The hills of Crete do not keep time with clocks. They breathe in rhythm with the bells of goats — koudounia — those small bronze voices that echo across ravines, terraces, and thyme-covered slopes. To walk in the countryside is to hear them before you see them: a chorus of tinkles and clangs, rising and falling with the herd, stitched into the island’s soundscape for thousands of years.
The Collar and the Bell
Every bell has its collar, hand-cut from thick leather and softened with oil. These collars are not decoration but lifelines, holding the weight of the bell steady against the goat’s neck. Their craft is as old as the herds themselves, shaped by shepherd hands that still smell of smoke and resin from the fire. The bell tells the shepherd where his animals wander; it warns of a stray, a thief, or a lurking wolf.
The herd becomes an orchestra, each goat carrying its own note, tuned in size and pitch. A large bell marks the lead animal, the matriarch of the flock, while smaller bells follow her trail. To a practiced ear, the herd sings in harmony — and any discord signals trouble.
A Mythic Echo
The music of the bells is not only practical; it is myth. According to legend, Zeus himself was raised by a goat, Amalthea, in a cave on Mount Ida. Her bell was said to ring across the mountains, protecting the infant god from the hunger of his father, Cronus. When modern Cretan herds move across the hillsides, they carry an echo of that ancient guardian.
The shepherd’s bell, then, is not just an instrument of control but a continuation of myth, linking everyday toil to divine survival. Each clang is a reminder that Crete’s most ordinary creatures once nurtured the king of the gods.
The Milliarakis Workshop: Bell-Making Alive
Tucked in Ano Assites, Crete, the workshop of Minas Milliarakis is one of the dwindling places where bells are still forged by hand.
He does not sugarcoat the commercial world:
“Sheep-bells sold in the market come from China; they are cheap bells and all cast in a mold, which means that they all sound the same. The sound of a bell depends on its shape. When bells are hand-made, no bell sounds the same, and that’s a fact.”
In his workshop, iron sheets are cut to size. On an anvil and in a concave mold, they are shaped by hammer strikes. The loop is brazed or soldered. The metal is heated to nearly 1000 °C, tin is applied, and the clapper is formed from a 20 mm nail. Each step given care — each bell emerging with its own note, its own character.
This is not souvenir theater — it is living craft. In a sea of identical, mass-cast bells, his are individual voices. Visitors who get photos, sketches, or even a recording of the bells can carry a fragment of that voice home.
Bells on the Shelf
Today, tourists lean out of bus windows, charmed by the “authentic soundscape.” But for shepherds, the bells are more than romance. They are work, worry, and weary shoulders carrying centuries of practice. In villages, old men can still identify whose herd is passing by the sound of the bells alone — a skill as natural as tasting olive oil or reading weather in the wind.
To lose the sound of the koudouni would be to lose Crete’s heartbeat. It is not just background noise but a melody that defines place: metallic, melodic, and utterly alive.
As one shepherd once told me, tugging at the collar of his oldest goat:
“Without the bell, the goat is silent. Without the goat, the mountain is empty. And without the mountain, we are no one.”
From Pasture to Souvenir
These bells, once forged solely for practical use, now also find their way into village workshops and souvenir shelves. In shops from Anogeia to Lassithi, visitors can buy koudounia in every size — some painted in bright colors, others decorated with hand-drawn Cretan motifs of goats, olive branches, or mountain peaks. Hung at a doorway or kept as keepsakes, they become tokens of a pastoral life that continues to shape the island, long after the tourist buses roll away.
