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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