Here I am on this remote island in a sleepy little fisherman’s village. When I arrived it was already evening and the first thing that greeted me when I took a stroll on the beach was a shooting star. I took that for a good sign.
The small hotel is everything you could ask for. A nice room with a view to the sea, great food, a warmhearted family who runs it. I haven’t seen one man around which makes me wonder. It’s the old mother, the daughters and some cousins – all female, all with a great sense of humor and a rare kind of friendliness.
The food is great too. I eat a lot of fish and yogurt with fruits and a honey unlike any I ever tasted before. I heard the island is famous for its honey. And it’s a strange contradiction how any place can be famous for anything and yet so remote and pristine. In the garden there’s a pomegranate tree and lots of little cats with their mom.
At night you hear no other sound than waves rolling gently onto the shore and cicadas rattling their song. There’s many stars in the sky, some fisher boats out at sea and nothing else.
There’s not much one can do except having a swim in crystal clear waters of all shades of turquoise and blue, walking the beach, having a nap in the shade and a glass of wine along with some fruits.
Every now and then I catch myself looking out at the sea expecting to see the ghost of Hemingway sail past. He’s never been here as far as I know but it’s the kind of place that’s so like him that I wouldn’t be surprised to find him sitting under a palm tree one day, smoking his cigar and drinking his wine.
It’s that kind of place. With enough room and air to breathe again after long hard times. To be left alone when you need to be just with yourself. A place to heal.