steppingacrosstheplanet

The Jewel of the Isle

The waters of the Aegean are so blue in early July they seem violet. The cliffs of Santorini, stark and rust red as they rise from the sea, turn almost black in the hot afternoon sun. Standing at the bow of the huge ferry, my eyes are drawn upward and perched on top of the crescent shaped island sit the homes of Santorini, dazzling white and blue. At sunset the sky is mauve and the sun becomes an enlarged orange disc that sinks into a sea now coloured molten lead. At night the white homes transform into a tie dyed dance of pale pink, light olive, buttery yellow, tangerine and lilac.

Early morning, in the breakfast rooms of hotels scattered across the island, green glass top tables are covered in simple white cloths, and beyond beckons a cornucopia of fruit, steaming black coffee and rustic brown bread.

Placed in the middle, swirled high, light as a cloud, whipped as uncooked meringue, cool as Naxian marble, smooth as a pearl, sits a bowl of bright, white Greek yoghurt. The eating of which is truly a journey in an unknown culture.

I dollop out spoonfuls, mesmerised by the thickness of it and watch it clump slowly into my bowl. I sit outside with the sea below and a cloudless sky, the day still cool enough to enjoy breakfast at leisure. I begin to absorb the Greekness of it all. I watch a toy yacht with white sails pulled in tight cut a silent path through the Aegean as the Argo might. Ignoring the cruise ship nestled in the caldera, hiding in full view near the cliff face, I fantasise that Aristaeus is under the hotel setting thick yoghurt in vast earthenware pots. His stirring forms folds in the yoghurt like those in the peplos draped on the Caryatids, sculpted millennia ago. No supermarket Greek style yoghurt has ever tasted this good. There is not a hint of sourness. Suddenly anxious I ask of a passing waiter clad head to toe in sparkling white, “is this cream?” He earnestly assures me it is yoghurt.

Hmmm. I commence early morning jogs down to Fira, passing basket shaped grapevines, uniquely fashioned thus in the porous volcanic soil to capture the night dew, the fruit’s only source of water. Then back up to Imerovigli following the call of the yoghurt.
After one dairy themed breakfast, I hike up a triangular shaped rock with a bulbous top, called Skaros. Once a fortress covered in stately homes and a Venetian castle, all that remains are the ruins of a small church and some castle rubble. My heart is pumping from the steep climb and I am rewarded with views of the cliffs, all purple, brown and misty and of the sea, that morning a sapphire blue.

Later, as I wind my way through narrow alley ways and past magical shopfronts, thick whitewashed walls call to mind the inevitable slab of feta for dinner…