Just because it's better to travel than to arrive doesn't mean it's not nice to arrive in the end... OR Alonissos Travelogue Part 3

Leaving Agios Konstantinos, on the ferry to Alonissos.

I can remember a time, not so long ago, when a journey by ferry was an absolute joy. Not only were you outside, under the sun, up on deck with a 360 degree panorama of the Aegean and it's scattered islands, you could also enjoy that singular atmosphere of camaraderie which comes from being 'all in the same boat'.

These days, however, I more often than not view ferry journeys as a necessary inconvenience. After all, the Aegean has long been the place where older vessels, no longer fit to serve in the North or Baltic Seas, go to cruise the more placid waters of the Mediterranean. By the time they find their way here, consequently, they have seen better days. Not to put too fine a point on it, many of the passenger ferries that link the lesser isles are great, loud lumbering beasts whose rusting funnels belch out a steady stream of acrid fumes that I can never seem to evade no matter where I sit.

However, such aging vessels do have one saving grace: their names. Unlike the modern and sleek "Flying Kat 2", no one who has ever travelled on Dimitroula, Romilda, or Rodanthi can fail to feel at least a little tenderness for their dear rusting hulks.

So passed my journey to Alonissos. Deprived of the most effective means of passing time (I had given up smoking some 4 months previously) I could only attempt to eat up the hours by snoozing in those areas of the ship less plagued by fumes, and fiddling with my ipod... Oh, and scanning the passing islands with my binoculars.

To wit, I must mention the astonishing verdure of Evia's northern coast seen here from the ferry a hour or so after leaving Agios Konstantinos:

The thickly forested northern coast of Evia.

Unused as I was to seeing such greenery on the islands, this really impressed me. Later, on Alonissos, whilst discussing this impression with Greeks and other travellers, I was to find out that northern Evia is renowned for the beauty of its forests as well as its trekking opportunities. Indeed, so intrigued was I by this discovery that we made a snap visit to the island 5 weeks later on my last day in Greece where what I saw was enough to convince me that a walking holiday on Evia may well be on the cards for next year.

(While the fires which blighted Greece in the summer of 2007 did affect considerable regions on Evia, fortunately, they did no significant damage to the forests of north).

All this, however, was an afterthought. At the time, I was as yet unsure how to react to this verdant landscape. Yes, it was impressively green... but wait a minute... that's not any Greece I recognise!

For so long I had associated holidays in the islands with the parched lunar-like landscapes of the southern islands. Whilst they do not exactly conform to the accepted idea of a desert island paradise (not only do they have no palm trees, they more often than not have no trees... period), they do have a stark beauty which exerts itself ever more strongly with each subsequent visit. Quite simply, I was used to associating the pleasures of a holiday in the Aegean with a certain kind of landscape... and it didn't matter how impressive these views were, I felt a little... displaced.

A couple of packets of chewing gum and a paximadhi or two later, I woke up from a fitful snooze to admire the impressively rugged coastline and peaks of Skopelos from close up as the ferry prepared to make the final turn toward nearby Alonissos. Here at least was a feint echo of something that I was used to... exposed limestone rock cliffs interspersed with scree and boulder strewn stretches.

Rock slide on Skopelos as seen from ferry.

The ferry turned... and at last Alonissos swung into sight. Green. Out came the binoculars once more.

I knew roughly what I was looking at from the maps that I had studied and was able to make out the village atop a ridge above the south coast and the scattered southern beaches below. As the ferry drew nearer, I tried to find the campsite, which I knew was somewhere on the south east coast. But it was no use: the tree cover was just too thick.

And then there was no more time to contemplate Alonissos from afar. Despite the captain's thick Greek accent, the wind, and the dodgy tannoy, there could be no mistaking the message: "Would all passengers whose destination is Alonissos kindly make their way to the exits."

Down in the belly of the ship, the doors opened slowly to reveal... the open sea: we were still turning, eventually to back up against the port. As is always the case, the wind had died down now that we were next to land and the temperature had risen noticeably. It had been cool in the morning at Agios Konstantinos and now that it was mid-afternoon, the familiar relentless heat of the Greek summer greeted me like an old friend.

Soon the door was fully open and I could see what I could hitherto only expect.

It was nice... very, very nice.

Disembarking from the ferry, I finally stepped out onto the port. There was the usual hustle and bustle as rooms were touted and passengers vied with vehicles for a way off and on to the ship simultaneously, but Patitiri does indeed please at first sight. Enclosed by steep, markedly striated yellow limestone cliffs on two sides, the town winds around the calm bay. Whilst not the quietest or smallest of places (and let's not forget that I am used to THE quietest and smallest of places!) it was in ample possession of that most important of qualities: atmosphere. The guide books had indeed got it very, very wrong. It was high summer on the islands and what presented itself was a lively and thoroughly charming little port side town, the kind of place where one could sit quietly and comfortably in a harbour-side cafe and pass a good hour or so just soaking it all up.

I didn't have time more to form a fuller impression; the campsite jeep was about to leave. So off we rattled past the brightly painted fishing boats tied up under the cliff, past the central harbour-side cafes, through the winding whitewashed alleys draped with shocking violet bougeanvillea, up onto the narrow winding road flanked by thick scented pines... and all the while a million hot cicadas crackling away.