Jonathan Wynne-Jones explores the serene, undiscovered Greek island of
Spetses, where the horse and carriage is a preferred mode of transport.
From the moment I stepped from the catamaran on to the jetty, I could tell
that I was going to like Spetses.
The tiny port of Dapia is overlooked by whitewashed, Neoclassical houses and
fringed by smart cafés and stylish boutiques. This is an island where your
senses immediately come alive: the air, refreshingly warm, carries the smell
of the sea one moment, then freshly baked pastries the next. Locals drink
their espressos and frappés as they play backgammon in the shade and eye the
latest arrivals climbing out of the red-and-white water taxis.
Around the corner from the port, the winding, cobbled coastal road opens into
a wide, expansive piazza that acts as a forecourt for the Poseidonion, a
grand, august hotel styled like a château and modelled on the Carlton in
Cannes and the Negresco in Nice. There is something almost therapeutic about
arriving here after the boat journey, from the cool of the lobby to the airy
rooms, and it feels more like the French Riviera as I open the shutters to
take in a view stretching across the Saronic Gulf to the Peloponnese coast.
The Poseidonion, a grand, august hotel styled like a château (Alamy)
Standing at the end of the square, however, is a statue of Laskarina
Bouboulina, a heroine as Greek as you get, who led the islanders’ assault on
an Ottoman fleet trying to sail through this channel during the Greek war of
Independence of 1821-32. Watching the sun set over mountains in the
distance, it is hard to believe this serene landscape once echoed to the
sound of gunfire, but cannons used in the battle are still dotted along the
promenade, facing out to sea as a reminder of Spetses’s victorious past.
Now, it is the friendly chatter and clatter of glasses from the hotel terrace
that echo across the piazza, where children ride bicycles, weaving around a
line of lamps.
There is something timeless about the square, and indeed the island itself. It
is as close to the idyllic Hellenic picture as you can imagine: fishermen
lay out their catch by the seafront as the locals stroll along the
promenade, past impressive villas, domed churches and traditional tavernas
with tables lining the road. Cars are banned from the town, so instead
people travel in horse-drawn carriages, by bicycle or on mopeds, which
rattle through the backstreets with elderly women often sitting sideways on
the back.
Cars are banned from the town, so people travel in horse-drawn carriages,
by bicycle or on mopeds (Alamy)
The island has an authentic charm, having remained relatively undiscovered by
visitors despite only being a two-hour boat ride from Piraeus. From where I
sit in one of the cafés at the old harbour of Baltiza, most of the voices I
hear are Greek, sounding convivial, then surly, then impassioned, often
within the same sentence. Laughter carries from the back of boats and luxury
yachts docked across from the waterfront bars and restaurants, while a short
walk away old shipyards clang with sawing and hammering.
The island is particularly popular with high-society Athenians, who retreat to
their villas every summer to escape the stifling heat of the city. This is
reflected in the prices of meals and the presence of boutique stores such as
Ralph Lauren, signs of an island cocooned in blissful affluence away from
the economic meltdown on the mainland. Even the stray dogs look healthy and
well fed.
Yet, there is no sense of the wealth being ostentatious as the Spetsiots place
real value in the island’s natural beauty and history: the secluded beaches,
pine-clad hills and ancient churches. While a couple of beaches and pretty
churches are within walking distance of Dapia, it is well worth climbing
into a water taxi or hiring a moped to explore the island properly.
I decide on the latter and head to a rental shop, where I’m served by a man
whose hair is matted with the bike oil that covers his face and hands. His
black socks are pulled up to his knees even though it must be close to 100F
(38C). Having tried two bikes that are faulty, he pats the third
approvingly, though not totally reassuringly, makes a token effort to wipe
his hand on his T-shirt to shake mine, then bids me farewell.
The beach is rustic and simple (Alamy)
Swifts and swallows dart overhead as I wind through narrow, stone-cobbled
alleys, before climbing the hill to the historic village of Kastelli, which
offers a panoramic view over the domes and clay-tiled roofs in the town
below and out to the sea. As the first settlement on Spetses, it has
churches dating back to the Byzantine era that are pristine white and home
to wall paintings and a wood sanctum carved in the most intricate detail
imaginable.
The Venetians named the island Spezia, meaning spice, because of its position
on a major trade route, but it could just as well have been after the
powerful scents of jasmine and pine that hit me as I head for the beach of
Kyslokeriza.
The journey takes around half an hour, past lush gardens shaded by palms and
orange trees that give way to arid land where pines thrive alongside the
coastal road.
Hidden in a cove at the foot of the hills, the small beach feels like a secret
shared only by those fortunate enough to have discovered it. Even when the
few deckchairs are filled, it is so peaceful you can hear the breeze
stirring the branches. Tables are laid out by a makeshift grill, run by a
white-haired Greek who wears a smile as wide as his brimmed hat as he turns
lamb kebabs and jokes with the locals.
The beach is rustic and simple. The deckchairs are uncomfortable and the
pebbles impossible to negotiate without looking decidedly uncool. Yet I’ve
never experienced a more relaxing beach than this: the fantastically private
setting, the coldest beer, the juiciest tomatoes, the rosemary and thyme
drifting from the grill, and the perfectly turquoise sea, of course.
With the sun setting, I head back to the town, passing burning pinewood and
breathing in the air, as strong as incense and smelling of carefree summer
days.
By Jonathan Wynne-Jones
