Fraser finished by saying that we might stay in Abelaki Bay for Greek Easter, and we almost did, but then we realised we’d been here for almost a full week, and we’re supposed to be cruising. On Easter Sunday morning, 5th May, we got ready to undo our lines ashore. This involved Fraser taking the inflatable dinghy over to the (spiky) rocks, untying the millions of extra safety lines he’d set up for the high winds (which never really materialised), and then having a fun ride as I reeled him in on the end of one of the lines!
The restaurant, Minas, has made us so very welcome while we’ve been in Abelaki Bay. We felt a little guilty, slipping away on Easter Sunday, but figured they’d enjoy sharing it with close family without strangers. It turns out we were wrong, of which more later.
After Abelaki Bay, we headed south between Meganisi and Levkas islands to the little village of Sivota. This is where we first sailed in the Mediterranean. In fact, it’s the first time Fraser and I ever sailed together, on a Sunsail flotilla which was based at Sivota and covered much of our current cruising grounds. It’s probably when the germ of an idea about owning our own boat began to grow.
We chose the 12 Gods Restaurant pontoon, based on the casual recommendation of another sailor chance met in Abelaki Bay. It was a good choice, as we radioed ahead on channel 12, and a clear, English-speaking voice gave us really helpful directions to find the space he’d saved for us. It was a confusing place, with so many busy pontoons belonging to restaurants, but Mario, conspicuous in his red t-shirt, was brilliant, catching lines and making sure we were safe.
We only spent one night in Sivota, but it was a great experience, sharing Easter with locals and eating freshly roasted lamb. The restaurant had showers and toilets, and we filled our water tanks while we were there too. The next morning, we paid a visit to the local bakery and stocked up with pastries for lunch and dinner as well as buying souvenirs for family. When it was time to leave, Mario brought his dinghy around and towed us to safety as we’d been tucked away in a pretty tight little spot, hemmed in by much bigger yachts and fishing boats on the quay. It was a novel way to leave, being towed by a tiny boat.
We had decided to head away from the bustle of Sivota to visit another place that held strong memories for us from 31 years ago. Port Leone (Kefali) on the island of Kalamos has a deserted village that we visited once before. Then, it was fairly creepy with houses still in good condition, and gaping dark doorways. What would it be like this time around?
It was only a couple of hours of motoring at 5kn to reach Kalamos, but we were in no hurry so despite the very light winds, we hoisted both sails and turned off the engine (AKA iron sail). There’s something really magical about ghosting along the edges of these mountainous islands, far closer that we’d dare in Ireland. There are no tides here to speak of, and the water remains deep all the way to the shore in most places, so we were able to enjoy the scenery from close up.
Last time in Port Leone, we’d been the only boat in the area, which had added to the atmosphere. This time, as we rounded the headland and the bay opened out in front of us, we discovered a half dozen other yachts already there, mostly tied up with a line ashore. We edged in towards the stony beach beneath the church and dropped anchor away from everyone else in 6m of clear water.
After a cooling swim and half a pastry each for lunch, we took the dinghy ashore to explore the abandoned village. It was almost a disappointment to see newly-built structures in the place of some of the ruins.
This village had been a thriving community until an earthquake destroyed the fresh water supply in 1953. The church has been kept in good shape, and was renovated completely in 2012, but the rest of the village is gradually being returned to nature by trees and grazing herds of goats, apart from a couple of new buildings that look as if they’ve been built from stone cannibalised from the ruined houses.
We saw evidence of village industry, such as a stone oven and what we assume is the remains of an olive press, but for the most part, the ghosts have fled, driven away by noisy parties of tourists and nosy sailors.
We had a wander around anyway, trying to recapture the feeling of three decades past, and then I had a go at flying my drone again. I don’t get much practice, so I’m a cautious pilot but I have a licence and insurance, all kept up to date. Maybe cautious is better, who knows? One day, I’d love to fly the drone from the boat and video us sailing, but the thought also terrifies me. There’s so much rigging to get the drone caught up in, and we have no areas of open deck at all.
That evening, we ate the last of the fresh pastries, washed down by the remains of the box of retsina we bought at the beginning of this cruise, and slept like the dead through a still, calm night.
We were woken the next morning by the bleating of goats on the beach. We ate our breakfast in the fresh air, watching their antics as the family of around 6-8 casually ascended vertical walls of stone, apparently finding greenery to graze on as they went.
We left at last, and headed back around the tip of Kalamos Island to head north again — but not very far. Like a pair of homing pigeons, we couldn’t resist returning one last time this spring. Abelaki Bay was calling us again, and we wanted one more night there before heading to Levkas on Wednesday to meet up with friends.
Rod and Lu Heikell have written the very best pilot books covering the entire Mediterranean Sea, and they’re legends amongst those who love cruising here. We met them in London at a Cruising Association seminar where we’d been invited to talk about our travels, and had hit it off with Rod and Lu immediately.
So here we are, back in Abelaki Bay. The restaurant owners were pleased to see us, I think, but the boss man gave us a hard time for leaving them on easter Sunday instead of staying to share their special meal. We felt like a pair of ungrateful, rude idiots. Next time, we’ll remember how hospitable the Greeks are. They even have a custom called philoxenia, which roughly translates to love of strangers. They love to welcome people to their homes and hearts.
This time, we have tied up to the little rickety jetty belonging to the restaurant. It made it much easier to lug huge bags of laundry between the boat and the washing machines behind the restaurant. We went for a cooling swim in the bay while the laundry was washing, then I sat down to write this blog. That’s me, signing off for now. Next week, Fraser can tell you all about our visit to Levkas and if we manage to catch up with the gods of Med sailing.
