Everyone knows Kos, Corfu, Crete or Santorini, but Greece has more than 200 inhabited islands. And they all have something to offer. We visited Skopelos and Ikaria – lesser known but far from unloved scions of the Greek archipelago. Where the rule is: Long live the long life!
So this is what the Scottish-American naturalist John Muir meant, we ponder as we dangle with our full weight from a stem of smilax, when he signalled: “When we try to pick out anything by itself, we find it hitched to everything else in the Universe.” After a life-and-death match, half a tree tumbles down. Smilax is the evil cousin of ivy, its vicious thorns cleave right through our work gloves; it’s a creeper which, when you start paying attention, leaves no half-square metre of Skopelos untouched. And precisely that is a problem because as volunteers for Skopelos Trails, we have committed ourselves for a fortnight to keeping the hiking trails of this island in the Northern Sporades free from such obstacles.
Greeks wouldn’t be Greeks if they hadn’t tied a myth to smilax. When Crocus, a mortal man, and a forest nymph named Smilax fell head over heels in love with each other, the gods turned them into a flower and a bramble, respectively. The latter, you guessed it, was called smilax, the “girl swinging in the air” according to the Greek epic poet Nonnus. Not as painful, but at least as persistent: Spanish broom. With pruning shears, we raze it to the ground. “Be glad it’s not in bloom yet”, says Heather Parsons. “The little yellow flowers are so pretty that you can’t bear to eliminate them.” And so every plant has its manual.
Originally from Great Britain, Heather has lived on the island for almost 40 years. As the driving force behind Skopelos Trails, she is trying to restore the kalderimi, cobbled paths, sometimes centuries old, that connect hamlets, churches and water sources. These kalderimi were once used by sheep herders or by farmers during the harvest of resin, an ingredient of retsina.
“When I arrived here, everyone walked.” Cars didn’t exist on the island, except for a few pickup trucks to transport farmers to their lands. “The islanders were so happy they didn’t have to walk anymore”, Heather laughs. “Until they started getting strokes. Before that, they drank like fishes and smoked like chimneys, but they didn’t have the same health problems. Though they preferred to swear off booze and cigarettes rather than to start walking again.” And so the old paths fell into disrepair – overgrown with bushes at best, bulldozed over at worst.
Strings from the letterbox
Skopelos has no airport, but the sea route is not a punishment. From Volos, we sail for four-and-a-half hours. A welcoming committee awaits at each port – Greek islands live to the rhythm of the ferries’ sailing schedule. The arrival on Skopelos is majestic. The eponymous capital looks like an amphitheatre around the bay – small, white houses climbing up four hills, with a ruined castle on top like a crown on a head. “It smells like honey here”, says Anete as we step off the boat. The sweet scent of blossoms and the citrus hues of Aleppo pines sting our noses.
Skopelos Town is a postcard, a cobweb of steep alleys, full of pastel-coloured flower pots and pomegranate trees, a maze in which only alley cats seem to know their way around. A few years ago, Dutch author Jan Terlouw lamented that suspicion infiltrated society, that strings were no longer hanging out of letterboxes. On Skopelos, nobody locks their doors. And in Pension Sotos, where we stay, a string effectively dangles from the letterbox. The place always bustles with life. At the front door, befriended passersby shout at the landlady, “Alexandra!”
When we’re not working, we explore the island. Skopelos is known as the greenest dot in Greece, maybe even in the Mediterranean Sea. More than three-quarters of its surface is covered with pines, holm oaks and plane trees. A sea of green, coloured here and there by pink strawberry trees. On a day off, we traverse almost the entire island, through leafy forests of Lebanon cedars. Narrow paths wind up to the fire watch station on top of Delphi, Skopelos’ highest point, and across gravel to mysterious, carved pirate graves. We walk through orchards, past tiny churches in which a faithful or three fit, refresh ourselves at water sources and end with a splash in a rocky bay. For hours, we encounter only a herd of goats.
Heather also organises a weekly hike, which draws a crowd of locals, volunteers and expats alike. Skopelos enchants people. When Heather asked a former Romanian volunteer if he would look after her dog, the volunteer promptly jumped into his car in Bucharest. He drove all night and now lives on Skopelos. We can relate to that. Under an olive tree, we chew away our sandwiches. In a field among daisies, cornflowers and wild asparagus (which Heather will use in a salad that evening), our eyes feast on the view of the Aegean Sea. We have just cut the tunnel of greenery around a path that winds picture-perfectly up to a whitewashed church. A Herculean task that took us hours, even though you walk all the way to the top in minutes. Think about that next time you go hiking.
Religious raves
Ikaria, two weeks later. In the capital, Agios Kirykos, a pirate-faced man drives by in a pink Smart, followed by Socrates on a moped. We have only been on this island near the Turkish mainland for a few days but already feel like we know the whole village. Heather had recommended Ikaria to us as an alternative to busier Samos. “People get very old there”, she said. “There are even stories of emigrated locals who returned to die and lived for years afterwards.” The island belongs to the Blue Zones, five areas of the world where people stubbornly refuse to die. A third of islanders reach 90, which prompted The New York Times to call Ikaria “the island where people forget to die.” Dementia and other chronic diseases are also conspicuously absent here.
Presumably, the lifestyle and eating habits have something to do with it. First of all, on Ikaria, there is time, lots of time – to eat peacefully, take a nap or chat with whoever happens to pass by. A wholesome diet does the rest. Fruit and vegetables – the locals are God-fearing orthodox and fast half the year -, olive oil, herbal teas, goat’s milk and, above all, generously filled glasses of red wine. Because the birth island of Dionysos, the god of the noble grape, knows how to party. The Panigiria, a kind of religious raves that often culminate in wild bacchanalia, take place mostly in the summer.
We visit in spring and are forced to limit ourselves to that other activity that explains the toughness of the Ikarians: walking. For here, too, the car made a late appearance. For a long time, the islanders walked everywhere. Ikaria is much rockier than Skopelos. The rough terrain encourages scrambling – even a stroll to your neighbour’s house has traditionally been a significant undertaking.
At Faros, in the northeastern tail of the island, we hike to the fortress of Drakano – which explicitly solicits for a starring role in the next Game of Thrones. A flamingo flaps away in front of a candyfloss lens cloud. Over a ridge, we climb to the highest point of Ikaria. Now we understand why Icarus got so excited by the views that he wanted to fly higher and higher, until his wings of wax melted in the sun. According to that legend, he thundered down in the sea somewhere here – hence the name of this island.
Soaking in radioactivity
After each hike, we end up in Lefkada’s hot springs. These are slightly radioactive – don’t expect a swim in Chernobyl, but still: some say the radiation is another reason for the population’s perseverance. Nothing like soaking stiff muscles in a warm radiation soup, while the colder waves provide cooling. Back in Agios Kirykos, we park ourselves on the terrace of a taverna. An affable woman in an apron clips a paper tablecloth onto our table, places a large carafe of wine on it and fetches plates of beans, okra, and stuffed peppers and tomatoes.
At the adjoining table, a fat German with a rose-tinted face scowls. He wants to check into his hotel, but the manager won’t be rushed. “First, she said 11 o’clock, then 12.” He taps nervously on his watch, his blood pressure visibly skyrocketing. “But it’s two o’clock by now and I still can’t get into my room”, he spits. “Typically Greece! And that airport, have you seen it? Looks like Africa!” Why he didn’t book a holiday in the Black Forest, Gott only knows.
A couple of tables further, a few grey men are playing dominoes. They roll their eyes, grin and wink at us. Who will last the longest on the globe, them or him? On Ikaria, it’s best to plan as little as possible, or fate will interfere. The pirate drives by in his granny car, followed by Socrates on his moped. We order another frappé and let the world pass by. Here we are happy to live to be a hundred.
Skopelos & Ikaria: practical info
How to get to Skopelos & Ikaria?
Skopelos does not have an airport. Depending on the season, you can take a ferry from Volos, Skiathos, Agios Konstantinos or Mantoudi. The latter has a bus connection to Athens. There are flights to Icaria from Athens, although we preferred the boat from Piraeus, the capital’s port.
Best time to travel
Spring and autumn are perfect for hiking, summer is often too hot for that. In July and August, mostly Greek holidaymakers stay on Skopelos and Icaria. Booking is advisable, although even then you should not fear the kind of mass tourism of better-known islands.
Hiking on Skopelos and Ikaria
Heather Parsons compiled walks over old kalderimi in a compact guidebook, for sale on Skopelos or through www.skopelos-walks.com. There is also a good hiking map. The shops of Ikaria sell hiking maps as well.
Sleeping on Skopelos and Ikaria
>> Pension Sotos (Skopelos Town, Skopelos). 150-year-old building under a church tower, with charming rooms, pine wood floors and a patio with a lemon tree.
>> Rigas Hotel Skopelos, (Skopelos Town, Skopelos). This hotel is bigger and feels less personal than Sotos, but still a good and relatively cheap option.
>> There are plenty of other options in Skopelos Town.
>> Smaragdi Rooms (Therma, Ikaria). In a village just outside Agios Kirykos, where you see three ducks marching past from your terrace at the same time every day. Close to a beach, thermal springs and a wonderfully authentic taverna. It does not accept bookings at the moment, but there are plenty of other options in Agios Kirykos.
This story first appeared in Dutch in De Morgen Magazine.
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