Folegandros: The Island That Perfected the Art of Doing Nothing

The road from the port of Karavostasi to the Chora of Folegandros is a single-lane switchback that climbs 200 metres in three kilometres. Halfway up, the sea appears below—vast, flat, impossibly blue—and the island drops away on both sides with a vertiginous confidence. This, you quickly understand, is the entire personality of Folegandros condensed into a geography.

The Chora is classified as one of the most beautiful settlements in Greece, a designation it wears without apparent interest. The kastro quarter—a mediaeval fortified neighbourhood where the outer walls of the houses themselves form the perimeter wall—is a masterpiece of functional beauty. The streets are so narrow that neighbours on opposite sides can exchange salt through their windows without raising their voices.

There is essentially one long street, one main square, and three or four tavernas that have not changed their menus significantly since the 1990s. This is not a criticism. The octopus is always sun-dried and grilled, the fava is always from Santorini across the water, the house wine is always slightly too cold. You eat at the same table every night. The owner remembers what you had last time. This is the entire proposition of Folegandros, stated with quiet confidence.

Take the path from the Chora to the Church of Panagia on the clifftop. It is an eighteen-minute walk up a white path through wild capers and rosemary. From the churchyard, the entire Cyclades spreads in every direction. Santorini's caldera to the south, Sikinos to the east, the open sea to the west. Nowhere else in the archipelago does the abstraction of blue and white feel so complete.