Last night I dreamt I went to Malemé. To look once more out over the sea there, right beside the airstrip where the German paratroopers landed on that fateful summer's day in 1941, occupying the island and giving rise to a local resistance movement arguably more ferocious and heroic than any other during World War II.
From the Malemé airstrip it's only a quick hop to the cemetery where almost 5,000 of those Germans lie buried on a sloping, grassy site, their flat-to-the-ground headstones all facing the sea and, indeed, the actual airstrip where most of them perished.
From the cemetery it's then only a short distance east to the beautiful city of Chania, while to head west instead will take you quickly to the market town of Tavronitis where the road west intersects with the turn for the south, carrying you down through the mountains to the peace and tranquillity of the south-west coast.
For almost four decades the island of Crete has held me in its thrall. Its beauty, its ever-present sense of its past, its archaeological treasures, its majestic White Mountains, its stunning coastline. And its warm, welcoming and laid-back people.
I should have been there in May. In June I'd planned to be in Mallorca. Later this summer I was heading for a few days to Venice, a city that is like a second home to me, while in the autumn I was intending to take a trip to Sarajevo, a place that has long fascinated me but has so far eluded me on my travels. For to travel, for me, is to live. It's what I do. From places as far flung as Beijing, St Petersburg, Jerusalem, the Seychelles, Istanbul, San Francisco, Abu Dhabi, Cape Town and Mumbai, to closer-to-home spots such as Genoa, Fez, Dubrovnik and Seville - all have opened up different worlds to me and I have valued greatly the wondrous discoveries that such places have spread before me. Not least that of greater self-knowledge.
"Travel far enough, you meet yourself," according to the author David Mitchell. And how right he is.
And so, with lockdown lifted and restrictions eased I have been thinking, naturally enough, of travelling again. I already have a Venice booking for December but that's a lifetime away.
So, Venice for three nights in August, maybe? Just to feed my addiction and catch up with friends. And then back to Crete in late September. With Greece having controlled the coronavirus particularly well (191 deaths for the whole country) and with direct flights at €160 return, it's a hard proposition to resist. So, have I booked? Have I made the necessary well-in-advance reservation for a table at Alle Testiere, the finest fish restaurant in Venice? And have I been lucky enough to land myself one of those €160 flights to Crete in September?
No, I haven't. No restaurant reservation for Venice. No flights booked to Crete.
Believe me, there is nothing - absolutely nothing - I want more right now than to visit Venice and Crete this summer; I don't normally dream about Malemé, after all. But for as long as it takes to keep people safe, I am grounding myself.
There are two words that keep ringing in my ears. "Beyond worried." That's how no less a person than our chief medical officer, Tony Holohan, feels about the opening up of international travel.
So why would we treat him like the Oracle of Delphi throughout lockdown, hanging on his every word, and now, at the prospect of cheap flights, a blast of sunshine and a few bottles of Amstel, simply ignore what he has to say?
Crete will be there next year. Places survive. People don't.