We travelled to Santorini by plane — it was October, and we enjoyed splendid weather.

From the very first moment we set foot on the island, we fell in love with the Cyclades: that endless blue sky, the bays stretching beyond sight, the shimmering sea, the beaches, the stones, the people, their dances, their food, their whitewashed houses and blue-domed roofs, always ready to pose for the perfect photo. Wherever you go, the palette of blues fills the air, and before you know it, you’re immersed in a world that feels suspended in time.

What drew us to the people was their Mediterranean character — cheerful, welcoming, and kind. As for the food, everything was a delightful surprise: fresh tomatoes with olive oil to start, perfectly cooked vegetables, grilled sardines, the inevitable Greek salad with so much cucumber that you eventually have enough of it, sun-dried octopus, and for dessert, thick white yogurt topped with walnuts and honey.

And the sea — we fell completely in love with it. Its crystal-clear waters in countless Pantone shades of blue and green, its shimmering rhythm in tune with the breeze, its peace only disturbed by the flight of a seagull, and that unmistakable scent of salt and sea.
Hypnotised throughout the trip by the landscape, we realised we had no choice — the sea had stolen our hearts. Whether from the highest point of the island at sunset, from the volcanic cliffs, or one day sailing through those magical waters aboard our own boat… we knew we would have to return.

A winter in Denia is a quiet life — sunny, unhurried, without queues or crowds. You enjoy the sea, the crystal-clear waters beside caves waiting to be explored, and you discover that this city hides many different places worth finding. Yet there’s life — just enough life to make you forget that in summer the crowds arrive and living turns into surviving.

From the stern of the QK, Denia looks like a postcard watched over by a great sleeping elephant known as Montgó. Its trunk stretches out to embrace the most beautiful and precious part of this coast — Cape San Antonio — a gift of nature that captivates you from the very first day you set foot on land.

To starboard, we find 12 kilometres of beach, where the sea piles up mountains of seaweed. To port, rocky caves and crystal-clear seabeds hide charming little corners, sheltered from the noise of the city. And just a few steps from the harbour, a row of low, colourful houses surrounds the marina — a reminder that fishermen once lived here.

In Denia, you can wander through its landscape, past and present intertwined, discovering enchanted castles, walls full of secrets, and old air-raid shelters now turned into pleasant passageways leading into town.

Tall palm trees, streets that rise and fall, the Friday market, always something to celebrate — fire, fireworks, and mascletà.
That’s Denia — and so much more.

At sea, time stops — and you don’t get it back until you set foot on land again.

It was our first solo crossing between the island and the mainland: Monaco to Corsica.
A splendid day, windless, only a soft and pleasant breeze gently tousling your hair — nothing more. The sea was calm, peaceful, as if granting us, out of kindness, the honour of sailing along its curves, broken only by the bow of a passing boat or playful pods of dolphins — pure delight.

Hours had passed since sunrise, since we’d watched with awe as the day lifted its head to light up a morning that already felt special — blessed by the complicity of the god Ra.

A crossing to remember — to never forget the shimmer of the sea, the gentle warmth, the magic of the moment and the place. A beautiful passage to listen to Sabina sing along with the waves, while Corsica slowly took shape before us like a living postcard.

Monaco and its princely streets were already far behind.

If one day I get lost, look for me in Girolata — look for me among its waters, its houses, its nature, its people.
Don’t forget that there is nothing there… and yet, you find everything.

Every day greets you with a different sunset — changing colour and shape as it pleases, using its last rays of light to scatter playful sparkles across the sea.
You’ll also find animals there — free animals of all kinds, basking in the sun on the island’s small, wild beach.
Girolata is a paradise, a small paradise in the middle of nowhere, where enjoying life simply means watching.

Girolata is wrapped in lush vegetation — a landscape that blends sea and mountain, rocky cliffs and crystal-clear waters in countless shades of blue.
Together, they form a setting that is special, unique, warm, and welcoming — just like its people, both those who live there and those who come and go.

In Girolata, you’ll surely find yourself if you ever get lost — and once lost, you’ll never want to return.
Its magic hypnotises you, its air embraces you.
Here, life has no schedule, no rush — what matters most is simple: to live.

So if one day I disappear, look for me in Girolata — among its waters, its houses, its nature, its people…

We said goodbye to Corsica with the image of Bonifacio engraved in our minds — the best souvenir we could take from this beautiful island.
Bonifacio is different, unique — it doesn’t resemble any place you’ve seen before.
Its turquoise waters, clear as glass, surround the tall, layered cliffs that, shaped by history and strong winds, rise as the pedestal of a stunning village built on impossible slopes and breathtaking views.

But Corsica is not only Bonifacio.
The true beauty of Corsica lies in the sea — in its high, rugged rocks, strategically sculpted into singular forms that decorate a landscape defined by lonely mountains, deep silences, soft green tones, and the solitude in which the marine and earthly worlds coexist.

To set foot on Corsica is to lose yourself in the narrow, walled streets of Calvi, to have a drink on a cliff overlooking the sea in Cargèse, and to bow before Napoleon’s memory in Ajaccio.
But Corsica is also nature in its purest form — unadorned, unspoiled, unpretentious.
Corsica is also Girolata — wild, unforgettable Girolata...

We’ve been living, breathing, and travelling with the sea in the background for more than a year now.

When people ask me what I’ve liked the most, I find it hard to answer.
It’s been months full of intensity, new experiences, and surprises the sea has gifted us.
We’ve spent nights sailing, watching the stars — each one shining differently, elegantly, dazzlingly, as if they were attending a grand gala.
We’ve seen stars glide across the sky like skaters on ice, and in the deepest black of night we’ve surrendered to the breathtaking beauty of the Milky Way.

We’ve also enjoyed the sun, and the landscapes the sea has painted for us — full of shades, contrasts, and colours. Soft pastels by day, warm tones by night.

When I’m asked, I can’t help but remember sunfish greeting us, jellyfish drifting to the rhythm of the sea, and families of dolphins leaping and diving around our boat in a spectacular ballet of speed.
I remember too the black cormorants fishing, their beaks diving through the water’s surface, the seagulls gliding against the wind, and the swallows in flight, announcing the weather to come.

But when people ask me what I’ve liked the most — I suppose they mean which city…
And after so many miles, so many landscapes, so many beautiful things to see and enjoy, you realise that every place has something — something worth talking about.
Each has a secret, a corner to photograph, a walk to take, a something new, a something special.
They all captivate you — perhaps because of the intrigue of the unknown.
Places with landscapes, charming places, elegant places, modest places — but all of them unique, all worth remembering.

What have I liked the most?
Life itself.

There are times when we wish we could meet people we never will.
Other times, we do meet them — but never truly get to know them — and in the end, it’s as if we had never met at all.

Surely, it’s happened to all of us: crossing paths with someone fascinating, only to later think of them and regret not having bombarded them with questions, not having struck up even a brief but meaningful conversation.
It would have taken just a coffee, a beer, any excuse to listen — to truly listen — to answers full of wisdom.

They were people who appeared in our lives by chance, who came without meaning to and left without saying goodbye.
People who are no longer here — and if they ever were, the opportunity to ask, to learn, to know… is gone.
Who knows where they are now — or if they’re still out there somewhere.
One day our lives crossed paths, perhaps for only one reason: so we could remember them.

In 2017 we left behind a conventional life to make a dream come true — to live at sea.
After years sailing along the Catalan coast, through Spain, France, Italy, the Balearic Islands, Corsica, Sardinia, and Sicily — and spending many seasons among the Greek islands — one thing remains clear:
what we love most is the sea, its people, its life… and the joy of sailing upon it.

After a long crossing from Mahón to Carloforte and now happily settled for a few days in the Italian marina, moored side-on and sheltered from strong northwesterly winds of 25 knots that have kept us here waiting to continue our journey, we can finally cast off again and head for Cagliari, the capital of Sardinia.

But the important thing was to leave Menorca — to start sailing again, to feel once more on our skin the sense that days and hours pass differently out here, in a parallel world that only sailors truly know.

We’re no longer in a hurry. Being tied up in a marina, waiting for the wind to stop roaring, is part of our life. In our life there’s little rush — only the joy of every place, every moment, every harbour. And now, it’s time to enjoy Carloforte.

After so many months moored, anchored, paused in a time that hasn’t belonged to us for years, we continue with our unplanned course — tied to land just long enough to let go again and carry on with this life adventure we’ve chosen.
A life where you breathe deeply and smile at every sunset, every wandering wave, every shifting wind, every hidden moon, every sailor you meet, and at that constant feeling of freedom that never leaves you.

Carloforte?
Carloforte is a small place, with that old and worn-out charm that only Italy can offer — friendly, smiling people, a warmth especially appreciated after the cold reserve of Mahón’s character.

Walking along Carloforte’s palm-lined promenade, watching the stillness of its salt flats, sitting on one of the green benches beneath the sturdy ficus trees in Piazza Repubblica, enjoying a creamy, first-class ice cream, wandering its streets adorned with bicycles, hanging laundry, and the same stones once trodden by Napoleon — it’s one of those many experiences that remind you why travelling is so beautiful.

Only 60 miles separate us from our destination — Marina del Sole in Cagliari.
Back underway after seven days in Carloforte, a place we loved — where we were treated kindly and stayed well protected from the strong Mistral winds.

We left at 8 a.m., with the first rays of sunlight, full fuel tanks, and the engine freshly checked.
The crossing began calmly — a little choppy around each cape, but smooth and relaxed afterward.

We set out early, with a cold breeze on our faces and that feeling of “finally, it’s time,” though tinged with a bit of reluctance at leaving such a charming place.
As the hours went by, the waves grew stronger, gradually turning the last stretch into a heavier, more tiring ride.

We arrived later than planned, but we arrived — wrapped in the chill, worn out from the constant rolling, shaken by the waves, and amazed to see four small planes above us, flying so low they almost brushed our skin.

I wrote this during our first trip to Catania, back in 2018 — and I believe every single word I wrote then still holds true today.

The city is full of fountains, palaces, churches, and grand squares that hide a baroque art meant to be admired and contemplated.
An art that once was — but can no longer be seen. A beauty now buried beneath neglect, covered, dormant, and forgotten.

It waits — for the hour, the days, the years, or perhaps the centuries — for someone with power and sensitivity to remember that this veiled art once shone.
Someone to remind the world that angels used to smile, that carved flowers were inspired by real ones, that the stones of the palaces once glistened, that the cornices were clean and proudly overlooked the city.

Every statue, staircase, and dome surrounding a church — every window, column, or doorway you come across in this city — seems to cry out for a bit of dignity.

Here, the seagulls scream — louder than anywhere else I’ve heard before.
Perhaps, through their cries, they are begging for this beautiful city to rise again from beneath its grime.

Ortigia is a special place — small, warm, and welcoming, just as I remembered.
Nothing like her sister, Syracuse, the one everyone seems to know best.

Ortigia, the little sister of Syracuse, proudly shows off her clean, charming walls and narrow cobblestone streets lined with carefully chosen boutiques that lead you, unhurriedly, to Piazza Duomo — a square that drives you mad with wonder.
Its history, its light, its size, and its magnificent baroque cathedral illuminate a beautifully kept space where street musicians and dancers give their best performances to captivate the crowd.

Houses perched on high cliffs covered in greenery, ruins, and endless markets bursting with colour and delicious aromas from small, charming restaurants — all accompanied by the sound of jazz as night falls and bids us farewell… until next time.

We arrived in Malta after years of pointing to the island on a map, counting miles, and imagining the routes that would finally bring us here.
The day had come — the day we entered Malta, the day we came face to face with Valletta.

The majestic Cathedral of Saint Paul immediately captivated us — a breathtaking view enclosed within the fortress walls that surround the city, framed by cliffs and the typical Maltese balconies, lined up in colourful harmony, ready to complete the fantasy of a perfect postcard.
You can see the passing of time in its stones, and the layers of history that dwell within Valletta’s walls.

Curiously, just a few metres away, lies the other side of the coin — the new city, with its tall skyscrapers and modern buildings filling the space left by the old ones, some still standing as silent witnesses.
Looking one way, then the other, the contrast is striking. Everything exists in the same space, yet feels like a different world.

Malta is a small island — a bit less than half the size of Menorca — but one that leaves no one indifferent.
You could explore it quickly, if it weren’t for all there is to see: the charming Grand Harbour, lively St. Julian’s, the silent Mdina, and the curious Sunday market of Marsaxlokk, among many others.

When we first arrived, we thought it wasn’t what we had expected — perhaps because of all the anticipation built over the years — but it only took three days to fall in love with this beautiful island we had long dreamed of reaching.

We left Malta early in the morning, after three wonderful weeks enjoying everything the island had to offer — its beautiful scenery, pleasant morning walks, a peaceful anchorage facing Valletta, spectacular fireworks, and, of course, one very special person: our cheerful and happy neighbour, Bill.

After 85 miles and 12 hours of sailing, we spent the night in our beloved Sicily, anchored off the bay of Syracuse, facing Ortigia — that small, special, and charming Ortigia.

At 5 a.m., we started the QK’s engines, leaving Sicily behind to sail 93 miles toward Roccella Ionica, a harbour on the southeast coast of Italy. We had been there seven years ago, and it felt wonderful to return — for the kindness of its people, its fantastic pizzas, and its welcoming atmosphere.

After two days enjoying Roccella, we continued to Crotone — nine hours and many miles later — with the same luck we’d had since leaving Malta: catching one fish per crossing.

In Crotone, we anchored — tired and without the energy to go ashore — ready to rest and gather strength for another early start at 5 a.m., bound for the heel of Italy, to Santa Maria di Leuca, a place we already knew and from which we can say our new adventure in the Adriatic — a sea still unknown to us — truly begins.

These have been long passages, early mornings to escape the winds, nights of sleeping underway, reading, fishing — and eating, because at sea, hunger always finds its way!

After leaving behind our always beloved Roccella Ionica and stopping in Otranto to refuel, we began our way up the Adriatic, tracing Italy’s eastern coast.

Just over forty miles later, we reached Brindisi —a hidden spot tucked deep inside a 3.5-mile-long commercial harbor.

Brindisi is a small, quiet city: attractive, tidy, full of light, with beautiful places to visit, nightlife, and little tourism —which allowed us to explore it in perfect calm.

As soon as we arrived, we said goodbye to Alejandro, our cabin boy, after sharing long crossings, endless walks, deep-sea fishing, and more than one pizza.

For five days we sheltered in Brindisi from the strong winds, moored in a free public dock overlooking the city —new, clean, and well kept— where we settled in with total comfort, enjoying its people, its nights, its days, and its warmth.

Anchored beside two sailboats, we spent the night in Vieste —a breathtaking display of light in a landscape where the old town rises right at the tip of its headland.

A place where, sadly, the heavy flow of tourism has stolen a bit of its charm, yet it’s impossible not to recognize the beauty in its streets, shops, stone-lined walls, and hidden corners —all steeped in history.

And then there are the trabucchi, those traditional wooden fishing platforms, passed down from father to son, that locals still proudly show to anyone who visits.

From our privileged spot, gently rocked by the sea, we watched this beautiful place —a small town born on the windy edge of its cape— and, come morning, we bid it farewell to continue our journey.

We had high expectations, and although it’s undeniably a beautiful spot surrounded by nature, the murky, dirty waters take away much of its charm.

Between one island and another, the odd crane peeks out, a sign that they’re trying to build more —and with that, the essence of something once so untouched simply stops being what it was.

Add to that the wooden schooners packed with tourists cruising around, and the landscape —so green, lush, and once full of quiet beauty— starts to lose its magic.

Are the Tremiti Islands beautiful? Yes, without a doubt. But taking the detour to reach what these small islands used to be... I think it stopped being worth it some time ago.

We left Giulianova behind, where we had anchored for the night before continuing on to the port of Ancona.

As you approach Ancona, the small houses carved right into the seaside cliffs leave you speechless. Over the years they’ve clearly been restored, yet they remain fascinating to see.

We arrived in the afternoon, just in time to drop anchor, go ashore for a walk, and get to know the city. We were alone at anchor, though across the way the port was busy with boats, sailboats, and small yachts coming and going —all ready to enjoy a magnificent sunset.

The next day we moved into the marina; the forecast warned of storms and wind. There’s not much to do inside the port, but it offered the protection we needed. The staff was friendly, and even though we were a bit far from the city, we spent two lovely days there.

Bicycles coming and going, friendly locals, and very little tourism —everything peaceful and calm.

The old town of Fano is picture-perfect, with a well-preserved fortress embracing the small city. The streets are spotless, painted with traces of a distant past that no one here seems eager to forget.

Fano is a charming, unpretentious town —no grand sculptures or palaces, but full of quiet beauty. It’s simple, lovely, clean, and green, with open spaces where you can sit, smile, close your eyes, and let yourself drift with the magical air that fills this place.

People move without hurry, cycling through the streets —a movie-like city, a little postcard come to life.

Rimini’s old town is full of hidden corners, narrow streets, and alleys where you can lose yourself discovering the charms of this beautiful city. Like other towns along this coast, bicycles take center stage here. The absence of cars makes it welcoming and quiet —no noise, hardly any tourists— allowing you to enjoy it in full splendor.

In Rimini we moored in a small marina close to the city. It was the first time in years we tied up using wooden posts —the “paline”— just as we used to along parts of the French coast. Following all the captain’s orders, and with years of experience behind us, we moored perfectly —a solid ten out of ten.

So close to Venice we can almost touch it —but it makes us wait...

We reached Chioggia after several days without sailing, and the feeling was wonderful. The sun accompanied us the whole way, the sea calm and kind. We had left Barricata late, as a wandering cloud had dropped a small morning storm, but in the end, the sun broke through.

We arrived in Chioggia in the afternoon. There are no anchorages here, so we took a berth in the marina and, without wasting a minute, went out with the dinghy to explore the old town.

Chioggia is a charming place, with clear Venetian brushstrokes —navigable canals and bridges that feel like the prelude to Venice, the city we’ve been longing to reach since we planned this Periplo 2024.

After a lovely walk, a delicious pizza al taglio and an incredible gelato, we returned to the boat —family arrives tomorrow, and it’s time to rest.

Four months and 1,700 miles of sailing from Menorca to Venice.
We’ve crossed an Adriatic Sea that was new to us, discovering a quieter, warmer Italy —almost as beautiful as the one we met in 2017 on the Tyrrhenian side, the other edge of the Italian boot.

August 5th —we entered Venice after a peaceful journey through a canal from Chioggia, surrounded by calm waters and soft landscapes.

The entrance to Venice exceeded even our highest expectations: no other sailors in sight, only motorboats, gondolas, and vaporetti —a wonderful chaos mastered by everyone… except us.

And watching over it all, the bell tower of St. Mark’s Square.
Excited and amazed, we navigated this beautiful madness until reaching the marina, where for the next few days we would enjoy unbeatable bow-side views of St. Mark’s Square.

Still within Venice and just a few miles from Murano, we wander through Burano —a small island whose main attraction is that every house is painted a different color.

Bright, joyful tones contrast against one another, mirrored in the calm waters of the Venetian lagoon that here feels especially peaceful.

We arrived by dinghy and left it tied up at the small local dock. No one complained —everything was just fine.

We crossed its bridges, its streets, its little shops, and took pictures at every corner. The explosion of color in this place is hypnotic —wherever you look.

People here seem to be in no hurry. They’re kind, warm, and full of good energy. Maybe it’s all those colors.

Trieste is elegant and majestic —as if time had never passed through this city.

The Grand Canal, not to be missed, offers a stunning view leading straight to the Church of Sant’Antonio, with its houses reflected in the water —a picture worth contemplating.

In the beautiful Piazza Unità, which is even more impressive at night when it’s lit up, you’ll find the refined Café degli Specchi and the quiet Fountain of the Four Continents, surrounded by dazzling palaces and historic buildings.

On San Giusto Hill —the oldest and most picturesque part of the city— narrow streets wind across different levels, leading to the castle and offering a lovely panoramic view of Trieste and the sea.

From Trieste to Croatia, passing through Slovenia without stopping —we’ve finally made it to Croatia.
Right now, we’re floating on a cloud, settling into what we should have done a year ago.

Umag? Not particularly beautiful, but it’s the closest port to Italy where we can officially check in.

Now —time to enjoy Croatia!

After two nights anchored off Cervar Beach —three calm days facing a nudist campsite— we arrived at the port of Porec. The weather, as always, dictates our plans, and it’s forecasting strong storms for Monday and Tuesday.

Porec is a small medieval town where several houses from the Middle Ages and even a few Roman remains are still preserved. Walking through its streets feels like traveling back in time in a matter of seconds. And although the crowds blur the beauty a little, we still enjoyed everything there was to see.

There’s something magical about mooring surrounded by nature —no people, no shops, just silence. We were practically alone in a fjord that only a few reach by land, and even fewer by sea.

After leaving Porec behind —a beautiful place, though overwhelmed by too many visitors— we entered a calm channel where the water doesn’t move, and the entire landscape reflects perfectly on its mirror surface. Silence and birds kept us company for the five-mile journey, gently rocked all the way to the end of the canal, where a friendly dockhand was waiting to help us tie up.

It was seven in the morning, the sun shining magnificently above us —time for a good breakfast and to set sail again.

Five years after saying goodbye to L’Embruix, Captain Toribio’s boat, we used our apps to locate her once again —and just as we’d seen years ago, she’s still sailing somewhere along the Croatian coast.

L’Embruix is now on the eastern side of Croatia, which means a detour from our planned route. But the chance to find her again —and with her, so many memories— leaves no room for doubt, even knowing the emotional hangover it will bring for days to come.

For a few minutes, we studied the charts and realized this was a rare opportunity —one that may not come again. So we changed course, heading east, to pay tribute to the boat that taught us the sea and to the captain who taught us to love it. ILYM.

KRK —the first thing you think when you see it on the map is that you must have read it wrong. But then you look again, and it’s real. Not a clothing brand or a pop band —just the actual name of an island in northern Croatia, on the Adriatic Sea.

We reached Krk early, still shaken by the emotions of seeing L’Embruix, my father’s boat —the one we first set sail on eight years ago. But the journey goes on, and so does life. There’s nothing to do but pull ourselves together and keep moving forward, even when the heart aches.

Anchored in a wonderful, well-protected bay with good holding, we took the dinghy ashore to explore. A quiet walk through its streets, a visit to the cathedral, and a look at the castle —whose entrance faces the sea. It’s a pleasant spot, but honestly, a bit too tailored for tourism, which dulls some of its authenticity.

Llovik lies on the tiny island of the same name —one of the many small jewels scattered along the Croatian coast. A welcoming little harbor invites you to moor comfortably.

The village is small —very small. A handful of houses, a grocery store, a couple of restaurants for visitors, a well-kept church, and a single trail: a beautiful path for wandering in peace, surrounded by nature, trees, bushes, and open fields.

It feels like a painted landscape —some parts tended, others wild— a long path leading nowhere in particular, as if you’d stepped into the story of The Wizard of Oz.

Islands and more islands… Surrounded by them, where nature and wildlife take center stage in the landscape.

Tiny islands scattered across a deep blue sea, perfect for sailing slowly —without hurry, yet without pause— to soak in the shifting shapes these islands draw on the horizon, each one painted in a different color.

Some in bright pistachio green, where trees cover every inch without leaving a single gap; others in shades of gray, dry and bare from the lack of vegetation. And then there are those that shine with the contrast of their houses, rooftops, and the few people who live there —each adding their own hue to this original, living collage.

Who could possibly resist such a view?

From a distance, Šibenik looks rather plain —almost unattractive. As you approach, surrounded by tall buildings and an industrial area, you might feel tempted to turn back. But then you think —everything deserves a chance. And once you start walking through Šibenik’s streets, you realize you did the right thing.

We left Šibenik delighted, remembering a calm and well-protected anchorage with good holding, surrounded by nature. In the distance, a beautifully preserved medieval city: stone streets and houses, rounded arches, and a mix of architectural styles that leave you in awe.

Windows, rose windows, lintels, doors, alleys, and impressive fortresses easily transport you back to the most medieval of times. Truly worth a visit.

The end of Croatia, and the farewell to summer. Dubrovnik is our last stop in Croatia, and although we liked it a lot, it wasn’t the place that touched us most.

Compared to other places we’ve visited in Croatia, Dubrovnik feels like it’s missing something —a soul. The kind of soul that’s often lost in places built solely for tourism.

Is it beautiful? Undeniably so. But Croatia is full of stunning corners to get lost in —away from Dubrovnik and Split, the most famous ones.

Now we have a technical stop ahead: Cavtat, to process our exit papers. Our next destination is Montenegro, which means we’ll be sailing outside of Europe —and bureaucracy has its own rules.

It’s time to start thinking about where we’ll spend the winter, and Montenegro might just be the right place.

Moored in the port of Herceg Novi, we sway as if we were still out at sea. It’s a cozy, small harbor —the kind we love— with a true seafaring soul and fishermen who head out to sea at the same hour the sun rises.

But this charming harbor has very little protection, so all day long, even without wind, every boat moored here rocks gently in the cradle of the sea.

The town itself is pleasant and understated, perfect for strolling and exploring. A well-preserved fortress watches over the harbor entrance, cobbled streets wind through the old town, and the main square invites you to stop for a coffee. There are plenty of local shops and a small fruit market tucked away inside the citadel —where you’ll also find a bit of fish, and even the occasional cheese. Just enough to spend a couple of days here and enjoy the place.

But perhaps what we loved most was the long seaside promenade, where one village blends into the next, connected by graceful stone bridges. You never leave the path, just walk and watch the horizon, the lights guiding your way, the restaurants inviting you in.

And as you keep walking, time slips by and the color of the day begins to change —until, almost without realizing it, you find yourself saying goodnight to the radiant sun.

Greece, for us, is home —it’s paradise, it’s happiness. Its crystal-clear, blue waters surround us once again, and any excuse is good enough to dive in and enjoy them.

Its people —always kind and welcoming, with the simple intention of living happily— keep passing on their calmness to us. Every island, no matter which, continues to radiate that charm that makes them both magical and mysterious.

A charm that lives in its sunsets, in signs written in graceful Greek letters, in cobbled streets and tiny chapels with candles burning for those who are no longer here.
And in the green, lush landscapes dotted with goats and sheep —the ones responsible for giving us that irresistible local feta cheese.

After sailing along the turquoise waters of the eastern coast of Meganisi —the “island of bees,” as it’s rightly called for the number of bees you battle with all summer— we arrived at the island of Kalamos.

The day couldn’t have been better: radiant sunshine, calm, crystal-clear blue waters shimmering with the reflections of the sun. Throughout the passage we were surrounded by a fresh, lush landscape —chestnut-colored shrubs, tall pines, untamed olive trees, and islands, so many islands, one almost on top of another, each more beautiful than the last. A few stand alone, others already showing signs that the summer season is about to begin —and everywhere, water, so much sea to sail without hurry, letting yourself glide across the calm, as if caressed by a sea in no rush for you to leave.

After twenty miles under way, we reached Kalamos —a small, mountainous, and very green island, like most in the Ionian, sparsely populated, with two villages that overflow with life in summer and several anchorages perfect for enjoying both the sea and the scenery.

We dropped anchor in Gerolimniosas —a peaceful spot surrounded by wild nature. With our stern lines tied ashore to avoid the light breeze, we spent a quiet night, swimming, eating, and even trying our luck at fishing!

Sailing through the channel between Kalamos and Kastos, heading south along the eastern side of the latter —without stopping, passing by the windmill that crowns its small village— you reach the Equinades Islands: Drakonera, Kalonisi, Provati, Tsakalonis, Pistros, Filippos, Lamprinos, and Sofia.

The arrival at the Equinades is breathtaking —small, flat islands, like puzzle pieces trying to fit together. They feel alive, full of fauna and vegetation, yet at the same time empty and silent, with no sailors eager to discover the quiet beauty they radiate, or to cross the clear waters that surround and define them.

We circled the islands as if tying a bowline in the sea —to get to know every corner, to admire, like an oil painting, each brushstroke of the landscape, each hidden place where silence has long since hushed the echoes of battles and conquests.

Sailing past Atokos before reaching Ithaca was an unexpected gift. Just over nine miles from the Equinades Islands, we arrived at Atokos —a private island about six miles northeast of Ithaca— where the main attraction, apart from swimming in its splendid blue, crystal-clear waters, is watching how a family of pigs lives freely on the beach.

You can see them nursing their little ones, playing, rolling in the sand, and even swimming toward you, hoping you’ll toss them something to eat. We weren’t alone —we counted fifteen masts around us. It’s a popular spot for everyone.

We went ashore with the dinghy, swam, had lunch, and watched from a distance. On Atokos there’s only one house and a small chapel, both private, but you can still enjoy fantastic swimming in a beautiful daytime anchorage —easy to anchor, good holding, calm turquoise waters, and a truly unique show.

We arrived in Paleros with strong winds, and after entering the harbor and realizing that the charter companies had taken it over, we decided to anchor outside, alongside two other sailboats. We took a short walk through the village and then set course for Lefkada.

Finally —home again! Moored in front of the bay where cycling brings peace to the soul, where the old wooden bridge leads you to the most beautiful sunsets in these wonderful Ionian islands.

Reddish skies, whimsical clouds —never painted the same way twice. Everything seems to prepare us for our six days in Barcelona, six long days in which we’ll be counting every hour and every minute until we return.

As it couldn’t be any other way, our voyage begins in Ithaca.
Passing through Ithaca means recharging, breathing peace, regaining strength, and reconnecting with a place that already feels like it belongs to you —a small piece of every corner: Lazareto, Agios Nikolaos, the gyro corner, the eucalyptus promenade, La Cubana, Bigotes…

All of Ithaca is part of this quiet “See you soon…,” this gentle “Wait for me, I’ll be back…,” this heartfelt “I can’t live without you anymore…” —because truly, you can’t, and you don’t want to live without it.

My father was in love with this island —though surely it’s nothing like the one he once knew. Back then it was empty, solitary, and isolated, with only a small harbor filled with sunken, abandoned, and forgotten boats —yet wrapped in a natural charm that only a few could truly appreciate.

Now, far from the island that only a handful of us were lucky enough to know, it has become an organized place, with a repaired, clean, and orderly harbor welcoming both small and large boats.

The tavernas and restaurants remain where they’ve always been, ready for those soon to arrive. The beaches, as ever, are clean, crystal-clear, and quiet —though the first signs of summer tourism are starting to appear.

It’s still a beautiful island —magical and special in every corner— with postcard sunsets and the unending, ever-present company of the cicadas’ song.

A wild, rugged, solitary, and mysterious place —like a Hitchcock movie.
Countless seagulls scream into the wind with threatening cries, as if warning you not to come closer to those astonishingly turquoise waters that seem to beg in silence to be freed from so much noise.

It’s an unwelcoming place, unsettling, yet with a landscape so breathtakingly beautiful that you can’t look away —though it’s not a spot for a peaceful anchorage.

We dropped anchor just long enough to have lunch, then set course for Loutraki —a necessary stop to restock supplies and wait for the next day’s passage through the Corinth Canal.

Crossing the Corinth Canal is always something special —a feat that stirs butterflies in your feet and tickles in your heart, as if what you’re about to do isn’t quite real.

Three miles of swirling currents between towering, vertiginous walls that echo in their stones the weight of time —embracing those who arrive, guiding those who depart.

As you pass through this giant, time seems to slow down, giving you space to take in every detail —each delicate curve carved by centuries into the rock— and to watch what unfolds between those two monumental walls that mark the course of a calm passage.

A silent, reverent procession of boats, all moving in rhythm, one behind another, in a perfect single file.

Leaving Korfos behind, after crossing the Corinth Canal, we arrived in Epidavros, where we anchored in a strategic little spot, tied to the shore, with our stern almost touching a small cove of crystal-clear waters and beauty everywhere you look.
In front of us lies the village, which we barely set foot in, preferring to enjoy our own corner—except for a stroll now and then through a friendly craft fair, or to watch the little ones bravely performing traditional dances that are charming, though hard to watch for too long.

These were days of intense heat. We had already visited the ancient theater of Epidavros years ago, during our first journey through the Aegean, so this time, in our own private pool, we endured the heat and, almost without noticing, between swim and swim, spent five wonderful days in this beautiful place—whose charm wavers a bit on weekends with the influx of visitors.

Poros is an island well worth visiting, but it has one problem: in July and August, it dies of its own success. There are so many people that its true beauty fades—the people who live here day after day, the authentic soul of this lovely place, disappear behind the summer rush. Locals seem to transform for the visitors, and suddenly, nothing feels quite the same.

Being here reminds us of what it’s like to walk through these streets in winter—how peaceful it is to share breakfast at Pedro’s café, to buy fresh fish at the market, or to enjoy a simple souvlaki. Dreaming of these empty streets feels real: a time when you can stroll calmly, without the crowd’s noise—a gift of silence, as precious as it is absent now.

We’ll keep coming back, we’ll keep being here, but we’ll try to avoid these dates—when the island’s greatest charm, the kindness of its people, seems to fade away.