Today we went on a boat trip, along the south side of the island, to Kleftiko – a rock and cave formation set in clear, azure blue water. It was windy when we set off from Agia Kyriaki (we had got a transfer from Ademas to catch the boat at this beach) and we were both worried that it might be a little choppy, but our captain assured us it would be “flat” and he was true to his word – windy, yes, some spray, yes, some waves traversing from starboard to port (got to use the nautical lingo!) but we did stay “flat” for the hour or so cruise along the south coast, occasionally slowing down to view close up a particularly pretty or spectacular beach.
After an hour we droped anchor in a sheltered cove, atop turquoise blue waters and, with an hour for swimming, we were invited to get in the sea. I didn’t need asking twice, diving straight in and swimming out to, and through, a tunnel in a nearby rock stack.
You didn’t have to dive or jump in, the crew lowered some steps and soon the whole boat was enjoy the water. But I like to dive and jump, so like an impatient schoolboy, I was in and out of the water having a whale of a time.
And when the hour was up, the ship’s horn was sounded, we all re-boarded dripping with sea water and excitement after a fun filled sixty minutes in a beautiful setting. The crew served some complimentary snacks – grapes, bread sticks, and more: I hungrily picked up a slice of crusty bread lathered with nutella and took a bite. It wasn’t nutella, but olive paste – perhaps my only disappointment of the day (and it was still tasty!)
We set sail for our home port/beach, but before we reached harbour, we stopped off at another secluded beach for 20 minutes of swimming off the boat – more diving and jumping into the crystal clear sea. And then it really was time to go home, and we docked four hours after we set off.
Our trip was with Zefiros tours: https://zefirosmilos.gr/ costing 40 euros each, and we paid an additional 14 euros each for transfer to and from Ademas (if you have a hire car, you could drive yourself to the beach) The trip was 4 hours long – almost to the minute – and the ship sails twice a day: 10am to 2pm and 3pm to 7pm. We went on the morning trip, booking the day before in Athena Travel in Ademas. Happy to recommend this trip and company – we had a great time.
In the evening we returned to Plaka, climbing to the top of the hill fort to watch the sunset. It was majestic, peaceful and humbling, a wonderful setting to watch the sun go down.
Today we went to Plaka – the “capital” of Milos. Its not a big,sprawling metropolis, its just a small town on a hill a short bus ride (2 euros again – the cost of any bus journey in the Cyclades it seems), but a very pretty town, full of alleyways, white houses, an blue doors. Becky loved the blue doors, taking hundreds (and I don’t think that is an exaggeration) of photos of blue doors, blue pots, blue steps. Here is just one:
But we didn’t just restrict ourselves to the town (although we did spend quite some time wandering the streets, and enjoying a drink and snack in a cafe), we decided to head for the hills (well, hill), leave the tarmacked road and pavement behind us, and headed up to the fort atop what seems to be the highest point on the island.
Whilst it wasn’t a difficult climb, it wasn’t simple either. Underfoot it was rough, but maintained, stone steps, but it was a fair old incline, probably enough to put a lot of people off.
This is both a blessing and a curse – you gain a real sense of achievement when you reach the top and take in the views (and glug gallons of water) and not everyone makes it to the top – getting to Plaka is easy: bus, car or taxi will take you there, but you have get to the top of the fort under your own steam, and this thins the crowds considerably. As tourism becomes more and more accessible and easy, to escape the masses you need to go where the internal combustion engine can’t, and when you do it is so worth it.
We both loved Plaka, and will probably go back one evening. I get the sense for a lot of visitors to Milos, their trip is about ticking off “must do’s” and seeing as many of the 70 beaches on the island as possible, even if only for 15 minutes. I’m not sure Plaka is on everyone’s Milos “to do” list, but it should be, and if they can, they should make the effort to climb to the very top. In this age of Instagram and tik-tok, more people should be mindful of the poem “Leisure” by William Henry Davies:
What is this life if, full of care
We have no time to stand and stare
Today, I spent quite some time standing and staring, and it was worth every minute.
Today we made our first “hop” on our island hopping adventure, leaving Santorini and heading for Milos. The two islands are two and a half hours apart by ferry, but a world apart in what they offer.
We’ve pre-booked all our ferries for this trip (I think we booked them back in February) and checking in and getting our tickets could not have been easier: 48 hours before we were due to sail, check in opened, I logged onto the “Ferries in Greece” website (we booked our tickets through them) filled in a quick form (my name and booking number) and our e-tickets were emailed to us. Simple. In true “dad” style, I made sure we arrived at the port in plenty of time – about 2 hours early! – found our loading gate, and sat and waited. I watched a couple of other ferries come and go, and then it was our turn …
It may look hap-hazard and chaotic, but it wasn’t – it was well practised cattle herding and it worked. We were released from our holding pen (the check in gate) and shouted at, whistled at and gesticulated at and some five to six hundred foot passengers were shepherded onto the ship in minutes, and we were sailing before we’d even dropped off our bags in the hold (different zones for different final destinations.)
(Becky has told me that I must now always wear my bright pink t-shirt on days that we sail, so that she can quickly pick me out in the crowd!)
As a boy, we used to regularly cross the English channel by ferry, and I remember roaming these giant ships, often going on deck for fresh air to settle my stomach and fend of sea-sickness; with this in mind, I had visions of taking to the deck, enjoying the wind in my hair and the sun on my back as we sailed over blue seas and past islands rising from the water, so I was a little disappointed to learn that you couldn’t go on deck, you couldn’t go outside at all during the trip. But everyone had an allocated seat (although Becky and I were seated in front and behind, not next to, each other) and although we were in economy class, the seats were spacious and comfy, a very pleasant trip, and I even managed a short snooze before the stern doors were lowered and we were herded off the ship into Ademas port on the island of Milos.
And first impressions are very favourable – what we have seen of Milos so far is picturesque and charming, a typical Greek harbour with beautiful water, bustling yet relaxed at the same time, a very pretty place. I think I will enjoy our time here.
(And for the record, just to place this day in time, we woke this morning to the results of the general election (we had voted by post before we left home) – delighted to see change and a new hope. And who knows, perhaps now we can take our first tentative steps as a country to returning to Europe: believe me, things are better here than at home)
Today we got up early to catch the first bus to Thira (7.30 am) and from there get another bus to take us further north, to Oia at the end of the island, arriving in this much instagrammed village of white washed houses and blue domed churches before 9 am.
One of the first sites we saw after we got off the bus and entered the town square in front of the church was a young lady, in a beautiful, long, very long, blue dress being told to run whilst chased by a photographer and videographer, there to capture the blue dress dazzling and billowing behind her, against the pristine white walls of the church and unblemished azure blue sky. Welcome to the world of Instagram, tik-tok and instant likes! The setting was stunning, and the crowds yet to materialise, hence this shot could happen, and we could also begin to explore relatively unencumbered and crowded by the masses.
We wandered the alleyways and streets and were rewarded with spectacular views – this was the classical Greek image of whitewashed houses clinging to the cliff face as they tumbled down to the sea, and the contrast of the brilliant blue of church domes sat atop classic white churches. This was the image you conjure up when you visualise a Greek village, and it did not disappoint. We stopped for breakfast in a taverna overlooking the white houses, blue domes, the sea and distant islands. The food was delicious, but we did have to pay for both the quality of the food and the quality of the view. As we sat and ate our Greek yogurt, there were only a couple of other customers, it was chilled and spectacular in equal measure.
We spent a couple of hours ambling along the pretty streets, but by 11 am any semblance of peace and tranquillity had evaporated into the hot air – the number over visitors had swelled and the chance of an uninterrupted view had vanished.
We decided we’d had enough, and fought our way through the thronging alleyways back to the bus stop and caught the bus to Thira – standing room only – and from there back to Kamara beach where, after lunch on our balcony, we spent the afternoon on the beach; I spent most of the time in the sea, as heavenly to me as the view of any blue domed church.
In bed last night, the victim of a losing battle between the (high) ambient air temperature and a too efficient air conditioning unit, I lay not quite shivering, but a little chilly, under my sheet listening to the wind howl and swirl outside our room – I could have been at home, in grey England in November. When morning came, I expected to see the balcony (and my towel and trunks left out to air) soaking wet but throwing back the shutters the sun streamed in, along with a glorious warmth, every thing was still intact, but the breeze could be described as “stiff” as I headed to the sea for my morning dip, mindful that I might have to be extra careful in the inevitable swell of the sea.
But as I reached the beach, the water was becalmed, millpond still and I swam out further and deeper in the crystal clear waters, the sandy bottom visible a long way beneath my feet. I found a spot to exit the water and scramble up the cliff face and have my first leap, then dive, into the water below. I remained a little confused as to why the strong wind – albeit blowing in a different direction from before – was not disturbing the surface of the sea, but I didn’t give it too much thought. A perfect start to another perfect day …
All roads lead to Rome Thira
The plan for the day was to explore the south of the island, and the Red Beach in particular, described as stunningly beautiful – red cliffs enclosing a beach of red (volcanic) sand. The excellent Santorini bus system is pretty simple – you can get to anywhere on the island, as long as you start in Thira, and pretty much every journey – whether two stops or twenty – will cost two euros. And they don’t hang about – the bus turns up, they corral and cajole you in, the doors close, and off you go. Dilly dally about and a helpful, but stern, bus conductor will chastise you and hurry you up. Once on route, the conductor comes round for your two euros, and helpfully shouts out the name of each location as you arrive at the stop. So first we got a bus up to Thira, then we got on another down to Akrotiri, the jumping off point for the red beach.
It was a 500m walk along a dead end road, and then a dusty, (slightly) difficult undulating track for another 500 m to the beach.
A number of rock falls had narrowed the beach, and we trekked to the far end to find a spot to park ourselves for the day.
The sea was rough, the red sand was baking under bare foot and whilst there was a rugged charm to the beach, I don’t think I’d describe it as beautiful. The rough seas and rocky foreshore made getting in and out of the sea tricky; I’m happy and confident in the water and quite enjoyed the odd breaker crashing down over my head, but I wouldn’t have wanted to take responsibility for anyone else in the water, and Becky wasn’t a fan, not going beyond knee deep depth, but still getting totally splashed and submerged. I’m glad we went, as I have now seen it (FOMO kicking in here) but if I’m honest, not the most beautiful Greek beach – one you could happily miss.
So we didn’t stay as long as we might and caught the bus back to Thira. As the road ascended towards the capital, we found ourselves in low cloud, with mist drifting across the landscape – not the sun kissed Greece we’ve come to know and love.
But back at base – Kamari beach – the sky was blue and the temperature high. We enjoyed an ice cream as we walked back to our apartment and then enjoyed the more tranquil waters of our pool under the late afternoon sunshine.
I may lack the poetic prose of (the original) Homer, and my appearance and athleticism is perhaps closer to a latter day Homer (Simpson) than Adonis, but I do have EasyJet and Blue Star Ferries to make my epic somewhat easier, quicker and more comfortable than that of the ancients; our four week odyssey across the Cyclades began with an early morning flight from Bristol to Santorini. After a four hour flight, and a pleasantly swift passage through passport control, we emerged into the glorious Greek sunshine and headed for our accommodation in the resort of Kamari beach.
When we first decided (about a year ago!) that we wanted to spend the summer island hopping our way around Greece, Santorini was not one of the islands that made it into our top ten of where we wanted to go. Yes, we had been seduced by the stunning photos of blue domes sat atop brilliant whitewashed walls, all against a backdrop of shimmering blue sea or cloudless sky, but we had also seen the pictures behind the pictures and were conscious that Sanntorini had made it into many peoples top ten (or top two) islands to visit, and was likely to be heaving with tourists. I’m very conscious that as a tourist, I am also part of the problem, but overcrowding of many places in the Med is a very real problem.
So, given the above, what are we doing here in Santorini?
The answer is its airport. Having decided on travelling the Cyclades, from the UK (and, more specifically, Bristol) our options were limited to landing in Santorini or Mykonos, and Santorini won. So we landed here yesterday, on the first of July; a month later, in the last few minutes of 31st July, we fly back to Bristol from Athens having visited and stayed on a number of Greek islands.
(And if you are reading this for info and tips, we found it much cheaper to do it this way – fly out to Santorini and back from Athens – than if we did the trip in return. I think that this is because flights to and from Athens remain fairly stable in price, but flights to and from Santorini go up in price as the “season” becomes more established.)
So “kalimera” from Greece, and I shall try and document our travels – our odyssey – across some beautiful Greek islands.
Yesterday we did little, other than acclimatise – its hot, but a beautiful breeze is more than welcome – swim in the small, but perfect, pool at our apartment block (and I couldn’t resit a quick dip in the sea), eat our first delicious Greek meal (one of life’s toughest questions – which food is the best in the world: Greek or Italian?) and sleep after the oh too early start caught up with us.
This morning, on waking, I took myself back to the beach (less than 5 mins from my bed) and swam in the sea. There were a few other early morning bathers, but at times it did feel like I had the ocean to myself, the Aegean sea washing away my cares and worries as I bobbed in the crystal clear water, contemplating the expanse of infinity, bordered on one side by a sheer cliff face and stretching off into a distant horizon on another. Some people need alcohol, some use drugs (both prescription and illegal), some turn to religion, but I find true peace and tranquillity in the serenity of the sea. And all before breakfast …!
And what a treat breakfast was! Pastries and coffee fresh from a local bakery, with a little fruit on the side, sat on the balcony of our apartment, just watching the world go by.
I could have sat there forever, but adventure beckoned and we decided to head over to Thira, the capital of island, for a change of pace and scene. When we travel, we like to use public transport – its cheaper, greener, and (usually) less stressful than hiring a car, plus, with the latter, you remain in your own hermetically sealed bubble, “safe” from interactions with other people – but that denies you one of the joys of travelling, interacting with other people. (And if you remain to be convinced about meeting strangers when you travel, have a read of this post of an encounter between a Brit and a Kurd in Italy)
Arriving at the bus stop, it became clear that a number of others had had the idea – it was a long queue and when the bus arrived it became a bit of a free for all but, somehow, we all fitted in and off we headed for the 20 minute journey to Thira whilst the bus conductor fought his way through the bus to collect fares from everyone. A bit chaotic, but it worked and whilst I wouldn’t want this level of chaos in my day to day life, it adds to the charm of Greece, I love the juxtaposition of chaos and calm, moving from minutes of madness to total tranquillity in a few short steps.
We explored Thira – a beautiful town of whitewashed buildings, and blue domes, stunning vistas across the Caldera (the sea) dotted with islands and anchored cruise ships. It was clean, pretty, busy and we enjoyed the morning ambling along its streets, punctuated with a cool drink sat in a stunning, shaded cafe, enjoying the view and enjoying each other’s company. It is a town that is well looked after, and thriving on the tourist dollars that flow in every day, but it has retained its charm and resisted the “Disneyfication” that some other tourist hot spots have fallen for. (Dubrovnik and Rhodes old towns, I’m looking at you …)
We headed home on a slightly less crowded (but still full) bus (2 euros each, one way) and spent the late afternoon on the beach back here at Kamari, cooling of in the sea, and watching a group of local lads leap from the cliffs (my day will come …) The beach is famously black sand – but really more a car park grey gravel, lovely underfoot but not too pretty to look at. The water was blissful, the sun still strong so we sat under the shade of our umbrella and when we had had enough, we walked the three minutes back to our apartment, freshened up and strolled into town for another delicious (and enormous) meal in a Greek taverna.
The last day of our hols, and we headed off to Lucca, a very picturesque town about twenty minutes from Pisa. Although the temperature had dropped from the unseasonable highs of earlier in the week, we headed out under blue skies and wandered through its streets, before arriving at, and climbing, Guinigi’s tower. Only 220 steps to the top of this one, and on top, are some trees adding to the splendour of the views.
We both very much liked Lucca, small and pretty, and not crammed with tourists. But as we wandered the streets, we glimpsed the skies out over the distant hills looking very dark and foreboding. Five minutes later, we felt a drop, then another, and, as it was mid-dayish we wisely took shelter in a small restaurant just before the heavens opened.
We’ve been lucky with the weather, and have enjoyed the sunshine we’ve been missing back in the UK, but it is always a shame when it rains on your hols. Anyway, within an hour the showers passed and we headed on to Pietrasantra, a very “arty” town full of sculptures (and once again, blue skies and sunshine.)
We then hopped on another train back to Pisa, and headed for our “last supper”. As we meandered back to our apartment across the bridge, looking one way saw beautiful blue sky and a setting sun, looking the other saw angry dark grey clouds above the mountains.
We got back to our apartment, ready to pack, and heard the rumble of thunder, followed by the thud of heavy rain on the roof. Perhaps it is the gods telling us our time here is done, and we must return from whence we came!
As I said in an earlier post, the ideal time to see Florence was 30 years ago.
Today, we went back into Florence, beginning our day by climbing Giotto’s tower, the magnificent tower at the side of the cathedral, affording magnificent views across of the duomo itself and the city and its surrounds. We had to ascend 414 steps to reach the top, but it was worth the breathlessness of the climb to have one’s breath taken away by the view.
We had pre-booked the ticket, and only had to queue for 10 minutes to reach the base of the tower, but the rest of the main square, the Pont Vecchio and all the streets in the vicinity were absolutely packed. Florence is lovely, but it is over crowded (and I accept that we, too, are a part of the problem.) So after we descended from the tower, we headed south, across the Arno river to the Rose garden, an oasis of peace and tranquillity. Having bought some filled foccacia sandwiches to take with us, we sat amongst the greenery and beautiful flowers (Italy in April is a couple of months on from England, it feels, looks and smells like early summer) for a couple of hours. Heaven on earth, I rather imagined that I was the gentleman in the statue, head tilted skywards, eyes closed, enjoying the kiss of the Italian sun on my cheek.
In the afternoon we bade “arrivederci” to Florence and took a train back to Pisa, our base for our last two nights. This evening, after a delicious pizza meal, we ambled back to see the leaning tower, where our trip began a week ago. At 8pm, unlike midday when we were here before, the space, whilst not quite deserted, was certainly empty and we got to view the tower, and surrounding buildings, in almost splendid isolation.
It was a very different experience seeing the iconic tower in the fading light; with no crowds it was a far more enjoyable and peaceful experience and I was surprised in the difference a few hours can make. I am loving the “Italian Job” and our journeys across Tuscany, but I have been surprised at how busy some places have been (this is mid-April, not high summer) and the positive difference it can make when you escape the throng, and enjoy the landscape far from the madding crowd.
The old buildings and architecture have been a joy to behold, but I do also have a soft spot for an old car. And not just expensive, flashy sports cars, I like the old workhorses of the day. Two years ago, in a mid-life crisis moment, I bought myself a 30 year old Peugeot 205 (sadly, a diesel, not the hot-hatch GTi) off eBay that I have got back on the road. On this trip, I have enjoyed seeing some boxy old Fiat Pandas from the early ’90s, and then this evening, parked up all on its own, I saw an original Fiat 500:
A wonderfully stylish, tiny little car, with a small air cooled engine that was the height of Italian chic in the sixties. You can see its lineage in the modern Fiat 500 that is so popular on the roads today, but I would trade ten of the modern version for an original like this.
They are tiny, so to give a bit of scale, I had to have my photo taken next to the car:
I’m not sure I would actually fit in it, but as stylish and delightful to my eye as any fresco or facade we have seen on our trip!
Growing up, in England, in the ’70s and early ’80s the food was bland. boring and beige. Most meals revolved around potatoes in one form or another and any accompanying veg had been boiled for far too long, turning it into a tasteless mush. Although I remember nothing of it (we left when I was about 18 months old) my family had spent several years in Malaysia and so, when we returned to the UK, we did eat quite a bit of rice, but I soon realised we were an outlier, and many people would describe any rice dish that wasn’t Rice Pudding – a creamy, sugar laden, sweet dessert – as “foreign muck.”
Probably because of living overseas, my mum was a bit of an early adopter when it came to new food trends and I reckon in was in the mid-eighties, my early(ish) teenage years, that a new meal came into vogue and made it on to my dinner plate: Spaghetti Bolognese. I loved it. Until I moved to London for university, spaghetti was the only pasta I knew, and bolognese the natural accompaniment for it. Across the country it became affectionately known as Spag Bol. I don’t think the youth of today (and by youth, I probably mean anyone born after 1980!) quite comprehend that pasta was new and novel (and to some, a little bit frightening and threatening) to many of us, and we didn’t encounter it until early adulthood.
So, as soon as we had decided we were going to Bologna, I determined that I must have spaghetti bolognese in its native city. Now, of course, no such dish actually exists outside the UK, but the closet thing on the menu was Tagliatelle Ragu. And with Tiramisu (I was in my twenties when I first encounted this delicious “pudding”) and coffee to finish, it was the perfect meal, in the perfect setting, with the perfect company.
Bologna itself was a beautiful city, I really enjoyed our visit. I was beautiful, but it was a “working” city more than a tourist city, and this gave it a greater sense of authenticity. It has a beautiful square, with beautiful basilica, but it is primarily famous for its porticoes – covered walkways. It has a the largest covered walkway, with 660 porticoes – covered archway, leading to the Santa Maria de san Luca, a church atop a hill just outside the city limits. We didn’t start at the beginning, instead taking the bus to Arc de Meloncello, and began our walk to the top from there, portico number 285. It took about 30-40 minutes to reach the top, but the views along the way, and from atop the hill, were stunning.
I could, and I will, tell you about the beauty of Siena (above) and San Gimignano (below) and the stunningly spectacular Tuscan countryside, about how we travelled to Siena, and then to San Gimignano before returning to a Florence bathed in the evening sunshine, but that would be to miss today’s story, and the true essence of travel.
Whilst I may joke that the best time to see Florence (or any major European attraction) was 30 years ago, travelling today is so much easier than years gone by. Last night, we were able to check the train times for today’s trip to Siena from the comfort of our apartment and book and pay for the tickets in a moment using an app on our phones. But perhaps this has led to a little complacency as we arrived at Siena train station without a thought of what to do, or how to get to the historic centre. Our first mistake of the day. Now, Siena is stunningly beautiful, very much a Florence with fewer (but still plenty) of tourists. But the info, and infrastructure connecting train and bus services, was somewhat limited. We struggled to find our way into the centre (we were not the only ones, we ended up teaming with a Spanish couple who spoke no English or Italian – I was pleased to get a chance to practice my Spanish on Italian soil) and then, when we wanted to return by bus to the train station it was again not straight forward. The lesson for the day – do your research, its not hard, but can save a lot of angst (and wasted time.)
But that is not the end of the tale.
We had always planned to then catch the train from Siena to Poggibonsi, before getting the bus to San Gimignano, then getting the bus back to Poggibonsi and the train “home” to Florence. Having (eventually) found our way back to Siena station, the trip to Poggibonsi was quick, cheap and uneventful. We got off the train, and headed to the front of the station to find the bus stop (having learnt from my error in the morning, I took some time on the train to confirm the location of the bus stop). However, finding the bus stop, it became apparent that the next bus to San Gimignano was not for about three hours. At the bus stop, we found two fellow travellers also waiting for a bus, and also arriving at the same conclusion that it would be pointless to wait.
We agreed to share a taxi into San Gimignano, I found some numbers, made some calls, and Stefano, our taxi driver, would be with us in 30 minutes. Whilst we waited, we chatted. One of our fellow travellers was from Amsterdam, the other, Haron, from Kurdistan (although they were friends, and travelling together.) We chatted about ourselves, our travels and our homes. I quizzed Haron a little about Kurdistan, of where he was rightly proud, and then explained that many years ago I had been in the RAF and part of a multi-national force based at Incirlik airbase, Turkey, enforcing a no-fly zone over Northern Iraq to protect the Kurds who were being persecuted by Saddam Hussein and his regime (this would be in the early 1990s). Haron became a little emotional, and told me how his father had been a freedom fighter for the Kurds and had told him off the help that the no-fly zone had provided, and that he (Haron) now lived in an autonomous and safe very region of Kurdistan in nothern Iraq. I was a very small cog in a big machine, and I’m not really sure I did very much, but it is gratifying to know that, over 30 years on, what we did did make a difference, and it was genuinely heart-warming to meet someone who we may have helped.
And that chance encounter would not have happened if our plans hadn’t gone awry. Planning is good, but flexibility – especially when travelling – is better, and travelling so much more enriching when you abandon the script, meet new people, and go with the flow.
We bumped into Haron and his travelling companion on the bus back to Poggibonsi, and again on the train back to Florence. They are both accomplished artists and listening to Haron talk about some of the works he had seen in Florence was inspiring and energising – the other three of us were all “of an age” and from northern Europe – it is very easy to become blase about what we see: “oh, look, another church, another renaissance painting”, but Haron’s enthusiasm re-lit a spark in all of of us.
Yes, Siena, and Gimingano and the Tuscan countryside are all beautiful, but the most beautiful thing for me today was meeting a son of Kurdistan, a far away people I was sent to protect what seems a life time ago.
