Aegean Coast 2024: Part Two - Greece

Ayvalik - Agios Isidoros, 15th May 2024

Five am start, say bye to the kitten and nice old Greek house.

If anybody could invent a less efficient way to get on a ferry I’d be amazed. First you have to queue to get your boarding pass from a travel agent one hour before the ferry sails. There’s a port tax which they don’t tell you about until the ticket check, and you have to pay this at a separate window. The ticket check queue is backed up by the security check, which is backed up by the passport check, which is backed up by the duty free.

I lug Sean the Suitcase, who has gained a few kilos since Gatwick, to the all-white top deck. It’s a beautiful cloudless day and, although only 19c, it feels like a scorcher. I realise that my Celtic ginger genes are going to last about five minutes before I’m burnt to a frazzle, so I lurch Sean below to where the aircon is set to 29c.

As in the last five days, everyone is Turkish and nobody speaks English, but it’s a very pleasant 1.5 hour trip. There are dolphins! Not that I can prove it because of bloody Blogger, which refuses to play my videos.

I’m in Greece! Mytilene, Lesbos, that is. The Greeks look at my passport with concerning interest. They shrug and stamp it.

Walk to the pre-booked baggage drop as I’ve a few hours here, but it’s not open. Not just temporarily but closed down completely, ceased to be, gawn to meet its maker. Admittedly I was half an hour late because I got my timings wrong, but I suspect that’s six euros I’ll never see again.

Two and a half hours of wasting time and raking Sean over the cobblestones, I sit down for a drink and I’m so disoriented I wonder how I’m getting wi-fi from the café down the road where I had coffee earlier and finally realise I’m in the same place. I get the bus to the airport.

Mrs Mad and Melvin are on time as is the cab driver who I doubted existed as his quote was half the price of the multinational airport transfer firms. It’s a 40 minute drive to Agios Isidoros, up a mountain, down a crevasse, along a ridge. There are beautiful views down to a bay and above us towers the Lesbian Mt Olympos, all 967 metres of it.

The caretaker Miltiades, who looks like a Mexican gunslinger, lets us in and it’s a very nicely designed villa with an extensive outside area and small pool with freezing water. In Greece they often leave welcome presents in the fridge such as beer, wine and water, but there's nothing here except ice. It’s four thirty, our throats dry, beer o’clock. We walk into the village, one km downhill.

The first restaurant has an old lady sitting outside, but it’s closed. The next is closed, as is the next, as is the snack bar, two more restaurants, the cocktail bar and both the mini-marts. There’s a lovely long sandy beach with one couple lying on it and a row of bars above it, which are closed. Even the public toilet is locked. Oh dear, we’ve gone on holiday by mistake.

We’ve no choice but to lug our thirsty souls 3km to the nearest town Plomari, which would have been fine had the road gone along the coast and not zig-zagged up and down into the hills. We’re completely inappropriately dressed - I’ve too much on and Mrs Mad and Melvin, like Geordies in a January sunburst, are in shorts and vests, which becomes an issue as it cools later on that night. There’s nothing open in Plomari either, Lesbos’s second ‘city’ with a population similar to… I don’t know, Mousehole?

Okay, so here’s the thing. Its low season and nothing, I mean nothing, is open between 3 and 6pm. After then it’s fine and people come out to play. Plomari is a charming town with tavernas along the seafront, bars around the square and old cobbled back streets. There’s hardly any tourists but plenty of real people. We go on a mini-bar crawl, the beer reasonably priced, stock up with essentials at the supermarket such as the local ouzo, because ouzo is this area’s claim to fame, there being two factories/museums within walking distance, and absolutely nothing else to visit, and we go for a fishy meal. Mrs Mad and Melvin have shivered enough and it’s time to go back. Luckily there are taxis, just six euros, so we’ll probably do this again.

Melvin doesn’t like ouzo, so that’s more for me. Ah, a good night's sleep at last.

I’m not going to bore you with frequent updates on a week’s villa holiday, so I’ll only post if anything happens, which hopefully it won’t.

Agios Isidoros, 16th-21st May 2024

When I said that nothing in Agios Isodoros is open between 3 and 6pm I may have misled you. What I meant to say is that nothing is open between October and May.

That’s fine. The villa is lovely and so long as you send out a forager daily to track down provisions then you don’t regret the fact that Naf’s Cocktail Corner won’t open for another four weeks. Miltiades brings us fresh eggs daily from his chickens which are, as I write, being tended by an old man in a white coat. The garden, inaccurately described as being 8 km square on the Airbnb website, has a plethora of every type of fruit and vegetable you can imagine, none of which are in season right now; and the fish hearse drives past each morning and you just point to stuff and get what you’re given. There’s a great outside cooking area with a plancha and a beer fridge and a long table where you sit and watch the swallows dive bomb the icy pool.

Miltiades has two dogs we call Johann Sebastian (Bach) or Ronnie (Barker) and Richard (Wagner, as in waggy tail) or Buster (Gonads), who like to jump on each other and us.

There are also goats, a horse, bats and bees and eagles circling the mountain. Surprisingly, there are no mosquitos and even the flies are well behaved.

There are two tavernas on the edge of the village which are there for the local people: The nearest is run by two old women who are ridiculously friendly and cook okay food, washed down by really bad home-made red wine; and there’s another where the cats follow you into the toilet.

A 20 minute walk along the very dangerous road, past another ouzo museum, brings you to the village of Plagia which has a pretty square full of closed cafes and restaurants and a mini-mart that sells vintage wine that wasn’t when they first put it on the shelf. There’s an olive oil co-operative that will give you a free tour of their press.

Apart from the first day when it drizzled and there was no choice but to get drunk all afternoon, the weather has been very pleasant with a daily high of around 26c. Melvin fashions everyday objects into hats. Of all the places in the world to sit, play music and happily do nothing all day, this ranks very high.

Mytilene-Chios, May 22nd 2024

In 1986 I interrailed to Brindisi to catch the ferry to Corfu. At the port I met this Australian girl my age travelling solo, I think she was called Kathy, and we got on famously so much that I considered going with her to Patras and then Athens.

We settled at the bar for the night crossing and after we’d finished two beers a third was put in front of us, gifted by the guy sitting next to us. We got chatting to him and he seemed alright. Then he bought us ouzo.

The next thing I remember is being kicked awake. ‘Corfu?’ the ferry guy says. ‘Yes, yes.’ I’m crumpled in a corner on the deck and Kathy’s nowhere to be seen. I grab my rucksack and they’re all shouting at me to run. As I jump the gangplank, or whatever it’s called, the ferry’s sailing away. I had the worst headache I’ve ever had up to that point in my life. Then I had to walk 15km in the blazing sun to get to my friends’ very disappointing holiday let.

Three weeks later I’m heading to Athens and then Istanbul from the Peloponnese and the train passes through Patras. The ‘runners’ get on - foreign tourists who hand out leaflets for budget hostels for a pittance. Kathy is one of them. She does a double take. ‘What happened?’ ‘I can’t remember anything.’ ‘Someone stole my passport, cards and money!’

I can see that she’s wondering whether it was me, but she quickly concluded that made no sense. We realised that we were drugged and the crew were probably in on it. They didn’t fancy rummaging around in my jeans to find my money belt.

Anyway, nothing like that happened on my ferry from Mytilene to Chios.

Wait around all morning in our lovely villa for the taxi. Drop off Melvin and Mrs Mad at the airport and get the bus to the port.

Everything’s as clear as mud. My ticket says it sails at 19:00, my downloaded boarding pass at 18:00. One website says it’s a 2 hour crossing, another 3 hours. One says I’m sailing on the Diagoras, another the Nissos Rodos, but only the Diagoras is in the harbour so that’s one decision I don’t have to make. As Miltiades said this morning when there was no water from the taps and we had to improvise with the pool: ‘that’s Greece!’

Mytilene’s okay. We came here Monday - an early start for a 90 minute journey, a walk around the castle grounds and a slow meal at a grumpy taverna, then a search for the bus station as the last one went back at 3pm. But I don’t want to have to trundle Sean around town as he's gained a few kilos of unconsumed beer and ouzo, so I ask a travel agent, who thinks I’m an idiot, and she clarifies that it sails at six pm and I can board at four.

It’s a huge boat and the entire uniformed crew are waiting to greet the 12 or so foot passengers. I’m grateful for the escalators up to the third floor, but then there are staircases up to the seventh. On every level there are restaurants and shops. The ship has a monstrously loud tannoy and the smoke billows out of its funnels. Three hours later we’re in Chios, which smells fishy. I go the wrong way because the ship’s parked in an erroneous place, but soon I’m in my dungeon.

Chios, 23rd May 2024

Chios is okay. The harbour isn’t as busy as Mytilene's and the back streets are cute and surprisingly easy to get lost in. There are some decent shops, coffee bars and restaurants, a square named in honour of Al Pacino, a big green area with a sculpture park that’s closed, and a mosque. The few tourists here are mainly Turkish as Çeşme is only 30 minutes by boat and the signage reflects this. So what to do when you’re on your own?

That’s the problem. There are two road signs pointing the way to Northern Chios and Southern Chios, but no way to get to them without a car. The buses only go to the suburbs and the travel agencies only want to sell you tickets to Türkiye and the Greek islands I’ve been to or I'm going to. Why is nobody doing a tour to the mastic forests or abandoned medieval villages? For less than 300 euros, I mean.

The hamam and remains of the castle are a stone throw from my dungeon, which I chose because it allowed smoking, only to be told last night in WhatsApp real time that the neighbours upstairs were complaining about the smoke. I venture outside this morning for a coffee, which I manage, and some food, but instead choose the supermarket to buy bread, cheese and beer, returning to the dungeon for a toastie.

So why am I here for four nights? Alcibiades never visited as far as I know and the Athenians only besieged it by sea, a scene I could have clocked from the ferry. Well, it’s on my route and the next boat to Samos is on Monday. Meeting people would be nice, but there are no backpackers or travellers, nor anywhere for them to hang out, and people want to talk to you when you’re 21, not when you’re an invisible 58 year old weirdo travelling alone. Guess I’ll have to do some writing.

I find a bar that plays soft rock and has nice but expensive Chiot craft beer, and then a ‘small plates’ restaurant. I order pork and some chick pea balls in a dehydrated Chiot tomato sauce or something. The superb pork in wine and onions comes within fifteen minutes along with bread, lovely olive oil and a half litre of fine Chiot white wine. An hour later some lamb meatballs turns up. Not mine, say I. I cancel my chick peas and ask for a baked cheese cake instead. Ten minutes later, chick peas turn up 'on the 'ouse.' Don't want them, ask for the bill. Ten minutes later the bill comes with the baked cheese cake and 200ml of Chiot mastic liqueur. They've comped the entire meal apart from the pork so I get out of there for less than 10 Euros. It's one of the best desserts I've ever eaten!

So here's a tip. If you're a 58 year old weirdo eating alone at any restaurant with pretentions, ask for the wi-fi password and spend the time you're not eating making notes on your phone. Then they'll think you're a restaurant critic.

Chios, 24th May 2024

The ferry companies don’t announce their schedules until a few weeks before the boats sail. That’s not good enough if you’re booking accommodation in advance. It may be that there was no need to spend four nights in Chios after all.

But actually I quite like Chios, even the dungeon where I sit on the doorstep of the mainly deserted street to smoke and watch cats. After all, why do people come to Greek islands anyway? Surely just to sit in the sun, look at a view (e.g. cats) and find a decent bar and taverna, and I’ve found that here. Some research and writing has been achieved and that was the main point.

This morning I wash clothes and watch them dry on a windy line crossing the street. This afternoon I walk 20 minutes north around the perimeter of the castle and then onto the main road to see some windmills. They are very nice, although they may have been either restored or built in 2007, because my Greek really isn’t that good. Tomorrow I may go south.

Back at the Mezaz bar the new (from yesterday) barman speaks decent English and informs me that the British ‘really like beer.’ He brings me a bigger ashtray so I can ‘do my business.’

I’m tempted to eat the same place as last night because the food was so good, but they might hate me. Go for a fast-food chain kebab instead, a huge plate of gyros, chips, salad, tzatziki and pitta for 8.5 euros, about the same price as the kebab shop at the bottom of my road in London and almost as good.

My immaculately quiet road turns out to be the route underage Greek kids go past to the castle walls on a Friday night to drink, take drugs, go dogging or whatever else they’re making so much noise about right now.

Chios, 25th May 2024

I don’t do a lot on my last day in Chios, not that I’ve done anything really in the past three days. I explore the southern part of the town. Prefer the north. Then I search for a bar that’s going to show the FA Cup Final. This time last year there were tons of them in Corfu Town, but in Chios there’s just one and they only erect the screens outside at half time, and that’s because the Greek Cup Final is on later this evening. Any hope that the local Manc population will suddenly make themselves known is to no avail, as the only other viewers are a couple of Greek lads and an old Turkish guy. In fact, I don’t think I’ve seen any English people here, just a few Americans and Scandinavians. I watch England’s ‘best’ defender gift the cup to United.

But I’m going to upgrade Chios from ‘okay’ to ‘actually quite nice.’ It’s affluent and the prices in the bars and coffee shop reflect this, but sitting on the harbour front watching Türkiye makes you think you could do a lot worse. I’ve become quite fond of my dungeon. It could do with a kettle as the only saucepan is massive and it takes over an hour to make a cup of tea on the electric stove. It’s very safe – the Airbnb instructions for entry were ‘key is under the rock.’ Sitting on the doorstep with a cigarette and ouzo, watching the gangs of cats, is very peaceful. There’s only the odd car or deliver-gyros moped but otherwise it’s very quiet. Families wander by to watch the sunset on the castle walls. A couple of young women in hijabs, my neighbours, offer me loganberries, and I know where they got them because the landlady bade me help myself from the tree in her garden around the corner, making me wonder whether she’s Turkish too. They taste of nothing, by the way. More than anywhere else I’ve been in there seems to be a kind of harmony between the Greeks and Turks.

Stupidly, I invite the mosquitos into the house at dusk, but they’re nascent and easily repelled by jungle formula and ouzo. I go to the restaurant I went to first night at 8:45. It’s completely empty because nobody in Chios eats before nine, but apparently it’s full so I have to eat on a stool on the street. That’s fine. The food arrives super quick and is beyond delicious. I tell the waiter that it’s the best restaurant food I’ve had in Greece since I first came here fifty years ago and it’s my 20th trip, which is true because there hasn’t been a huge amount of competition. I get free dessert and mastic liqueur.

By the way, the sign means ‘cats: slow down,’ and I’ve no idea why it appears to be smoking a fag.

Chios-Pythagorion, 26th May 2024

The Blue Star Mykonos, which starts in Lemnos and island-hops to Piraeus, is late according to the coastguard guy, whose the only one dealing with anything. He tells me just as I’ve left the shade and comfort of the coffee shop so I have to wait an hour in the sun on a bench.

The boat is another monstrous Leviathan, probably capable of accommodating the entire population of Chios. The queue to get on is disorderly and all the old people jump it. There’s a long wait to board and I’m desperate for a pee.

It’s grey and a bit windy today and Türkiye to my right is a blur. The free wi-fi doesn’t work, there are no ashtrays, rather a guy employed to constantly sweep the floor, the pastries are overpriced and stale and a fat little kid is touching and pestering others and me. Everyone shouts for a reason I can’t fathom. Otherwise, it’s a very pleasant trip.

Two and a half hours later we’re in Samos Town, also known as Vathy. I head right off the boat for the fifteen minute walk to the bus station to get the 2pm. Ten minutes later I realise something is wrong. Where’s the town gone? What’s that place on the other side of the bay? Useless Google ‘king maps. Of course, the ship is parked in the wrong place again.

So I’m forced to pay seven euros for a taxi, but the station’s just a bar. Do you speak English? I ask an English guy. He tells me there are no buses on Sunday, contrary to the sworn testimony of the KTEL website, but he’s no reason to lie and his Greek friend agrees. So it’s a ten minute walk in the wrong direction to the taxi rank and, for 20 euros, the driver takes me directly back to the ferry and then across the island to Pythagorion.

Apart from Istanbul, this is the first place I’ve been this trip that’s full of tourists, but I knew that because I was here two years ago. Which makes it all the stranger that there’s no data roaming - you even get it in the middle of the sea. So I have to guess the location of the Pension but find it soon enough because Pythagorion is tiny. The landlady is super friendly and the room is nice but very small - to sit on the toilet you have to tuck your knees under the sink - and why do they keep giving me room 101? There’s a lovely little balcony overlooking a lush garden and plenty of complimentary mosquito repellent giving an indication of what’s going to happen tonight.

It’s been cloudy all day and Samos is very humid compared to Chios. I find the nearest bar in the harbour which is one minute away, as is everything else and have a cold beer. The harbour is very picturesque. I’m too relaxed, why aren’t my nerves torn to shreds like they’ve been everywhere else?

There used to be this fantastic restaurant on the harbour where all their fish was caught in their day boat. They had a wide menu, huge portions and very cheap prices and the place was full of locals. The exact opposite to how it is now, and it costs me 24 euros for six tiny red mullets, frozen chips, stale bread and a small carafe of very ordinary wine. Finish the night early because I’ve only just found out that all the crappy archaeological sites I’m supposed to see are shut Tuesday so I’ll have to blitz them tomorrow.

There’s a brew pub. In Pythagorion. Nice beer, half-Welsh owner is very proud of his produce. London prices. What’s happened? All those yachts in the harbour may suggest the answer.

I tell him I've recently been in Lesbos. 'Stinks of ouzo, doesn't it?' he says. Not sure if he was referring to Lesbos or me.

Samos, 27th-28th May 2024

Wake up at six thirty to a commotion at my balcony doors. An over-friendly ginger cat has broken in and wants a stroke. Takes ages to get rid of it.

I’ve been to the Tunnel of Eupalinos before so I know the direction is up up up, and I make an early start as today’s going to be a scorcher. A disabled elderly American on crutches is loudly arguing with his wife that he wants to go down the tunnel and takes matters into his own hands. The Greeks are shouting at him: ‘Sir, you must wait for a guide!’ and eventually he decides that if he can’t go on his own he won’t go at all.

He wouldn’t have made it. There are 17 steep steps and then the tunnel’s only a metre wide and 1.5 metres high. They give us hard hats which is just as well as I bang my head five times. The guide, who’s about four foot tall short-changes me and four young Scandinavians by leading us in about 50m and claiming we’ve gone 200. I ask who Eupalinos the engineer was and she says ‘the engineer.’ I ask if the tunnel was built during the time of Polykrates the Tyrant and she answers ‘yes.’

I make the rash decision to walk to the Heraion, Samos’ premier archaeological site, seven km away. The route involves some dubious mountain roads and walking through Potokaki where we stayed two years ago. It’s as dead as I remember it, but at least the multi-mart is open which allows me to take on water. Kostas’s lovely waterfront villa is still there, but they’ve built a holiday resort next door.

For the remaining hour I walk across a wasteland that’s a designated national park. There’s no shade and I’m grateful for the hat I bought the night before which I’ve managed to break already. The temple complex is disappointing because there’s hardly anything standing, but I knew this and I’m only here because I’m pretending to be a historical fiction writer. Walking around and clocking the scene is the most important thing. Anyway, I’m happy to pay the six euro entrance fee as it allows a short cut to Ireon where I have a beer and toastie and nab the village’s only taxi back.

Drinking at my new favourite craft beer pub, talking to the enthusiastic owner, I unexpectedly get a WhatsApp from Kostas. He's in Pythagorion at his lovely sister’s cafe by the bus stop. It turns into a late one.

The next day I can’t and don’t do much, but I am forming chapters for the next book, which is the point of being here. I go for a four euro gyros early evening and spill grease all over the t-shirt I’ve just bought. Embarrassingly I only notice an hour later when I’m in a posh cocktail bar, and Sean now stinks of kebab.

Kostas calls and suggests we go for a drive. Around the entire island. Until past midnight.