We drink our morning coffee at the “Balcony of Maistro”. That’s what I named this amazing rooftop of our room, on the highest point of the western hill of the settlement of Ai-Giorgis. The weather started to change last night. We listened to the maestro at night in the closed shutters. And today at dawn its cool breezes forced us to throw something over us. August 27, a Sunday. The eve of mass at the cave of St. John the Baptist, here in Irakleia.

We have not even completed 24 hours yet in the small island of Cyclades – the westernmost of the arc of the so-called “Small Cyclades” – and we already feel an immense serenity, unknown in the big famous Cycladic islands. Only a farm truck passed this long under the balcony of our room and continued on a dirt road heading west. Much the same calm prevailed in the harbour of St George yesterday afternoon. Two or three dozen of us all disembarked and about as many more ended their holiday. Almost family situations. August of course has come to an end, but I don’t imagine that two weeks earlier we would have resented any excessive crowding. Besides, the size of the island is prohibitive to the invasion of mass tourism, since the total number of rooms to let is not even 100.

From the very first approach to the port we feel a pleasant familiarity. Apart from the north wind, the long bay is sheltered from all weathers. At the time of our arrival the waters are calm and clear, like a natural pool that ends in a small, beautiful sandy beach. Several Greeks and foreigners alike enjoy the warmth of the sun or the pleasure of the coolness under huge tamarisk trees that cast their shade along the coast. The same privilege can be enjoyed by every visitor, from the first moment they arrive on the island. He simply leaves his luggage on the sand, sheds his excess clothing and dives in. Then, cool and refreshed from the hassle of the journey, he can get on with the process of staying. It is a special, free service to the visitor of Irakleia, a luxury considered rare on other islands.

The friendliness that the port exudes continues inside the settlement. Agios Georgios embraces the beach, built amphitheatrically on two hills facing each other, with a torrent in between, which with the winter rains brings its water down to the coast. The bed of the stream is almost indistinct in the abundance of fig trees, almond trees, pear trees and countless prickly pears. The houses built on the ravine have in their yards pomegranates, lemon trees, magnificent bougainvillea and blooming jasmine trees, which scatter their fragrance in the air. Here is also the church of the patron saint, St. George, built in 1834 and rebuilt in 1998 because its roof was leaking water. A flowering bougainvillea behind the church looks like a natural purple umbrella of unparalleled beauty. This purple colour, which is dominant everywhere, alternates stunningly with the white on the walls and the deep blue on the windows and doors of most houses. Good-natured people, seated in the shady courtyards, enjoy the quiet and the cool breeze that runs through the ravine. We are cheerfully greeted by an elderly couple.

– Don’t you pick the prickly pears? I ask them.

– How much to eat? It’s endless. After all, these are good when they’re a little unkind. When they get too much, they become like mutton.

We walk a few hundred metres along the bed of the stream. We pass in front of the beautiful church of Taxiarchis, built at the end of the 19th century by priest Manolis Simos. The temple’s iconostasis is of particular artistic value. After the church we turn left. School, a wonderful threshing floor, a path and after a few minutes we come out on the main road that leads to the beach of Livadi and the highest points of the settlement. The view of the village and the pelagic horizon is unobstructed and very advantageous. This fully justifies the intense reconstruction with nice houses and small complexes of rented rooms on a large part of the hill’s surface. Nor is little Irakleia able to avoid the challenge of development, with all that this implies for the place, positive or negative.

On the way back we stop at the cool balcony of the tavern “Maistrali” for a coffee with a view of the sea and Naxos. We continue our walk on the gentle hills of the hill opposite the settlement. Narrow road, between small shops and houses. We ask about Fanis Gavalas, the so-called “Agrandis”, the leading beekeeper of the island. We find him in his house, with his wife Fani. They welcome us warmly and offer us coffee.

– Why are you so well known, Fanis? I ask him at some point.

– Do I know? Maybe because I’m a grandfather-to-grandfather honey. I have already completed 42 years of love for bees and hopefully my son Dimitris will continue.

Fanis begins to talk passionately about the very special society of bees, about the amount of honey production, which in a good year can reach or even exceed 15 kilos per hive. Finally, he speaks with pride about the unique quality of the honey of Irakleia.

– Our honey is exclusively and only thyme honey, concludes Fanis. Only once in 42 years do I remember a mixture of other honeys.

– And the nickname “Aggrantis” that the whole world knows you by, how did it come about?

– It’s an inheritance from my grandfather, Fanis. It means, to make a long story short, a man “loose in the wave”, “ungreased” as we call it, that is, a sail that looks like a sail in the wind when the “greaves”, the ties that keep it solidly attached to the mast, are gone.

After the discussions about honey and the clarification of the concept of “Agradis”, Mrs. Fanny brings the rakes with local tomatoes like those of Santorini and excellent hard cheese, also local. Great moments with wonderful people, who just a few hours ago were strangers to us. Before we say goodbye to them, we take with us a few kilos of that exquisite thyme honey of Agranti, which for a long time in Thessaloniki reminds us of Irakleia.

The spicy appetizers and rakes whetted our appetite. From the main road come tickling smells of grilled fish. Immediately we spot the open air area of the tavern “Perigiali”. A very picturesque restaurant, with a very special colour, it is already almost full of Greeks and foreigners. We can barely catch the last slices of tuna, which Agathi is roasting on the coals with great skill.

– You’re lucky you caught the tuna. Mitsos took him out this morning and he’s a big hit.

Night in St. George has long since fallen. Traffic, however, is still brisk. It is hard to deny the allure and charm of such a beautiful evening. After all, August is coming to an end and with it the sweet summer and the magic of the holidays. Before we get depressed, we take the road over the harbour to the “Syrma”. A multi-substantial establishment, it combines the functions of a café, bar, restaurant and tavern at the same time. All in one! The music has a similar diversity. Rock, reggae, rebetiko, folk and light folk. The only ones who are left to complain are the lovers of classical and popular music. At least for the time we stayed we heard neither clarinets nor Bach. The audience is of all kinds, ages, seriousness and styles. The characteristics that bind them together are an affinity for alcohol, extroversion and fun. They are all ‘uninhibited’, all ‘loose in the wave’, even the most serious ones. Some foreign creatures sway with half-closed eyes on improvised dance floors, exclusively for themselves. A very special place, absolutely stress-inducing and authentic!

At a very late hour after midnight we slowly take the ascent to our room at the top of the hill. At the harbour mill there was a calm, but at our little terrace the weather has begun to change, the maestro sends us his first gusts. We put on something warm and stretch out on the armchairs under the clear sky. Until the moment when sleep effortlessly reaches our eyelids…

BEACH “LIVADI” AND SETTLEMENT OF “PANAGIA”

For those who do not have a transportation means or who love walking, Livadi beach is not far away. It’s a healthy morning walk, with the reward of a stunning sandy beach with clear waters. The opening of the bay is no more than 300 metres, and for 60-80 metres from the shore the water is shallow, then gradually deepening. Tamarisk trees grow on the sandy beach and around their trunks there are stone-built benches, seats very practical in the shade, which the Irakleia Community has installed for the convenience of its holidaymakers.

Above Livadi rises a rugged hill, known as “Kastro” (Castle) with a possibly early Cycladic acropolis. The access to the top is not difficult, we discover it at the end of the road that goes up from Livadi. There, at the straightening, we find on the left of the road a marble iconostasis, from where a path starts towards the Castle. We follow it parallel to a dry stone fence and in about 8 minutes we reach the old town.

There are many important remnants of the past of this place: large beautiful stone threshing floors, circular cisterns, ruined houses with very good masonry, due in part to the large carved grey granite spindles, which were obviously removed from the perimeter fortification. In some houses, more luxurious than others, interior arches of fine architecture survive. Some other houses are of poorer construction, since their walls are of clay masonry. Some parts of the ceilings are preserved, consisting of braided ‘fiddles’, cedar branches of great strength. It is not easy to walk around the interior of the settlement. The ground is rough and made even more difficult by the stones from the fallen walls that are strewn everywhere. The only vegetation among them are the ferns, schist and thorns.

The location of the acropolis is strategic and the view of the sea is superb. Around the perimeter of the hill there are remains of a low fortification. The steep slopes, especially on the sea side, must have made any attempt to build the castle particularly difficult. The grey stones flame in the sun. We abandon the silent, ruined township and continue the three or so uphill kilometres to the settlement of Panagia, the old “Pano Horio”.

The semi-mountainous settlement is built on the northeastern foothills of Papa, which, with an altitude of 419 meters, is the mountainous complex that dominates the island. At the almost eastern end of the ridge, the tiny white silhouette of the ex-chapel of Prophetilia can be seen.

A central, wonderfully paved road crosses the village from the southwest to the northeast. The houses are beautifully built, mostly stone houses with traditional architecture. Most are whitewashed but some are also painted pale yellow. On one of the first houses the date 1890 can be seen on the lintel. Many of the presses are made of hardwood cypress, while some are uninhabited and have suffered a lot of wear and tear over time. There are also many stone threshing floors, both inside and outside the village, and rainwater cisterns.

The trees are mainly figs, carob trees and many prickly pears, which seem indifferent to the conditions of the long drought that prevails in Irakleia. There are also some olive trees with tiny fruits. There are two over-aged pine trees that cast a thick shadow underneath. Next to them is a courtyard with a liliputian vineyard. Further down, a house built in 1922. Along the way we come across another white bougainvillea and many purple and red, potted tomato plants and small orchards of red tomatoes of the Santorini variety. The grandest structure, which seems gigantic for the size of the island, is the Church of the Presentation of the Virgin Mary. It was built from 1919 to 1930 next to the smaller church of the same name, which was later dedicated to Agios Nektarios. On the floor of this chapel is an engraved two-headed eagle dated 1889.

At the NE exit of the village is the Medical Clinic of Irakleia, a little further down the chapel of Agia Paraskevi and opposite the chapel of Agios Mamma and the hill with one of the three old windmills of the island. Near the Medical Clinic we discover the oldest, probably, house of the village. Here we are immediately called inside to be treated to a coffee by Stefanos and Anna, people who are cheerful and very kind. Stefanos is from Mani, Anna from Irakleia. The house was built by her grandfather’s grandfather once in the 18th century. The walls are over 60 cm thick and the ceiling is supported by a thick trunk of old-growth wild olive tree. The ceiling has been preserved intact and needs special study. Its main supports are nine parallel thick branches of the cedar fiddlehead, a species of cedar tree that is well known and abundant on the island. Above these are placed many more and thinner branches of the snake, which in turn are covered by a dense lattice of heather. The presence, however, of native materials in the ceiling does not stop here.

– Unseen above the heather is an insulating layer of seaweed, Stefanos tells us. These are covered by a special yellowish soil, about 20 cm thick. It is the outer surface of the roof that is exposed to all weathers. Every year it needs maintenance. We first weed the soil and, before the rains, we form small piles of the same soil in different parts of the roof. The rain water drifts the soil from the piles and closes the small cracks that have been created over the year by drought and heat.

It is amazing to see the use of so many different local materials in successive layers to create the roof. It is the product of many years of experience, perfectly adapted to the climatic conditions and the specificities of the place, which ensures both waterproofing and insulation.

The useful area of the old house does not exceed 30 square meters in total. The kitchen, the living room and the bedroom are housed here. It is both admirable and touching the way the householders of the house have exploited and utilized even the slightest possibility of space in the floor, walls, ceiling, cupboards and countertops. So many miscellaneous items but all put away with functionality and order. An economy of space and a frugality that takes us back to other times, when people’s needs realistically reflected their habits and lifestyles.

– But don’t look at us like that, we have a warehouse and a bigger one than the house, says Stefanos laughing and leads us next to the warehouse.

It’s actually a few feet longer than the house. First of all to accommodate the beehives and then all the incredible variety of objects scattered everywhere: traditional tools, everyday items, old canteens, spades, pitchers, petrol cans, modern carpentry and ironmongery tools, finished and unfinished beehives. A place where Stephen has gathered everything necessary for the beehives and the various constructions and repairs. I see a sign left on a spot on the floor: “Thyme honey for sale”.

– Why do you have it lying in the shed and not fixed in a prominent place on the road? I ask our friend.

– What for? he replies. I never needed it. Anyway, honey is sold as soon as it comes out, no advertising is necessary.

We eat from the exquisite thyme honey. Before we say goodbye to them, Stefanos Kalapotharakos and Anna give us a big jar.

– To have sweet memories of our place.

We observe the many threshing floors, inside and outside the village. In the past, wheat, barley, fava beans, lentils, chickpeas and beans, as well as vetch used as fodder, were threshed there. Each family had its own threshing floor, almost all of them facing north, since in summer the winds generally blow from the north.

Apart from the various crops, there was once a significant livestock industry on the island. Today there are no more than 2000 sheep and goats left. Some goats, which for various reasons have been turned out of their herds, have in time become wild goats.

A few dozen metres further on, a large complex of stables dominates the view. Here the whole rural architectural tradition of the place is realistically depicted: solid, thick walls, ceilings made of slats, unchanged by time. A few olive trees with thick, round olives grow here, so different from the humble olive trees we are used to seeing on the island. Above the stalls we can see small bundles of sesame trees, drying in the sun with their branches standing upright. The stones flame under the hot rays, we search for a fig tree. As we pass by a traditional wood-fired oven, we meet Nikitas. He is sitting in the coolness of the interior, whose walls are blackened by years of soot. Here he tends to his sesame seeds, taking the branches one by one and patiently removing the leaves from them, so that they won’t rot when the sesame is tied into a bundle.

– Fortunately it doesn’t need watering, it’s hardy, says Nikitas.

Inside their pods we notice the tiny sesame seeds. When dry, they shake and gather, countless grains like coarse sand. From an acre of land, rarely more than 10 kilograms are gathered.

– And how much per kilo is sold? I ask Nikitas.

– Hardly 10 euros.

We say goodbye to Nikitas and at the end of the village we see the oldest snake we have ever seen on the island. Its trunk is fat but it has ceased to be erect, not from old age but because of the north wind, to which it has been subjected since the early years of its life.

IN THE CAVE OF ST. JOHN

At 6 o’clock in the morning, the night has not put aside its last hesitations. It still resists the coming of the day, which, at the end of August anyway, has become much shorter. At this hour, when very few people are still awake on the island, a strong coffee steams in our terrace. It is necessary to chase away our sleepiness, to prepare us for the march to the cave of St. John.

We arrive early at the settlement of Panagia, the village still seems deserted. But it is not. When the bell of the church of Panagia rings at 7:10 am, at least 10 faithful pilgrims, among them young people, start with the icon of St. John from the centre of the village. Dawn breaks on August 28, the eve of the feast of St. John the Baptist, an important day for the island of Irakleia.

We cross the village in a westerly direction, initially on a rough path and then on a cobbled road. Shortly afterwards, the ascent begins on a steep, rocky hillside. The youngsters in the procession, light-footed, climb like goats. In less than a quarter of an hour we reach the neck, panting, at an altitude of about 200 meters. Opposite us rises the stern peak of Papa, while very close to us, to the southwest, the outline of Ios rises from the sea. Although it is still early, the climb and the apnea fill us with sweat. At the nape of the neck, however, the sea’s maestro finds us. The sweat dries up and the descent begins, everything now seems easier. The path, however, is not particularly friendly. It is strewn with stones and in many places it becomes steep and quite slippery.

For 25 minutes we descend continuously, with the speed and comfort that the descent gives. But we can already predict how different the afternoon return will be.

The rocky bay of Voulkaria can be seen low down. In the waves of the mainsail, successive waves break with momentum on the rocks of the coast. Signs mark our course to the cave.

– Here we are, says the head of the company.

And while we are wondering where the cave is, suddenly the path bends and a small ravine is revealed in front of us, descending from the Pope. Lichens and slates, thorny bushes and rugged limestone blocks cover the steep slopes. In a rudimentary clearing of this wilderness we see a large cave opening and believe for a moment that this is the cave of St. John.

– No, we are told, this is the cave of Cyclops Polyphemus, whom Odysseus blinded. And the two small islands, Little and Big Abelas on the edge of Irakleia, are but the two large rocks thrown by the Cyclops in his attempt to sink Odysseus’ ship. The cave of St John is the one opposite.

At first glance, all we see is a narrow opening at the base of a limestone block that looks like a fissure. Around it the stones are whitewashed and in front, like a guardian of the entrance, stands a century-old snake, planted in the rock. From one of its branches hangs a small and heavy bronze bell dated 1978. A pilgrim rings the bell, announcing our arrival. The sound sounds strange in this wilderness, as if coming from an invisible chapel. And it is indeed the unseen chapel of St. John, hidden in the depths of the cave. To discover it, we crawl for about 20 feet down the low and narrow passage of the cave, on old blankets and rugs. Inside this dark tunnel, which seems to squeeze the body from all sides, any claustrophobic person would feel great panic.

At last, the penetration into the darkness comes to an end. Feeling the cave walls with precautions we raise our bodies. For a few seconds we see nothing but the vague silhouettes of a few pilgrims coming and going, lighting candles, one after the other, sometimes in candelabras and sometimes sticking them to the cave walls. Each candle lit reveals a hidden aspect of the mysterious world of the cave, a stalactite, a curtain in the walls, a narrow passage in the rough floor, a hollow, a dark crevice. Every minute the room grows larger, revealing its vast dimensions. We try to determine the length, width and height in the pale light of the dozens of scattered candles. We think, how the length should be close to 50, the width about 20, while the maximum height should be between 8-10 meters. So it does not seem so exaggerated an estimate, which had impressed us about the capacity of the cave. And after all, our calculations are not far from those of the caveologist-photographer George Avagianos, who explored the cave and determined the length at 40, the width at 20 and the height at 10 meters. The same researcher, describing the next room, gives it equally impressive dimensions: 30 metres long, 20-25 metres wide and 5-10 metres high. Of course, we are not able to explore the many and multi-dimensional additional chambers of the cave, nor is it our role to do so. However, at this first visual – and dimly lit – contact, we can see the great alterations to the lithic decoration, both from the lighting of candles and from the long-standing looting of thousands of visitors.

We emerge again into the sunlight, harsh and blinding in the August morning. New pilgrims keep arriving, some brisk as if they hadn’t walked at all and others panting and sweating. Everyone’s first move is to bring their water bottle to the height of their mouths and then immediately look for some shade. But the shadows from the low snags and grates are hard to find and weak, the ground beneath them uneven and rocky. Nearly all are necessarily crowded into Cyclops’ Cave, our own shelter.

The cave has a unique room with a depth and width of more than 20 meters. Unfortunately, the floor is covered with the dung of sheep and goats, so the capacity of the cave is not fully exploited by the pilgrims. Its lithic decoration is almost non-existent, consisting mainly of a few stalactites near the entrance. A large column is also formed there. The ceiling of the room is sloping and smooth, the stalactites are absent. The colour of the limestone blocks surrounding the cave is reddish-brown, in contrast to the white-grey rocks of St. John’s Cave.

The waiting time until vespers is excruciatingly slow in conditions of apnea, heat and inactivity. It is only 10 in the morning and another 6 full hours pass.

– Was it a mistake to come at dawn to this wild place? I say to Anna.

She looks at me sternly.

– Do not forget that this is exactly what we promised ourselves, to participate in the accompaniment of the icon. And besides, at this hour of the morning we were spared the heat of the march here.

However, this gain proved to be temporary. Accustomed for so many years to being active, we are looking for ways to make the most of our time.

– And why don’t we take a tour of the place? Come and let me show you my ancestral lands, says Nikos Kanakis.

It is too late to refuse, and even to an older man who is willing to let go of his shot. So we give up idleness and shade and go back out into the sun. We set off up the opposite uphill ridge in a general westerly direction. The trail is rudimentary, marked with small, successive stone walls. A little later we see traces of an old emery mine, one of the many that once existed on the island. I bend down and pick up a triangular jet-black piece, too heavy for its dimensions. In 20 minutes at a leisurely pace we skew SW and reach a neck, wide open to the cool breezes of the mainsail. We face the islets of Little and Big Avela – the two stones of Cyclops, according to tradition – and, a little further back, the massive mainland of Ios.

The descent begins by heading south, to a giddletrack with no signs. In the passage of our steps, tuft after tuft of thyme trees are scented. Some are still in bloom. Fences of dry stone of several hundred or even thousands of feet mark the boundaries of vast tracts of privately owned land. Now and then a ruined farmhouse can be seen.

– Once this barren place had life, says Nikos with bitterness. There was a lot of livestock farming and wheat, beans, sesame and dry watermelons were grown. We stayed up here for many days and walked back and forth to the village. We suffered but we didn’t care, we lived with privations but our demands were few. Everywhere around here there were people, the place was alive. Do you see anyone in this wilderness today?

We pass in front of ruins with dry stone. A cistern, a threshing floor, unused for years. We are at the southwesternmost point of the island. At the end of the coastline, the sharp cliffs of Mericha rise up. We walk a few metres to the edge of the cliff. One kilometre to the east, the sandy beach of Karvounolakkos appears low, a unique tame parenthesis on the inhospitable coast. In the distance, behind Ios, Santorini stands out, while Anafi is lost in the sea. But the uninhabited Anidros is clearly visible. From the east, a kayak appears. It sails in the wind, carrying believers. Sometimes their bow is covered by the wave.

We’re passing in front of Nikos’ den. The stone cistern and the threshing floor are in a very good condition. In front of us is a hillock with dry stone walls. In 5 minutes we are at the top of it. Here the maestro hits us in the face. In the hot midday it looks like a cool rush of dew. We sit on the rocks and gaze down at the beautiful sandy bay of Alimia. Off in the distance are our two familiar uninhabited small islands, “the Avela brothers”. The sight is enchanting. Here are five and six wild goats. As soon as they sense our presence, they disappear down the cliff. We could stay here until sunset, but I doubt we’d get enough of the sight.

– Forgive me, says Nikos. I’m going to stay a little longer on the land, to take a nap.

It heads towards a large jet, round like an umbrella, casting a lovely shadow on the ground. It settles underneath in an instant, with the confidence and experience of a man who has repeated it many times in his life. We beatify him as he is lying calmly on the ground. His eyes are already closed, his last words may or may not have been heard.

On the trail again, with a gentle uphill and hot. In 40 minutes we reach the top of St John’s trench. But what a sight this is! We suddenly think we’re in another place. Every tree, every fiddlehead, every bush that casts a shadow has a man under it, sitting or lying down, depending on the ground. Men, women, children, old people, locals, visitors, among them many foreigners. How many can there be? 200; 300; More? Impossible to count. The number is constantly changing, new ones arrive every few minutes. All looking for a shadow. We’re with them. In the Cyclops’ cave, no one can even stand. Where is the peace of the morning? The peace of 10 people? The luxury of sitting wherever we wanted? This development had not occurred to us.

Eventually we find a snake in a rough spot that everyone avoids. It’s not very shady, but the maestro coming up from the sea finds it. We make ourselves comfortable as it were, summon all our reserves of patience and stoicism and begin to watch the bustling crowd and the new arrivals passing by. At a quarter to two sharp, the priest appears, followed by a dozen of the faithful. It is a feat for this man to be exposed at this hour with his all-black robes in the sun.

The arrival of the priest marks a change in the landscape of the ravine. One by one the worshippers leave their shadows and head for the entrance to the cave. There, the crowd is overwhelming. The narrow tunnel can hold only one, and not all of them have the flexibility, speed and slender body of the young men. So we wait in line patiently. Eventually we find ourselves back in the depths of the cave. The half-darkness, the peace and mysticism of the morning are gone. The vast hall looms luminous, warm and humid with the breaths and flames of hundreds of people and candles. Small and large candles are fixed to every little outcropping of the floor or walls, even in inaccessible places several feet off the ground. Countless people move among them like shadows. Flickering in their wake are the flames of candles. Everyone tries to occupy a position with a good view of the St. John’s shrine, the priest and the chanters. It is, however, not so easy. The floor of the cave is uneven with large, sharp or slippery stones. There are unseen, dangerous crevices, with non-existent lighting. Already some people have slipped and fallen, fortunately without serious injuries.

At 3:25 the priest begins the liturgy. The noise of the people subsides, a universal devotion pervades this strange, unprecedented congregation in the depths of the cave. These are unique moments, unlike and unlike any previous experience, in any sacred space of the Orthodox Church. However, as the minutes tick by, the atmosphere of the cave becomes more charged, eyes sting and tears well up. It is an inevitable development after the breathing of so many people and the fumes of so many candles, in a closed space with zero ventilation.

A few minutes before the end of vespers we rush into the tunnel with a few, like us, foresighted people. At the exit of the cave the shock of the difference in temperature and light is powerful, but more important is the pure oxygen that fills our lungs.

One by one the faithful come out of the cave, open their arms, all brothers and sisters, exchange wishes, many housewives open their bags and treat people to pies and sweets, some of them give out cool water in plastic cups that become a hit. Father Damianos appears. Along with his greetings, he distributes rakomelo Amorgiano to those who can bear it.

– In this heat, Father, is the rakomelo okay? I said.

– It’s good, it’ll give us strength to get up on the saddle.

He meant, of course, the neck, which seems so far away on the way back. It’s an endless climb, a real ordeal after the total suffering of the day. The last reserves of water have long since been exhausted and the sweating from the terrible heat is unrelenting. We finally reach the settlement of Panagia. It looks like an oasis after crossing a desert. The first person we meet is a sweet little lady, sitting in the shade outside her house. She watches us stumble along, flushed and laden with backpacks and camera equipment.

– Are you coming from St. John? he asks us.

We both nod our heads in affirmation.

– His grace be upon you. Let me give you some cold water.

The first glass goes down in one go, the second one slowly, enjoyably. We fill it up with thanks and move on to our friends, Stefanos and Anna. On their shady balcony we are greeted with coffee, cold prickly pears and plenty of mountain water from the courtyard of the Virgin Mary. A cool breeze completes our happiness, far away we gaze at the sea.

It is not easy to explore the island from end to end in a few days. But we would not miss a visit to the half-ruined settlement of Agios Athanasios. With the Community car we turn right after Livadi on a rough dirt road. A little later, as an extension of the hard ground, the first stone-built houses of the village can be seen. Only one is inhabited. All the others stand silently, some closed and others ruined. We are entering the interior of an island. Thick walls, with arches on the doors, old furniture and utensils, the old big fireplace in the corner. Here’s a 25-year-old newspaper. Absolute silence. All around, little fields with terraces, threshing floors, dry stone walls. Wild land, uncultivated for years. From the altitude of about 200 meters, a spectacular view of Naxos, Amorgos and all the small neighbouring islands. A beautiful place but deserted. Maybe one day life will come back.

We return from a rural dirt road, straight to Agios Georgios. It is a long-stretched plain, the most important flat area of Irakleia with cereal crops and the largest number of olive trees on the island.

AN INTRODUCTION TO THE EAST AND SOUTH COASTS

– Tomorrow I don’t have much time but I’ll take you for a walk, says Captain Dimitris Roussos in the evening. Just make sure you’re in port at 8 o’clock sharp.

We’ve been on the waterfront since seven o’clock, almost alone. No activity disturbs the calm of the harbour, but shortly after half past seven, however, cars and people with luggage start arriving from various parts of the settlement. They gather on the quay and wait. Not for long. A few minutes before 8 o’clock the mouth of the small harbour of Irakleia disappears in the presence of a floating mass. It is the BLUE STAR FERRIES ferry boat, whose size, compared to the harbour, seems enormous. A lot of people are leaving. A lot less comes in. August is coming to an end, the holidays are winding down.

At exactly 8 o’clock we jump on the boat of Mitsos Roussos, a 15m fishing boat, made in the Argolida Valley. We leave the harbour heading south. We first pass by the wonderful bay of Livadi and the desert island of Venetiko. Above Livadi, the hill with ruined houses and the castle stands out characteristically. After the sweet sandy beach of Livadi, a rocky, inhospitable coastline with tiny bays, rocky soil and poor vegetation begins. Long dry stones run from the highlands to the sea. They look like fortifications that mark out the land’s ownership.

We pass by the cove “Wild Bee” and then by the cove “Turkopipigado”. Here they come and swim with boats or go down by a path from the settlement of Panagia. We can see the “Kavos of Giorgakis”, with white-red rocks. Behind it is the cove “Valla” and immediately afterwards the impressive rocks of “Merichas” begin. It is a vertical wall of solid reddish rocks, at least 150 metres high above the sea. A formidable cutting of ground, accessible only to vultures and pigeons. The amazing thing is that this vertical rocky surface is covered with hundreds of hardy caper plants that look like climbers clinging to a crag. Gradually the wildness of Mericha subsides, ending in tiny pebbly beaches, only a few metres wide.

– Near one of them fresh water gushes out, says the captain.

The landscapes and place names follow one another; first “Marousos o Kavos” with spectacular, rocky formations, then “Fokospilia”, where many seals find shelter. Then the “Red Dome”, the “Black Dome”, the well-known “Carbon Dome” and the beautiful “Alimia”. From the west the mainsail grows wild, the serenity of sailing and calm observation is lost. It is better to return by the same route. We’ll perhaps get to know the NW coastline another time.

– Captain, you are a man of few words, I said to Mitso Rousso at one point.

– Yeah, I don’t like to say too much.

Born in Amorgos, he took a wife from Irakleia, the lady Agathi who runs the tavern “Perigiali”. He has been fighting with the sea since 1961, since he was a child.

– And this boat, since when have you had it? I ask him.

– Since 1984. Besides fishing he has experienced a lot. Transporting goods from Naxos, transporting people to neighbouring islands. In cases of emergency he also did the ambulance.

– And the fishing, how’s it going?

– Every year it gets worse and worse. It’s not just the windsurfers, it’s the seals. But the dolphins have multiplied greatly since their enemies, the swordfish, have dwindled. Unfortunately for the fisherman, the state does not provide for the farmer’s compensation, says the captain, and with these words he stops talking and devotes himself to the wheel.

In Agios Georgios, the newcomer tourists enjoy the sea and the beautiful sandy beach. These are the last carefree images in the port of Irakleia. In a short time the fishermen with their boats and the anticipation of the locals for the next summer will remain.