Nights in deserted places of the Dodecanese

It is summer on Tilos, and afternoon has turned the abandoned wheat fields golden. There’s the breathy whistle of bee-eaters as I pick my way down the path, Lisa eagerly pulling on the lead. A harmless black whip-snake disappears into the rocks. I let Lisa cool off in the water first, then from the grey pebble beach I swim with a mask, seeing a painted comber – a zebra-striped fish with yellow fan-tail and a blush of blue underneath – and armoured grey parrotfish.

If winter is a time for long walks, summer is for long swims. When the sun is baking hot, it’s essential to dive into the sea’s soothing, silky coolness. The summer months warm the water, making it easier to keep going until my muscles ache, explore around the headlands, scare myself looking down to rocks dropping away into the depths. I also love the pure pleasure of lying on an empty beach and listening to the waves, drowsy from swimming, falling asleep. There’s something sensual about lying on warm sand, like being pressed against a body. 

Gliding into shore, I notice an old stone structure, circular with tall walls, rocks loosely fitted together, some of them scattered. Barefoot, I carefully clamber over to look inside: washed-in rubbish, a firm base and cracked mud. So many beaches have ruins from earlier times. At dusk I prepare to camp, alone with the dry-stone walls of goat pens, sunset light on the headland softening its rugged rock and garrigue. The sky turns yellow-pink and pale blue, the air cooler. There’s the occasional butterfly, the smell of wet dog (mine), and the sound of the sea. Gradually the moonlight becomes more intense, casting shadows, infusing the night sky. I’m in a deep sleep when Lisa howls at a goat approaching. She's not always a great camping companion but she does keep guard. I see brilliant star-like phosphorescence when I run my hands through the waves. 

This beach is warmed early by the sun – enough for a swim. There’s soon a heat and humidity haze, a flicker of birds taking off in the distance. It’s utterly peaceful but the flies are biting. After packing up, I follow a narrow path around the rocks to a sheltered cove with shallow water and pink-and-white pebbles, beautiful despite the plastic rubbish that has washed in and accumulated, untouched, over who knows how many winters. Here too are bleached driftwood and sea grass, dragonflies flitting and fish jumping from the still water. A series of short high whistles comes from a bird up above somewhere, the buzz of a hornet, the chug of a fishing boat. Heading up the hillside, Lisa veers off the path to bury a bit of long-dead goat she’s found, and thanks to the detour I discover a stone wall with two intact doorways leading to animal pens in deep caves.

Before air conditioning and electric fans, Tilos islanders slept on their roofs in the hottest months. Ever since I moved here I’ve spent some of the summer sleeping outside in the natural cool of the night. It got me used to waking with the sunrise. 

In summer, the village is noisy until late at night with children and cats and television, everyone living outside, but it’s an easy walk over the mountain with my friend. My body and mind relax as I swim then doze, put up the tent, have a last cooling swim as the sun goes down. It’s a perfect evening to lie on the fine pebbles, drink a little red wine and make gentle inroads into the picnic, talking quietly. 

 

The feeling of lying on a wild beach, looking and listening to earth and sea and sky, is completely different from being on a developed beach with buildings and people and roads. I’m so grateful to be able to find places like this, even in summer. We feel alone, cut off from the world – the faint shape of an island on the horizon but few ships passing. Birds flit from one cliff to the other. I contemplate the rocks: wrinkled red, copper green and smoky blue, flesh-coloured cliffs mottled and pricked with caves. 

It seems hours before dusk begins to fall – a slow, lingering evening. The stars appear, brighten and multiply. When I wade into the sea, it’s as if there are fireflies caught in the waves. I hear a strange noise in the tent; a big mouse has got itself trapped and we help it find its way out. I go to bed and zip up, keeping Lisa inside to stop her barking at goats, and sleep deeply, waking to calm and clouds of mist. In the early morning, goats come down to the rocks by the water’s edge to drink. Later, I take my mask and snorkel and dive into the sea.

There’s something a little zen about snorkelling. You swim with no expectations. Sometimes all I see are different patterns in the sand on the seabed, long lines created by currents, or the shapes of the rocks. You need patience. If you get into the habit of looking, sometimes you see things. 

A long, thin fish with a tail like an electric-blue needle stares up at me with round eyes as it hangs, alert; pale blue, it changes colour to camouflage itself, and kinks its body to dart away. The lionfish – an invasive species that entered the Mediterranean via the Suez Canal orin ships’ ballast – spreads its heavily ornate, venomous spines around its body like a show of feathers. A cuttlefish watches me warily with huge eyes, using tentacles to adjust its position, both of us treading water until it billows its diaphanous silvery wings like a cloak and shoots away. 

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