October, at long last, decided to show his autumn face. In Moires, the sky wore a gray smile, and the first soft drizzle tiptoed through the olive trees. It was not much — just enough to darken the soil, perfume the air with petrichor, and invite life out of hiding.
Between raindrops and golden leaves, a snail appeared, gliding leisurely across the damp earth. Dressed in his finest spiral “skolina” (shell), he looked as though he had been waiting backstage for his cue. Nature, it seemed, had given him the signal: “You may begin.”
The scene was tender, almost ceremonial — a reminder that the Cretan countryside never truly sleeps. It pauses, inhales, and then revives with the first whisper of rain.
The Snail and the Season
There is something almost human about the snail’s patience. For months, he hides beneath stones and roots, wrapped in silence, until the first drops of October wake him. To the Cretans, the snail is not merely a creature — he is a symbol of renewal.
In fact, for many locals, the first autumn rain is not just weather. It is an invitation to go “snail hunting”, a small ritual passed down through generations. Whole families venture out after the drizzle, baskets in hand, scanning the wet stones and walls for signs of movement.
The reward is modest but joyful: a handful of snails, some conversation, and the earthy smell of wet thyme. Later, in kitchens warmed by steam and garlic, the snails will sizzle in pans — cooked “boubouristous,” with vinegar and rosemary, or simmered slowly in tomato sauce.
But beyond food, the first snail sighting carries a deeper comfort — the reassurance that the land is breathing again.
The First Rain as a Blessing
For months, Crete waits for the skies to open. Summers here are relentless, and by late September, the earth begins to look thirsty. So when the rain finally comes, it feels sacred. Farmers smile, fields drink deeply, and even city dwellers pause to watch the spectacle through café windows.
This rain is not taken for granted. Older generations still speak of it with reverence, calling it “the sky’s mercy.” In the past, villagers would collect every drop — placing clay pots beneath eaves, spreading basins on balconies, or leading runoff into underground cisterns.
Modern homes have forgotten the art of rainwater harvesting, but the old Cretan houses never did. In villages like Zaros, Krasi, or Venerato, stone-built gutters and carved spouts still guide the rain into storage tanks — a quiet legacy of survival in a dry land.
What to Do With Rainwater (the Cretan Way)
If you ask a true villager what to do when it rains, you will never hear “nothing.” Rain is never wasted. Here are a few lessons from those who know:
- Collect it: Even a brief drizzle can fill a bucket. Locals set out barrels beneath downspouts — a simple act that feels almost ritualistic. The water will later wash porches, water basil pots, or rinse dusty garden tools.
- Filter it: A clean cloth or an old kitchen sieve keeps leaves out. The filtered water is perfect for watering plants that dislike chlorine.
- Reuse it: In times of scarcity, even gray water (from washing vegetables, for instance) is used to keep trees alive. Waste is considered almost offensive to the spirit of the island.
- Bless it: Some say rainwater collected on the first day of October’s drizzle carries luck. Whether it is science or superstition, villagers often pour a little on the roots of their olive trees, whispering a wish for a good harvest.
There is humor in it, too — one old farmer once said, “If you do not catch the rain, it will catch you.” By which he meant, if you do not prepare for the season’s gifts, nature will still remind you who is in charge.
Between Sky and Soil
As the drizzle thickened in Moires that morning, the scene grew softer. The scent of wet olive bark mingled with the faint sweetness of carob. A shepherd, caught mid-path, covered his head with a jacket and smiled — not annoyed, but amused. Even the stray cats seemed calmer, crouched under orange trees, watching the world become clean again.
The snail, meanwhile, continued his slow procession, unaware of the poetic weight he carried. He was only doing what nature told him to: to move, to taste the world, to live.
For a few moments, the town seemed to join him in that rhythm — slower, quieter, more deliberate. It was as though the rain had pressed pause on everything unnecessary.
To the Cretans, rain is also memory. It carries the scent of lost summers and the promise of new ones. It speaks of grandparents who once guided donkeys through muddy paths, of childhoods spent making paper boats in puddles, of the first night one slept to the music of drops against tin roofs.
So when October finally rains, the island listens.
And somewhere between the golden leaves, the damp earth, and a single unhurried snail, Crete remembers what it means to begin again.
Για την Κρήτη και για κάθε τόπο που ακόμη αναπνέει.
Argophilia — Independent. Unaligned. Always listening.
(For Crete, and for every place that still breathes.)
