Ios Island
Ios has a good claim to be the most beautiful of all the Kyklades. More fertile than its ‘dry’ neighbours, it has the most attractive harbour of them all. You enter it by a winding bay from the south, with the church of Agia Irene serving as a leading mark. Indeed, she presides over los harbour, keeping watch in all weathers. Ormos Iou, the port of los, lies to the right at the head of the bay, and has a fine big quay at which ships of all sizes can berth. An area beyond is kept for private yachts, but there is also a good safe anchorage out in the bay; you have only to make sure you are not obstructing the access of
incoming ferries.
los is an island almost without history, though during the Middle Ages (when it was usually known as Nio) it was frequently used as a bargaining counter in dynastic exchanges under the overall rule of the Dukes of Naxos. When the Duchy broke up for practical purposes at the end of the fifteenth century, los was transferred with others of the Kyklades to Venice, and it was not until 1540 that it was surren¬dered to the all-conquering Turk.
Its chief link with the ancient world is its claim to be the burial place of Homer. Seven cities are recorded with a claim to be his birthplace, but ‘Homer’s Tomb’ lies on the northern slopes of Mt Pyrgos, the main peak which dominates the harbour from the east. A certain Count Pasch van Krienen, a Dutchman who had read Herodo¬tus, decided that Homer must have died in los on his way from Samos to Athens, and must necessarily have been buried somewhere on the island. Up on Mt Pyrgos he found several graves, and on opening one he found a coin with lettering that read something like the name OMIROS, as well as a clearer inscription on stone with the same letters. There could be few more suitable places for the poet’s bones to lie than on the green side of this mountain, where the northerlies rustle the grass all summer, and where the eye turns instinctively north-eastwards towards Asia and the distant plains of windy Troy. It may be some Greek Patriarch, a Turkish warrior, or even a wandering crusader who lies there, but it matters little. Here is as suitable a place as anywhere in the Aegean.
The Greek Islands
Ios is rich in churches, and the brows of the hills and the green troughs of the valleys are encrusted with their domes. On a summer night they glow like moonstones. The church of Agia Irene at the entrance to the bay is a delightful example of the best in Greek island churches. This is not because it contains any fine ikons or other saintly relics, nor because of any architectural peculiarity, except perhaps for the projecting footholds around the dome which look just like almond kernels in the icing of a cake. What counts is the simple perfection of its dome and arched belfries.
In spite of, or perhaps because of, its obvious beauty, Ios is a place you have to know to get the best from. Any disadvantages arise from the island’s popularity, especially with the nomadic throngs of young people who find access easy during the summer. The people of Ios are among the most friendly in the islands, and are very tolerant towards their often noisy and thoughtless visitors. At the same time they manage to live their own closely knit family lives. The hospital¬ity due to the visitor at the gates is rarely forgotten in the Aegean, but here — though often abused — it seems to come most naturally.
Unwelcome visitors during the last war were the Italians. They were treated politely, but without respect or fear. There was traffic under their noses with the Allies, and even a visit from a British submarine. Later the Germans took over, and things were more diffi¬cult, but there were no ugly reprisals.
There are still memories in Ios of the Karaghiozi puppet plays for which Kostas Ierakis makes the wooden cut-outs in Amorgos. It is many years since those cracked voices sounded across the Plateia Omirou (as the wide harbour area is called), but the son of the last exponent still keeps a wholesale store by the quay and remembers helping his father to operate the puppets from the kiosk which stands there yet.
The high town, or Chora, dominates the harbour, a cascade of white houses beginning almost at the summit of its hill, which is finally crowned by a white Kykladic church. It is in essence enchant¬ing. A modern asphalt road leads up to it in a series of loops from the harbour, and buses go to and fro every half hour. The old way up on foot is more attractive, though it takes longer. The rough steps climb through a leafy cleft in the hillside, spattered with donkey droppings and at one point with ripe mulberries which fall from one particular tree during late May and early June. It can be a hot climb, but the view back over the harbour and across the straits to Sikinos grows more entrancing each time you stop for breath.
Early in the summer it is possible to enjoy the main streets of the (’hora in comparative peace. By the end of June the little plateia becomes so crowded that you can hardly pick your way through, and the old men huddle together in the one corner cafe they can still call their own. But if you carry on up beyond the plateia into the higher alleys of the town, there is peace again. No bars, no restaurants, no ‘clubs’, no amplified squalling on tape - only the little houses crowd¬ing close together with flowery gardens, and a white church at almost every corner.
It was up here that early in the fourteenth century Domenico Schiavo of Venice was allowed by his feudal lord the Duke of Naxos to build a castle. It lasted intact only as long as the Schiavi family maintained it, for as soon of the islanders were left to themselves under the distant control of the Turks they quite naturally found better uses for such good building material. A few large stones from it can be seen around one of the bigger churches.
On the way up you can break away to the right, to climb a wide flight of steps to the bare ridge where once a double line of windmills whirled away to grind the corn brought in from the hills. Now they are sad ruins, the stone walls cracking, the thatched roofs fallen in, even the spokes of the sails gone from all but one. Barley is still grown on terraces throughout the island, but the old threshing floors are mostly overgrown with wild flowers, and the grain is used only for animal feeds. Flour for the excellent Greek bread comes in sacks from Athens, though it is put to good use in a few local bakeries.
The bus which brings you up from the port stops in a wide lower plateia, close by the handsome blue-domed principal church. On one side is the post office, and on the first floor of the adjoining building an excellent doctor’s consulting room. The buses continue down the road beyond for about a mile to the long curving sandy beach of Milopota. Here again it would be lovelier without so many people, and without the cluttered backdrop of tavernas, discos and ‘rent-rooms’ which have sprung up to cater for them. But except in July and August there is plenty of room for a family to disport itself safely.
The beach at the head of the harbour is another safe spot for family bathing, and in the summer there is a wind-surfing base. As usual with beaches in that position a lot of plastic detritus gets washed up, but an irregular cleaning service keeps it reasonably pure. For better swimming within reach of the harbour, there are two beaches which can be reached on foot in about half an hour by a path which
leads round the far side of the bay. Both have clean sand and clear water, and the further one (beyond the charming little rock-edge church of Agios Nikolaos) has a small bar-restaurant above it. The walk along the cliffs and over the intervening saddle is lovely in itself. If you carry on over the rocks beyond Koubara beach (which is the second of the two) you reach a headland where you can wander along rocky paths among clumps of thyme and low-growing flowers. Here you may come across scattered flocks of grazing sheep and goats, which have come down in a black and white flood from the hill farm above, accompanied by a carillon of goat bells. If you look north from the high rocks you can make out the dim shapes of Naxos and Paros. Closer to the south-west is the big hump of Sikinos. This is what brings a sense of friendly unity - and rivalry - to all the Kyklades. From each you can see at least one other, and the
surrounding seas are the common factor which bring food and liveli¬hood to all.