An Ionian odyssey to Paxos

It’s in the tenth book of The Odyssey that Odysseus lands on Aeaea. He and his crew, having survived cyclopes and giants and lotus-eaters, stumble across a mysterious island belonging to a sorceress, Circe. She seduces Odysseus with food and wine, and – with only the small hiccup of his men being turned into pigs – he stays on the island, bewitched, for an entire year.  

Scholars have argued for centuries about where this fateful isle might be. But in 1985, writer and explorer Tim Severin threw his guess into the mix: the Ionian island of Paxos. And, after spending a week being enchanted by bright blue seas and bone-white shores, I’m with him.   

Paxos is the smallest of the Ionian islands – a speck of land about 15km south of Corfu, with an even tinier speck, Antipaxos, trailing off its southernmost coast. Poseidon allegedly created it by striking Corfu with his trident, chiselling himself a private, peaceful hideout where he could steal a few moments with his lover, Amphitrite.   

It is a place of murmuring myths and lazy legends, where olive trees outnumber people by 120 to one, and long, slow days dance to the beating Ionian sun. Little wonder that, as I step off the ferry and into Gaios’s thick, pine-scented heat, I feel like I, too, have been bewitched.  

I’ve arrived in Paxos’s main port, but it shows about as many signs of life as an English hamlet on a Sunday morning. Cats loll in the shade of faded, Venetian-style buildings, lulled to sleep by the lazy lapping of Bahamas-blue waves. Cicadas swell into a mezzo-piano crescendo, whilst the omnipresent olive trees rustle in the salt-tinged breeze, flashing a semaphore of silver and dark green.   

It’s been three seconds, but I can already see how Circe’s offer of a year here would be pretty tempting. I briefly entertain the idea of a life spent lolloping from surf to spanakopita to siesta, perhaps pausing to play backgammon with the group of Greek men gathered in the town square (which, I soon learn, inexplicably floods every afternoon).  

However, I’ve got just a week (unless Circe has other ideas), squeezing in a family holiday before the school summer rush. Not that I can imagine anything happening in a rush here. Paxos does as Paxos does. There’s no airstrip; the only way to get here is by boat, and if you don’t have your own, there’s only one ferry per day from Corfu. There are no fancy wine bars or luxury boutiques or major hotel brands – which is probably why aristocrats, film stars, and royalty still flock here on their yachts in search of peace and privacy. 

They’re not quite yachts, but we do hire a pair of boats from a local skipper called Christian, who leaps from bow to stern like a lemur and cheerfully tells us about a new hotel being built somewhere on the island with a £15k-a-night price tag (although it seems we’ll find evidence of said hotel when we find the cobbler who sewed up Odysseus’s bag of winds).  

You want a boat, anyway, so you can explore Paxos properly. We start with a quick pootle up the coast to Loggos, a small, horseshoe-shaped port with colourful, Lego-block-like houses and a trio of salt-sprayed bars. We pick one called Le Rocher at random, letting the promise of sea views and Aperol spritz guide our decision-making, which otherwise doesn’t extend much beyond leaping over the wall and into the water (and pretending we haven’t noticed that Nicole Kidman has just slunk into the seats behind us).  

But Paxos isn’t the only star in these impossibly blue waters. Its sister island, Antipaxos, is the front-cover splash for Ionian island living – and it’s only a 20-minute jaunt from Paxos’s southernmost tip (Poseidon-permitting).   

It’s not hard to imagine you’re on some kind of odyssey when you’re juddering over foamy waves, spotting the occasional dolphin fin, and wondering if the whine from the engine is normal and if it would be possible to swim to shore from here… still, if Odysseus could make it in a man-powered galley after fighting off monsters and whirlpools, I’m sure we can get there in a 20-horsepower boat with a temperamental fuel pump.  

We swing around to Antipaxos’s west, the white horses practically whinnying as we hit the open ocean and come face to face with a stretch of wild, crumbling coastline. Whale-sized waves hurl themselves towards the crumbling cliffs, their limestone layers stacked like the spines of unbound books. Beaches sit below, pale page margins scattered with loose pebbles like footnotes. It’s the kind of place you could imagine an epic story beginning – even if the only plotline is swimming to shore and propping up under a tree. 

But, like all great Greek heroes, we are motivated by good food and great wine. So, we journey on towards lunch, swinging around the island’s southern cape and putt-putting past a crumbling lighthouse and a cove with a tiny, forest-wrapped stone building that reminds me of Homer’s description of Circe’s home. Finally, we dock alongside superyachts at Vrika beach – a cave-lined cove that feels like a slice of pure heaven.  

Bubble gum-blue waters lap onto marshmallow-soft sands, pine trees race each other down the demerara cliffs to trail their arms in the waves, and the salt-licked air has just the tiniest hint of oregano. A smattering of sun loungers and pair of tavernas does slightly shatter the paradise island illusion – but they do mean we can eat at Spiros Taverna, the best of just three restaurants on the island.  

It's also the friendliest. As soon as we stagger to shore, salt-tinged and slightly pink from the beating sun, George, son of Spiros, practically throws his arms around us, roaring ‘welcome, welcome!’ as he ushers us to a shaded terrace table. In one corner, a stone grill sends up plumes of oregano-infused smoke; to its left, an octopus hangs on a washing line, its fate to be dried, marinated, and grilled. 

Spiros himself – a moustachioed man wearing nothing but a pair of faded blue jeans – flickers in and out of the background, occasionally clapping his hands to the bouzouki music and beckoning diners to join him in a line dance around the tables. The whole thing feels so much like a film set that I half expect to see Shirley Valentine appear at the table next to us.   

‘How many of the aubergine do you want?’ interrupts George, forgoing the traditional menu and instead asking us to reply with numbers rather than affirmatives. The correct answer, by the way, is as many as you can get. We eat garlicky clumps of aubergine threaded with peppers and olives; fat, home-cured anchovies drizzled in oil and dispatched in one bite; sun-swollen fava beans drenched in fresh tomato sauce; and smoke-charred octopus with just the faintest hint of oregano.  

All too soon, the tables disperse as diners dispatch themselves back into the bewitchingly blue waters. And, after George presses shots of rakomelo into our hands ‘for your health!’, we begrudgingly follow, the other boats steamrollering into the distance as we meander along, half an eye on the ocean to see if we can spot more dolphins.  

Suddenly, there’s a glimmering flash. A flying fish bursts free from the waves, scales glittering in the setting sun as it whizzes forward like a shooting star. Odysseus might have interpreted this as a portent from Poseidon saying it’s time to head home. But for me, it’s a more compelling reason to stay – to spend more days surrendering to the island’s spell and luxuriating in its sun-lit, salt-kissed days. All Paxos asks in return is that you sit back, slow down, and let nature lead the way.