a bronze relief in a pale stone frame, depicting a priest reading scripture to a listening crowd — a reference to the village’s role as a gathering place during the Cretan uprisings of the 19th century. The track through the Enchanted Forest was still in shadow when I passed the first signpost, its wood weathered, its arrows chewed by time and goats alike. The lettering — half-faded, half-bitten — pointed to Xirosterni, Kefalas, and Souri. These names are centuries old: Xirosterni (‘dry cistern’) reflects its limited water supply; Kefalas (‘head’ or ‘chief’) likely refers to a Byzantine kefalas, a local commander; Souri is thought to derive from soros (heap or mound), possibly marking a burial site. Each name was a promise of a different slope, a different story. In Gavalochori, I stopped at another church, one of the many in a village famed for its Venetian wells and silk production. The courtyard was empty, its doors closed but welcoming in their silence. It occurred to me then that these chapels were less like stops on a route and more like markers on a long prayer — one spoken not in words, but in distance, dust, and the quiet turn of pedals. The whole ride — from signpost to chapel to church to silent trough — was its own kind of sanctuary.