Copyright © Tanya Piejus, 2000

The Samaria Gorge is the island of Crete's natural set-piece and a must-see for anyone who considers themselves a walker with a capital W. Made famous by the adverts for Bounty chocolate bars, it is also known as Paradise Valley and with good reason. It is a craggy, green crack of tumbling streams and pungent foliage that zigzags its way down to the gentle turquoise waves of the Mediterranean.

To walk the 18 km length of the gorge first requires a pre-dawn wake-up call and a long drive along steep, narrow roads with a worrying number of roadside shrines to those hapless Greeks who have spun off their unfenced corners. Once at 4000 feet, there is a chance to stock up on snack food at the shop and down a hearty breakfast at the cafe before descending a rough, twisting staircase hacked out of the rock. Tramping downwards, the dense dark green of the valley floor rises up through the early-morning mist and the sun starts to probe its dense shadows. All around rise the sheer, red-walled cliffs that fortify the southern edge of the island. Once into the cleft, you are committed to the path to the sea or face the 3000-foot climb back up.

Despite profligate warnings about the challenging nature of the walk - the relentlessly uneven path, icy streams to be forded and soaring temperatures - many people arrive woefully underprepared. High-heeled sandals, supermarket carrier bags and sundresses are not uncommon. The minimum needed to do the walk is a stout pair of trainers, a light rucksack, comfortable shorts and a cap. Toilets, picnic spots and regularly-spaced water supplies are all provided but the going is tough on muscles and joints and not for the Sunday-afternoon stroller.

The hard climb down, however, is well worth the effort as the gorge is ceaselessly spectacular: skyscraping, rust-coloured walls that narrow to a dozen feet; clear air enlivened with the warm scent of pine trees and the bitter-sweet odour of thyme; cannonball rocks caressed by bitingly cold aquamarine streams; a miniature cityscape of cairns left by thousands of previous walkers to mark their transit; marauding giant wasps that drone heavily around sandwiches and soft drinks; bright sunshine on bleached rocks, casting black shadows; looking-glass pools of pale green; fantastically-folded rock strata, heaved and tortured by ancient eruption; pine needle paths teetering on top of banks of flagpole-tall firs; the soft warbling of numerous hidden birds; nimble-footed goats looking haughtily down their noses; steps shiny from the polishing of a million pairs of boots; an abandoned settlement in the heart of nowhere; impossible trees clinging to life in a handful of dirt; dry heat, cool shade and blue, blue sky.

A rash of over-priced tavernas greets the successful walker and the black volcanic beach invites the flinging off of boots and socks and a dabbling of toes in the mild sea. The only way out is by ferry boat which chugs its way past isolated resorts for sun-worshippers to the pretty port of Chora Sfakion and another nail-biting climb up scary roads home.

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