Skiathos

It has been a long time since I snapped these photographs of Skiathos Island, though it seems like yesterday I strolled its streets and bathed in its waters. It has been some time, but the memories have stayed with me for years, and like every island of Greece I have ever visited, Skiathos shared with me its own unique qualities that were full of serenity, blue skies, pine cones, salt, and wine.

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Skiathos has left a sweet aftertaste in my mouth and unlike other lands, as soon as I set my feet upon its soil; it welcomed me as if I had always belonged there -- as if somehow it was home. Everything about the island during my week long stay emanated a warm feeling that made everything within its horizon feel comfortable and eternal. Skiathos did not seem to see its visitors as tourists but rather as long lost acquaintances who had returned from a long journey afar and it greeted everyone with a dignity that bore no dependence. It let not the noise of the visitors disturb its night-- though it was loud; and it allowed no mind to wander on matters of consequence -- thought it was not difficult.

I rented a motorcycle and set out to discover the whole island for it is small, and through my ride every new view seemed strangely familiar as it unveiled itself behind the road bends, and yet the landscape rejuvenated itself and showed its face as new again if I happened to return the days afterwards. Never were my senses allowed to be bored or to overexcite. How could an island feel so personal? How could an island be so comfortable with its own self that it seemed not to even try? And how could an island display such humility despite its beauty? I ponder these questions through the distance that time has put between me and its lush green hills, its warm town and people, and its countless grains of sand that sway endlessly with the surf's desire.

What was it that made this island so special?
It was probably the breeze that sailed like no other breeze, or the ocean salt that was sweeter. Or maybe it was just the purity of the white walls next to the deep blue. Or was it the chill of the white wine consumed under the fertile vine ceiling that let no August moonlight penetrate? Whatever it was Skiathos seemed to handle its vanity with such dignity that leaving it felt like the departure from the comfort of a home.

 

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