{"id":49532,"date":"2025-09-07T17:48:18","date_gmt":"2025-09-07T17:48:18","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.europesays.com\/ie\/49532\/"},"modified":"2025-09-07T17:48:18","modified_gmt":"2025-09-07T17:48:18","slug":"i-solo-travelled-to-an-almost-empty-greek-island-in-winter-heres-what-i-learned","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.europesays.com\/ie\/49532\/","title":{"rendered":"I solo-travelled to an almost-empty Greek island in winter\u00a0\u2014 here’s what I learned"},"content":{"rendered":"

In October 2023, I went to the Greek islands chasing Leonard Cohen\u2019s ghost \u2014 the same one that pulled him to Hydra in 1960, where he stayed seven years, fell in love, and wrote some of his most beautiful songs.\u00a0<\/p>\n

But when I returned in winter, more than a year later, the island I found myself on was not Hydra.\u00a0<\/p>\n

It was a place I had never heard of, where flamingoes rested in silent lagoons, tiny hill-top churches opened onto stunning views, and the goddess of winter still ruled.<\/p>\n

Picture-perfect Hydra, with its quiet grandeur shadowed by the melancholy that wealth often carries, felt heavy.\u00a0<\/p>\n

Its amphitheatre of whitewashed houses faced the Aegean with theatrical generosity, like a stage set awaiting its next drama.\u00a0<\/p>\n

But something \u2014 perhaps the ghosts of Cohen, his circle, and that particular sadness that makes for great songs but a troubled existence \u2014 pressed in.<\/p>\n

I wandered back to the port, where hard-working donkeys stood laden with produce, ready to climb the island\u2019s car-free slopes. And I sailed away.<\/p>\n

\"LivLiv Monaghan on Agistir <\/p>\n

I chose Agistri, a small island also in the Saronic Gulf. Every Greek island seems to have its own personality, a god, a saint, or a spirit.\u00a0<\/p>\n

Agistri\u2019s unassuming holiday flats, beat-up mini-markets, and untamed hedges reminded me of Ireland\u2019s west coast. It felt familiar, a little wild, and deeply human.<\/p>\n

On that first trip, I stayed four nights. Conversation came easily \u2014 with the restaurant staff, the owners of my accommodation, and a taxi driver who, on hearing I was an Irish singer, gave me a discount.\u00a0<\/p>\n

\u201cMy best friend is from Limerick,\u201d he said, pointing to a shamrock decoration stuck on the dash before scrolling quickly to the Cranberries on his music streaming service.<\/p>\n

\u201cAgistri means \u2018hook.\u2019 You\u2019ll get hooked. Nobody just comes here once.\u201d\u00a0<\/p>\n

\"SailSail boats in the harbour of Megalochori village on Agistri<\/p>\n

The owners of the taverna I adopted as my local agreed. One told me she\u2019d be happy to spend the coming winter in Athens after two spent here.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt was calming, you know,\u201d she said, perched on a bar stool, knees bent high like a roosting bird, exhaling cigarette smoke out the side of her mouth.<\/p>\n

\u201cEvery morning I\u2019d get a coffee from the bakery, follow the forest path to the small church halfway up the hill, meditate\u2026 the simplicity of it put me back together. I\u2019m ready for the city now.\u201d<\/p>\n

Waiting for the return ferry to Athens, I got chatting with a woman and her mixed entourage \u2014 freelancers, artists, healers \u2014 all caught by the island\u2019s gentle spell. When I mentioned I was an artist, she looked at me with a wise warmth.<\/p>\n

\u201cIf you need space to work,\u201d she said, \u201cwe can sort a rental. It\u2019s a dream here once the season\u2019s over.\u201d<\/p>\n

\"DetailDetail of a traditional house in Megalochori village<\/p>\n

Over the following months, this woman and I exchanged messages about our work and the strange, suspended feeling I was in \u2014 low on funds, weary in spirit.\u00a0<\/p>\n

Eventually, I said yes. I left grey, aching Paris for that small, almost-forgotten island where Persephone, goddess of winter, reigned. I wanted to see what her months would offer.<\/p>\n

Agistri in January was nothing like Agistri in October. Back then, the bars and restaurants were still open in the island\u2019s three tiny villages; the roads lively, the beaches humming faintly with the last of the summer visitors. There was a Sunday-night-before-school feeling in the air.<\/p>\n

By winter, the island was a ghost town. The taverna I\u2019d once frequented sat shuttered and dust-covered.<\/p>\n

\"LivLiv explores Agistri by moped in winter<\/p>\n

There was one caf\u00e9 at the second port, two bakeries open at strict hours, and a small main supermarket near where I lived that doubled as the post office \u2014 three narrow aisles, limited produce, closing for three hours every afternoon and all day Sunday.<\/p>\n

On my first visit, the shopkeeper warned me, \u201cWe\u2019re shut Sundays.\u201d And sure enough, that first Sunday, I woke to three eggs and an apple in the kitchen. Thankfully, the bakery opened for a few hours before the last church service. I didn\u2019t forget again.<\/p>\n

My home was a white loft hemmed in by lemon trees on three sides, the fourth open to the sea. One afternoon, after I picked fruit from a low branch, a local arrived with a smile, a string of soft Greek I couldn\u2019t quite follow, and two sacks of citrus.<\/p>\n

The house, built for summer, had only an open fireplace for heat. I had lived in cities all my life, never camped, never joined Scouts. I was bad with the fire.<\/p>\n

\"YachtsYachts moored off Agistri island in Greece’s Saronic Gulf<\/p>\n

More than once I filled the place with smoke and retreated under blankets with a hot water bottle I found tucked into a wardrobe.<\/p>\n

A year-round islander eventually gave me a fire-building lesson. I improved. \u201cSiga-siga,\u201d he said \u2014 the famous Greek phrase, and way of life \u2014 \u201cslowly, slowly\u201d. \u201cTake your time, or you\u2019ll kill yourself,\u201d he only half-joked.<\/p>\n

What does a woman in her thirties do on an almost-empty Greek island in winter? I walked \u2014 long, quiet, cleansing walks.<\/p>\n

Sometimes I spoke aloud to myself on the empty roads, and the pines, the sea, the flamingoes pausing at Lekani lake seemed to answer back.<\/p>\n

\"SeafrontSeafront of Skala village on Agistri <\/p>\n

I climbed rough forest trails to the churches in the hills, tackling brambles like a child again.<\/p>\n

Agistri, the greenest of the Greek islands embraced me: Evergreen branches bowed above, the forest floor a carpet of tiny ivy hearts. Spring was coming.<\/p>\n

The beaches were empty. To Irish blood, the Mediterranean felt warmer than home in July. Tiny fish glittered in the water before me \u2014 a private show.<\/p>\n

A passing companion, with opposite tastes and rarely moved by the same things, saw a snapshot of my life there and, briefly, approved: \u201cNice hideout you\u2019ve found yourself.\u201d<\/p>\n

\"ViewView from Megalochori village of Skala village with Aegina island in the distance<\/p>\n

I learned to follow the sun and the moon, to gather enough tinder before sundown. The forests were best walked when the sun was high.<\/p>\n

For the first time, I moved entirely at nature\u2019s pace, bending with her curves. It was quiet, pure nourishment.<\/p>\n

At night, I painted what I\u2019d seen \u2014 slow watercolour strokes. I gathered fallen banana-yellow bougainvillea and set them on the table, their perfume filling the room.<\/p>\n

Each morning, I followed the taverna woman\u2019s ritual: a cinnamon-dusted cappuccino from the bakery, a climb to the gleaming Orthodox church, lighting the tall, twig-like candles, and carefully tying the door shut with a rope, readying it for the next visitor.<\/p>\n

\"AA restaurant’s summer terrace on the Greek island of Agistri with views of the Aegean Sea<\/p>\n

Sitting outside, with the view as my reward, I\u2019d gather words, shaping them for song or prose \u2014 a gentle unravelling of inner, tangled threads.<\/p>\n

Travelling alone isn\u2019t always easy \u2014 and the quiet on a near-deserted island can feel vast. But in that space, I found something unexpected: The chance to truly listen to myself, to move at my own pace, and to be gently reshaped by the rhythms of a place far removed from the noise of everyday life.<\/p>\n

It\u2019s in that solitude that the world opens up \u2014 not just around you, but within.<\/p>\n

\"LivLiv dressed for the cooler winter days on Agistri <\/p>\n

In some way, my winter, embroidered with simple rituals, felt connected to the Cohen who once sailed from Piraeus in search of his own island adventure and found love and refuge in return. No human muse here, but ancient hills, trees, and the endless abundance of the sea.<\/p>\n

I had been nursed and steadied, just in time for spring.<\/p>\n

When the deep blue of the Aegean carried me back to Athens, I understood what solitude had offered: Not quite a remaking, but a soothing \u2014 light poured into the cracks, siga-siga \u2014 ready for the seasons ahead.<\/p>\n

Escape notes<\/p>\n