The third barren knuckle of land peaking out of the Aegean that we visited was Amorgos, the island we would come to know through the malapropism “and more goats” due to the innumerable number of the horny creatures on the island. Antonio would later say Amorgos was his favorite of all the islands we visited, although I doubt it had anything to do with the cute quadrupeds (not related to below picture, as we are bipeds).
Of Amorgos – and all these islands, really – we knew a fair amount. Jay and Linda had visited these islands on the exact same cruise just six weeks’ prior, so we had the inside scoop on what to see and do (and what to avoid) while there. Try the local white wine, they said. But stay away from the red. Eat the meatballs and the Greek salads, they urged. And get yourself a rental car.
So, without ado, we rushed off the boat, rented a car, and were on the road to unknown adventures like drinking white wine and eating Greek salads.
We followed the one and only road out of town and went up, up, up – past the main town (called Hora, yet again) and along a thin mountain pass that skirted the outsides of the tallest peaks, offering breathtaking views of the limpid, sparkling sea below. Along this dramatic, cliff-side drive we couldn’t help but pull over several times to snap photos of the small islands and beaches, some of which completely deserted (except for one with a completely naked man that Kathryn complained about not being able to see very well…you didn’t miss much, Kathryn). We also couldn’t help but point out to each other the untold number of goats along the side of the road. Standing, eating, sitting, sleeping, these goats were everywhere. And apparently they were too busy relishing the warmth of the hot sun to be bothered by the often careless cars zooming past. Here’s me playing with recycled goat food.
(Random thought: Does anyone else put a “P” in the word “warmth” when they say it? Warmpth? Is it just me?)
Our first stop was the wee little Lagada, a sleepy village in the north where everything seemed closed for the early afternoon siesta. It was about 1:00 p.m., but it seemed like everyone was still asleep, which could very well be considering the warm weather culture we even found ourselves succumbing to, which involved going to sleep at 2:30 or 3 a.m. and only begrudgingly waking at 11 a.m.
But, despite the paucity of life – or perhaps because of it – we thoroughly enjoyed walking through the town. It was quiet. And the steep and narrow pedestrian-only footpaths would wind only inches past empty, sunny patios where we could see clotheslines filled with linens still damp from the wash. Other than perhaps four other camera-laden tourists, there was hardly a soul to be found. It was very nice. We had the whole town to ourselves.
But it was hot. So we got back in our air-conditioned car and drove south, to the other end of the S-shaped island, to another lifeless village called Vroutsi. Here we had lunch at what appeared to be the only eatery in town, a small, family-run taverna with no menus. Just a young waitress (perhaps 12), good local cheese, and pork that fell off the bone.
From there we swung by a large and interesting looking monastery called Hozoviotissa, built into a cliff over 700 years ago by some monks with way too much time on their hands.
Because it was closed, a long way up a steep path, and we had more island to see, we only walked halfway up before deciding to leave to head to the nearby Mourou Beach.
With pebbles instead of sand and sunshine-blocking cliffs instead of direct sun, we didn’t enjoy it that much. Sure it had clean waters, scenic rock formations, and decent snorkeling, but we only stayed for about an hour before calling it quits.
Enough time, though, for me to make a replica of a Greek island. It was complete with a whitewashed Hora atop a lonely hill and lots of white-haired, weather-worn, thick-fingered, Greek fisherman. At least in my head it was. God I loved watching those old Greek guys every time we’d enter a bar or taverna in a port town. They’d sit in packs of three or four, no doubt at the same tables their fathers and grandfathers sat at, dressed in blue workmen shirts and the ubiquitous blue nautical hat. The thing that impressed me the most was that, to join the pack, you had to have white, facial hair of some degree (stubble wouldn’t suffice), you had to smoke like a chimney, and your glowing, weather-worn, cinnamon-colored skin had to bespeak a hard life on the water. God I loved these guys.
OK, back to the trip: After the beach, it was still early enough to continue touring the island, so we went to the southernmost tip, to a beach called Paradisia, made famous by some movie called “The Big Blue,” (which none of us had ever heard of), where we had a good time skipping stones and finding little watery caves to hid in. Again, we only stayed for about an hour before we’d had enough of the beautiful scenery and the stone-skipping.
Our next stop was the main town, the Hora, where we had coffees served by a women with what Kathryn dubbed a thyroid problem (buggy eyes), and walked up to one of the three churches that dotted the top of the island. Although we missed the sun set, the peak still offered great views of the bright port, lit up like a croissant on fire.
Finally, we returned the rental car and ate dinner at the Corner Taverna, a touristy restaurant in the port that Jay and Linda visited and recommended to us. Again, like almost every other dinner on the trip, a variety of garlic-flavored delights danced on our palates and made us all vampire-proof for the night. Not a bad day.
Of Amorgos – and all these islands, really – we knew a fair amount. Jay and Linda had visited these islands on the exact same cruise just six weeks’ prior, so we had the inside scoop on what to see and do (and what to avoid) while there. Try the local white wine, they said. But stay away from the red. Eat the meatballs and the Greek salads, they urged. And get yourself a rental car.So, without ado, we rushed off the boat, rented a car, and were on the road to unknown adventures like drinking white wine and eating Greek salads.
We followed the one and only road out of town and went up, up, up – past the main town (called Hora, yet again) and along a thin mountain pass that skirted the outsides of the tallest peaks, offering breathtaking views of the limpid, sparkling sea below. Along this dramatic, cliff-side drive we couldn’t help but pull over several times to snap photos of the small islands and beaches, some of which completely deserted (except for one with a completely naked man that Kathryn complained about not being able to see very well…you didn’t miss much, Kathryn). We also couldn’t help but point out to each other the untold number of goats along the side of the road. Standing, eating, sitting, sleeping, these goats were everywhere. And apparently they were too busy relishing the warmth of the hot sun to be bothered by the often careless cars zooming past. Here’s me playing with recycled goat food.
(Random thought: Does anyone else put a “P” in the word “warmth” when they say it? Warmpth? Is it just me?)Our first stop was the wee little Lagada, a sleepy village in the north where everything seemed closed for the early afternoon siesta. It was about 1:00 p.m., but it seemed like everyone was still asleep, which could very well be considering the warm weather culture we even found ourselves succumbing to, which involved going to sleep at 2:30 or 3 a.m. and only begrudgingly waking at 11 a.m.
But, despite the paucity of life – or perhaps because of it – we thoroughly enjoyed walking through the town. It was quiet. And the steep and narrow pedestrian-only footpaths would wind only inches past empty, sunny patios where we could see clotheslines filled with linens still damp from the wash. Other than perhaps four other camera-laden tourists, there was hardly a soul to be found. It was very nice. We had the whole town to ourselves.But it was hot. So we got back in our air-conditioned car and drove south, to the other end of the S-shaped island, to another lifeless village called Vroutsi. Here we had lunch at what appeared to be the only eatery in town, a small, family-run taverna with no menus. Just a young waitress (perhaps 12), good local cheese, and pork that fell off the bone.From there we swung by a large and interesting looking monastery called Hozoviotissa, built into a cliff over 700 years ago by some monks with way too much time on their hands.
Because it was closed, a long way up a steep path, and we had more island to see, we only walked halfway up before deciding to leave to head to the nearby Mourou Beach.With pebbles instead of sand and sunshine-blocking cliffs instead of direct sun, we didn’t enjoy it that much. Sure it had clean waters, scenic rock formations, and decent snorkeling, but we only stayed for about an hour before calling it quits.Enough time, though, for me to make a replica of a Greek island. It was complete with a whitewashed Hora atop a lonely hill and lots of white-haired, weather-worn, thick-fingered, Greek fisherman. At least in my head it was. God I loved watching those old Greek guys every time we’d enter a bar or taverna in a port town. They’d sit in packs of three or four, no doubt at the same tables their fathers and grandfathers sat at, dressed in blue workmen shirts and the ubiquitous blue nautical hat. The thing that impressed me the most was that, to join the pack, you had to have white, facial hair of some degree (stubble wouldn’t suffice), you had to smoke like a chimney, and your glowing, weather-worn, cinnamon-colored skin had to bespeak a hard life on the water. God I loved these guys.
OK, back to the trip: After the beach, it was still early enough to continue touring the island, so we went to the southernmost tip, to a beach called Paradisia, made famous by some movie called “The Big Blue,” (which none of us had ever heard of), where we had a good time skipping stones and finding little watery caves to hid in. Again, we only stayed for about an hour before we’d had enough of the beautiful scenery and the stone-skipping.
Our next stop was the main town, the Hora, where we had coffees served by a women with what Kathryn dubbed a thyroid problem (buggy eyes), and walked up to one of the three churches that dotted the top of the island. Although we missed the sun set, the peak still offered great views of the bright port, lit up like a croissant on fire.Finally, we returned the rental car and ate dinner at the Corner Taverna, a touristy restaurant in the port that Jay and Linda visited and recommended to us. Again, like almost every other dinner on the trip, a variety of garlic-flavored delights danced on our palates and made us all vampire-proof for the night. Not a bad day.
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