Nick Walton escapes the chaos of the Greek capital, and finds tranquility – and ailurophobia – on Hydra, the Island of the Cats
My wife, Maggie, hates cats. I never knew before – I never thought to ask – but, as we step from an ageing, Thunderbirds-esque hydrofoil onto a pier of battered stones washed smooth by the sea, she declares it with a finality that means I won’t soon forget.
The reason for her ailurophobic statement is that we’ve just arrived at Hydra, a Greek island that’s clearly run by felines. Like some fictitious Disney cityscape, they’re everywhere; brown cats and white cats, cats with spots and streaks and stripes, cats with blue eyes and green, cats that run, and more often than not, don’t. They bask in the sun, and gossip on the port’s ancient fortifications as a fresh breeze whips up a batch of whitecaps across the green-grey sea.
Hydra – pronounced hee-dra – is a welcomed respite from the chaos of Athens. One of the seemingly countless destinations easily accessible from Piraeus, the capital’s bustling port, Hydra is one of the Saronic Islands of the Aegean Sea and is separated from neighbouring Peloponnese by a narrow yet ill-mannered strip of water. Named for the Greek word for water, its natural springs have allowed it, and its population of 2,500, to quietly prosper. The pint-sized isle is an ideal day trip from the city, and boasts a laid back ambiance, well-maintained walking trails and deserted bays of turquoise waters straight out of Mamma Mia.
Within minutes of arriving and sauntering its cobble-stoned main drag, it’s easy to see little has changed on Hydra for hundreds of years, and that’s its blessing. Troops of shy donkeys dressed in brightly coloured tassels, their eyes closed to the sea breeze, remain the island’s main form of transport and the only means by which luggage and supplies are carried up to the tiny B&Bs which ring the port. Far from the stubborn cliché, the animals seem impatient to depart as a new clutch of visitors arrive, as if the eye-lashed beasts of burden can sense change in the wind. Perhaps, like Maggie, they’re nervous about the cats.
The feisty felines try their best to wander into every photograph and cross every path as we trek around the port and up the cliff face towards a sun-kissed coastline of tiny cafes that cling to the rock face and bustle in the summer time. Above, stone windmills stand to attention while below in the port, a fleet of merry coloured fishing boats seek refuge from the autumn wind. Nearby, their owners fix nets by hand and chuff on weathered pipes, the smoke haloing above their heads before being caught by the wind like linen on a washing line. Fishing still competes with tourism as the island’s bread winner, and the two industries jostle for position as the seasons ebb and flow through the Aegean.
In the shoulder season, like today, when most of the tourists are yet to arrive, it’s easier to see Hydra as it has been for centuries. The island’s castles and forts, including the towering, defiant Tsamadou Mansion, now a maritime academy, and the Orthodox monasteries of Profitis Ilias and Ayia Efpraxia, which watch over the port from the clifftops, remain testaments to the island’s past.
One the hillside paths and on the quayside cats chase one another, sniff at the air as we approach and, clearly no stranger to strangers, curl their way between our legs purring, I can only presume, in Greek. Maggie becomes more tolerant as she snaps photos of dazzling blue eyes and glossy coats set against the weathered walls of the narrow cobblestoned alleyways which lead away from the port.
This is where the action is during the summer months. Tourists, day trippers and sailors bound for the island’s famed Kamini Yacht Club sleep at the brightly painted B&Bs after days spent swimming in pristine water and picnicking in deserted coves, and come evening, dine under vine and olive leaf canopies at the tiny restaurants which punctuate the Hydra hinterland. There are no big hotels here, no chain stores, and few better places at which to take a perch in the end-of-day sun, as the shadows grow longer and cats and visitors alike look for shelter.
We find our little corner at the water’s edge, ordering strong coffee and galaktoboureko, custard filo pastry parcels scented with honey, as a long line of racing catamarans file into the refuge of the port. Perhaps it’s the honey in the air, perhaps it’s the challenge accepted, but one plump cat the hue of home-made marmalade hops up onto Maggie’s chair and, with the audacity only a cat can muster, takes a seat in her lap. At first she’s speechless, her arms in the air in the international symbol for “get this thing off me”. But once eyes meet and the purring begins, something takes over, a bond is created, and next thing I know we’re chipping away at our dessert for ‘Ginger’, our temporary pet.
Many other guests become human La-Z-Boys for Hydra’s felines too, as their kin meow and meander between the chair legs below. Ginger looks well fed and well cared for; perhaps he just moonlights as a stray, perhaps the cats of Hydra have adapted to their tiny, rock-encrusted home, and like many of its residents, long for the summer months to return.
As our ferry arrives for the homeward league, Maggie tearfully waves goodbye to Ginger and declares that not only does she love little Hydra, but that she’s always loved cats, and says so with such a smile that I’m not soon to forget.
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