The straps of my backpack dug hard into my shoulders as I trudged like a zombie through the sweltering heat. I was hitchhiking across the Greek island of Crete in summertime and had been dropped off in a small village miles from anywhere, hoping to pick up my next ride. It was 1978 and probably didn’t help that I looked every inch the hippie – jewellery, bushy beard and dusty clothes.
Cars passed only infrequently, maybe one every half hour. When they did, they hurtled past like unstoppable express trains, without a sideways glance my way. I took a seat on a low stone wall and hoped for the best. But after several hours under the relentless sun, I was beginning to think I’d never get out of the place. A few houses dotted the main road but the village seemed to be asleep.
So it seemed like a mirage when I saw a woman, clothed in black from head to toe, walking down the street. She was carrying what looked like a tray covered by a white cloth in her hands.
To my surprise she came directly up to me and offered the tray, accompanied by a torrent of incomprehensible Greek. I had no idea what she wanted until she lifted the cloth to reveal a loaf of freshly-baked bread, a block of feta cheese, tomatoes, olives and a bottle of orange juice.
I was flabbergasted. As I took the tray I tried to thank her with my few words of Greek but she waved me away, turned on her heel and headed back the way she had come. Still in a daze, I sat down to my feast, famished. Food had never tasted so good.
Eventually a car did stop for me but I never forgot the generosity of that woman. I’m not a religious man but she anchored in me the importance of doing unto others as you would have them do to yourself – a principle I went on to live by. Nearly 50 years on from that day, the world feels very troubled. But I take comfort in knowing it is filled with selfless people.