Off-season delights in the Greek Cyclades.
The cats own Mykonos. They always have. For two millennia, Aegean cats have dispatched mice from what was once the verdant breadbasket of the civilized world. Since then, wheat fields, countries and entire empires have flourished and faded, yet the cats remain.
They greet my wife and me at the ferry in Mykonos, legendary party island in the Cyclades islands of Greece. During the bacchanalian summer months of July and August, the beaches pulse with music and machismo. Off-season – when the maniacal hordes have flamed out – the island becomes a quieter, more civilized place, which suits us down to the ground.
Even more civilized are the digs we’re planning to make our home base for the next week: a private rental called Villa Grace, part of Abercrombie & Kent’s villa rental program. The home is a palatial juxtaposition of glass and natural stone, where every room overlooks the Aegean Sea. One end of the nine-metre-long breakfast counter is piled high with local figs, grapes blood oranges and stone fruits, small but intensely flavoured. We make a dinner of cold cuts, feta, and kopanisti, a cheese made only in Mykonos
then settle in to watch the moon and count our lucky stars.
Much like the detrius on our dinner plates, the Greek Islands are scattered across the eastern Mediterranean all the way to Turkey. Each island cluster has its own unique culture and attractions. Mykonos is but one of 33 inhabited islands in the Cyclades.
Most visitors visit one group and might see two or three islands within a ten-day period.
In town the following morning, we traipse along flagstone streets to the medieval windmills of Kato Myloi. The iconic, thatched-roof silos cut an imposing profile against the sky. Following the steps, we make our way down the rise and along a comely sweep of whitewashed houses, bars and restaurants known as Little Venice. The patio of one café spills into the courtyard of another, where a string of handsome locals sip petite cups of thick coffee, a filigree of felines at their heels. Following their lead, we order the same and settle in at a sea side table. When an errant wave claps the seawall, sending a spray of salty Aegean to season our coffee, it’s time to move on.
Considering its reputation, Mykonos is smaller than I expected. A mere 10,000 residents call the island home, making the main town agreeably compact. We lose ourselves in the alleyways and take many a retail detour en route. Every wiggly lane and low doorway conceals new pleasures: shops selling gold jewellery, barely there bikinis, exemplary art, a notoriously raucous nightclub abutting a church. In each store sleeps a cat or three making for a makeshift star rating.
As I brush past a wall, a spray of bougainvillea sheds blood red petals on the white street. Finally, we emerge in front of the fish markets. A virtual stadium of café seating faces the water, as if a special performance is about to begin. In truth it takes place every day. Ever since Jackie O’ made Mykonos famous – holidaying here with Aristotle Onassis in the 1970s – people-watching has become a big-game sport, even in off season. Somewhere on the island is Lady Gaga, but today, at least, she’s a no-show. In her absence, the star attraction is a fisherman repairing his boat under the watchful eye of a pelican. I amble over and ask him what he’s fishing for. A bilingual local translates, and the fishermen answers octopus, as he works wood filler into the deck of his boat.
“Octopus are smart … but not too smart,” he says, mimicking a stabbing action I’m grateful not to have witnessed in the flesh. “When I catch one I call my friend and we go for ouzo”.
I cast a look at the amorous pelican; it doesn’t seem to be the ouzo type. He appears to have a taste for fish rather than the licorishy spirit so popular in Greece. It transpires that the fisherman’s friend is human but the bird might as well be. Its name, is Petros, the third generation of a wild bird that has been the island’s mascot since the 1950s when local fisherman adopted a wounded pelican. Petros the third runs a nice business pestering fishermen and stealing seafood from Nico’s Taverna up the lane.
We leave Petros to his mischievous ways and continue on our way through the Kastro district, the oldest part of town. Soon we come across a church iced thickly with fondant – or at least it looks that way. Built in 1425, the Panagia Paraportianí chapel was Byzantine by design (although it wasn’t finished until the 17th century) and comprises five chapels built on top of each other. It’s a perfectly romantic spot and, on the steps, two men are canoodling. Mykonos is legendary among gay travelers for its friendly vibe, party scene and great beaches but, especially in off season, it attracts travelers of all stripes.
Mykonians tolerate a lot – noise, crowds, silliness – but they put their foot down when it comes to architecture. All hell would break loose should a house not be painted white. Sugar-cube profiles dot the granite cliffs and lend to even new developments an appealing, ancient air.
Leaving town, we weave among low stone walls and head for the beach – Agios Ionassis – to savour one of the many shades of blue that Mykonos is famous for. Agios Ionassis at the island’s western most point is know for its kid-friendly, gently sloping shore. Today there is only a lone jogger. Even Super Paradise a seven kilometers south of town (a beach famous for parties) is totally deserted, which is closer to my idea of paradise. We venture as far south as Kalafatis Beach (a refuge for locals during the bacchanalian summer months) and are barely encounter a soul.
We finally settle on lunch at Paranga Beach, one of a smattering of beaches where the restaurants stay open year round. After a glass of rosé and a plate of delectable red mullet, I determine that I could get used to this routine. The beaches of Mykonos are very civilized – with tzatziki and crusty bread available at the wave of a hand – albeit at a price. At one end of the beach, a battalion of sun-loungers represents 30 euros a pair in valuable beachfront real estate, with some going for thousands a season.
Our lunch blends into evening and we soon find ourselves in Avra, a rustic taverna I could never find again in an Aegean-blue fit. Along the way we have accumulated some new friends. Among them, Jen, a British rock ’n’ roller who came here on holiday and forgot to leave. “In the 1990s, if you wanted to make a phone call, you had to line up at the post office,” she says, recalling simpler times. When the food arrives, the uncluttered ingredients are boldly flavoured: wild mushrooms with lemon, fried sesame-encrusted feta, barbecued octopus in red wine reduction.
Eventually we head into the soft glow of the whitewashed lanes. With the tourist season over, the hard work is done, and the vibe is almost festive. This is when the locals relax. We join them and make the rounds of several watering holes – Uno Con Carne (translating literally to One With Meat), Catarona (famous for the best balcony table in Little Venice) and Jackie O’s (one word: loud) – before settling in at Lola, a wine bar whose red velvet decor resembles a jewel box. The owner, Dimitri, tells us that many people come to Mykonos to relax and leave exhausted. I nod sleepily.
The next morning my wife and I take a 10-minute ferry ride to neighbouring Delos. Delos doesn’t just have ruins: it is a ruin. At the height of its power, 900 years BC, the small island was home to 30,000 people (compared to Athens’ measly population of 1,000). Deemed to be the very birthplace of Apollo, (the God of basically everything civilised) this ground was so holy that in 5th century BC it was illegal to be born, cause pain or die on the island (though I’m not entirely sure how they prevented the latter). Even the cemeteries were dug up and relocated to Mykonos.
We stroll down the main avenue leading to the Sanctuary of Apollo. A ruined metropolis, Delos has the feel of Washington, D.C. after a catastrophe: wide avenues, pillars, pilasters and stately monuments speak to a city founded on pomp and politics. We climb the trail to examine some of the better-preserved structures. On the way we pass a deep cistern, gouged into the stone to provide water. In the House of the Dolphins, a mosaic depicting gods astride their cetacean steeds is so vibrant it could easily have been created yesterday. Farther up the hill we take a rest at the temple of Isis – goddess of motherhood and fertility – and marvel at what a grand spectacle Delos would have made. Our way back down, we pass by the Sanctuary of Dionysus, which harbours the city’s best-preserved statue – of Dionysus himself.
Flanking the steely-eyed God of wine, mirth and all things decadent are two giant, well … phalluses. We stifle our smirks and head past an avenue of giant stone cats (there’s no escaping them) to the shady glade on the edge of town where Apollo was supposedly born.
Ultimately, the downfall of Delos came from within. The Grecian Empire was a collection of city states, sometimes harmonious, sometimes not. In 88 BC, Mithradates VI from present day Turkey attacked, killing or enslaving the population and ransacking the island. Twenty years later a fearsome pirate called Athenondros plundered Delos. Those who survived, fled. Eventually, the abandoned city of Apollo’s birth was put up for sale by Athens. It attracted no buyers.
Mykonians didn’t escape the occasional ransacking, either. At the first sight of pirates, many coastal villagers fled inland, eventually creating communities of their own. We take the ferry back to Mykonos and drive to one of the only inland towns: Ano Mera. The road is lined with churches, some no bigger than smokehouses – the result of a quirky rule that allows owners to build bigger houses if they also build a church. The red-and-blue domes punctuate the starkly beautiful landscape. Come spring, the stony ground will bloom yellow and blue with wildflowers. In 10 minutes we reach Ano Mera. After the monochromatic landscape, the baroque interior of the Panagia Tourliani monastery is breathtakingly gaudy. We mill around the central square, which is lined with cafés serving rustic iterations of rooster in wine, then head back to town.
We make a short detour to meet up with Jen and her partner Gilles, an artist for whom Mykonos has become an irresistible draw. His large paintings show the simple things of village life—hands, fish, boats—painted with the dirt and earth of the island. Originally from France, with every painting and every additional feline muse, he becomes a little more Mykonian. Already, a dozen cats have infiltrated his studio occupying every chair. Gilles hoists one by the scruff and relocates it to an unused corner of the studio. The cat takes a moment to lick her paws before settling down without fuss, certain that she – or one of her successors – will be here long after our empires are gone.
BREAKOUT
Spring and fall are the best time to go to the Cyclades, when the weather is cooler and the crowds fewer. While Mykonos and Delos are an easy day trip, the infrequent off-season ferry schedule and sizeable distances make overnight stays more convenient.
NAXOS
Fewer tourists and facilities make this island ideal for those seeking a simpler, less touristy vacation. A good supply of fresh water means the relatively lush interior is ideal for a day-trip to picnic under ancient olive groves.
SANTORINI
Rising like a fortress from the water, Santorini is the largest and most spectacular of the Cyclades islands (especially at sunset). The downside to such sweeping majesty is a lack of beaches – and a lot of uphill walking.
PAROS
Mykonos’s bigger brother, Paros has both the cliff-side houses of Santorini and the beaches of Mykonos. While not as charming as Mykonos, it is perfect for travellers with little time.
FOR MORE INFORMATION
visitgreece.gr
akvillas.com
Words and select images by Adam McCulloch. Originally pubished in Westworld Alberta. The format has been altered to suit Tumblr.
