At one point it occurred to me that this form of travel wasn’t a million miles away from the average package holiday coach excursion. Being ferried to experiences hand-picked by someone else wasn’t really the way I wanted to travel. I’m indebted to that trip and wouldn’t have missed it for the world; however, it was a catalyst for change in many differing ways. We both went on a couple of other press/blog trips after that but, on the whole, phased them out of our travel plans.

Six years later, stinking of vinho verde (courtesy of a bottle which broke when our rucksack fell off a bench) and sitting on the banks of the River Lima wondering whether a taxi I’d tried to arrange using bad Portuguese was going to turn up and save the day, I pondered the wisdom of swapping travel where someone else makes most of the arrangements for travel which was more seat of the pants stuff.

Travelling around cities and big towns is easy, relatively speaking. Where there are many commuters, there’s generally good public transport links. Getting from A to B isn’t a problem once you tune in to how things work in any specific location.

As experienced walkers know, it’s not the same in rural locations where low levels of population mean limited transport links. We regularly find ourselves in areas where figuring out how we’re going to travel to, or return from, a linear walking route using whatever local transport is available can prove somewhat of a ‘suck it and see’ exercise.

Stumped in Germany
Germany is an outstanding joy when it comes to public transport links. A gästekarte in some rural areas allows visitors free (you pay a nominal tax at your rural hotel and in return receive a ‘guest card’) use of buses and trains, of which there is a good network. In the Black Forest we never had to task the grey cells too much to figure out public transport connections. We’d simply hop on and off trains and buses which took us to and from start and end points of walking routes. Only on one occasion, in Kaiserlautern, we nearly came unstuck when a timetable didn’t match reality and we found ourselves sitting at an empty bus station in a place we didn’t want to be on a sleepy Sunday morning. With an hour to wait before the train which would return us to our starting point we had plenty of time to pour over our map, improvise and come up with a great little route which didn’t involve having to use any transport at all. So it all worked out well in the end.

Lost in translation in France
In many locations there are not always convenient railway stations at hand nor bus routes which run on a regular enough basis to make them viable. At these times taxis are lifesavers. In Drôme Provençale, one route took us to Saint-Paul-Trois-Châteaux. At this point Inntravel customers on the holiday we were helping design will be able to check into their new hotel and relax. However, we had to get back to accommodation at our starting point. As we were in a decent-sized town we figured there’d be no problem picking up a taxi. Wrong. There were none to be seen. Using Google advice we headed to the nearby location of one firm to find it no longer existed. We plonked ourselves down on the kerb in the car park of an adjacent supermarket and called the contact taxi. The regular driver and his English speaking girlfriend had taken the weekend off (the reason why we didn’t call them first) and the back up driver didn’t speak any English. Giving directions in a language you’re not totally comfortable in is a risky business. But Andy did a sterling job and, after one lost in translation mix up, the taxi driver rolled into the supermarket car park.
Having a local taxi firm number to hand is a sensible plan whatever your walking circumstances are.

Part of the experience on Tenerife
When is the end of a walking route not an end but a continuation of the experience? When the route involves descending the Masca Barranco on Tenerife. For years we left our car above Masca hamlet, and walked the barranco (gorge) both ways. It’s not a long route, but it is a challenging one. The last two times we took the easy option – we descended the ravine and jumped onto a water taxi (pre-booked) when we arrived at the coast. It’s an exhilarating way to end a walk; the sun warming, the sea spray refreshing on your face. Plus there’s the chance of some dolphin-spotting on the short voyage back to the resort of Los Gigantes where a queue of taxis wait to transport folk back to their cars in Masca (around €25). It’s a far more enjoyable way of experiencing the Masca Barranco than having to trudge all the way back up it again.
(Note: the Masca Barranco is currently closed to the public and is expected to open again in March 2019.)

Laid on a plate on Andros, Greece
Sometimes when someone else arranges the transport it can still feel like it’s part of a uniquely local experience. Fourteen kilometres of climbing in an out of valleys led us from Andros town to Ormos Korthiou, a coastal town so sleepy a swan was able to take a long dust bath in the centre of the main road without fear of being flattened. It was also a place where it was instantly evident there wasn’t going to be a bus or taxi to take us home. As always, we had a back-up number to call. But there was no need. In Allegria, one of the only tascas open, the owner greeted us with a “you need taxi? I phone taxi… but plenty of time for a beer first.” It turned out there was time for two beers, and also for the owner to have a nap on one of his tables before our taxi driver turned up in a sleek Mercedes where the meter was part of the rear-view mirror (first time I’d ever seen that). She gave us a present of scented wild lavender in a muslin bag and kept us entertained with tales of island life on the 40 min journey back to our hotel.

Thirty tears ago I would have fretted about having localised travel arrangements nailed down in advance. The older I get, the far more chilled I am about this sort of thing. If we have to wait for an hour in a small bar somewhere, no problem. In fact, all the better.

It’s all part of building up experiences of the reality of a local way of life across a wide variety of destinations.

An easy, early morning stroll beside the beach below Chora took us past a brace of proud swans and a family of geese which stood, alert, like the points of the compass, on the lookout for danger as their goslings foraged among wild flowers.

Although ridge one was barely 100m above sea level, it was enough for beads of sweat to gather on foreheads to share the view. Only 100m, yet of sufficient altitude to elevate the view of the town with its unusual ostracised rock lighthouse and broken fort to, maybe rather obviously, a different level.

Reaching ridge two at 200m turned the sweaty beads into an unruly crowd, running riotously down my face. The reward was even better views of town and a concealed cove, framed by a posse of spring blooms at their striking best.

At this point, the lowly valleys decided ridges had hogged the show enough and noisily muscled in on attempts to seduce our senses as tiny, hotchpotch Sinetti exploded into view. The cluster of pretty houses tucked into the slope on one side of the valley should have been the archetypal tranquil Greek village. However, one of the villagers had managed to procure the loudest fireworks in the history of pyrotechnics. As we descended, via narrow walkways decorated with simple chalk flowers, to a church bedecked with colourful bunting, ear-drum shattering/heart-stopping booms at unexpected intervals announced our increasingly nervy arrival.

The next valley was a far more tranquil affair, the only sounds being soothing ones from a gently gurgling brook. We’d hoped to lunch in the shade of old water mills, but the sun was high in the sky, making the shadows cast by their ruined walls too mean to use. We huddled under a slightly more generous dark band beside a dry-stone wall, which at least gave respite to hot heads if not legs. Munching our sandwiches, we traced the line of the cobbled path as it curved its way up the hillside to a point at around 500m, below the formidable walls of a natural rock fortress, where our ascending for the day would be over.

From the rocky fort we dropped on a wide, knee-friendly path through stepped terraces toward the welcoming smile of the crescent bay at Ormos Korthiu.

Mid-afternoon and Ormos Korthiu was a ghost town. The first living thing we saw was a swan which waddled from the shoreline to a shallow hollow in the centre of the sandy main street where it proceeded to have a long, leisurely dirt bath. The two cars which passed had to drive around the indulgent creature.

With our remaining water supplies more suitable for dipping a teabag into, we thirstily sought out an open taverna for some liquid that was refreshingly cool. Sanctuary was offered by Allegria, a tapas bar with shaded tables and a blackboard menu whose daily offerings were in Greek save for pizza and something called a ‘bapger’.

Using internationally recognised mime for ‘we urgently need cold beer’, two icy Hellas Fix beers were promptly ordered from a sleepy-eyed owner who had the demeanor of a friendly grandfather.
Sipping cold beer under a hot sun in a Greek taverna overlooking the sea is one of those travel moments which is akin to being able to press a big button with ‘AND RELAX’ printed across it. Both soul and thirst were quenched as time was put briefly on hold.

There was still the question of how we were going to get back to Chora from a town which, although of decent size, was doing a passable impression of the Mary Celeste. We decided to extend the feel-good factor by ordering another beer and worry about such logistics later.

I sauntered into the bar for another Fix to find the owner, head in hands at one of the tables, pushing out quiet Zs.

As I watched him snooze, mentally tossing a coin to decide whether my desire for beer was worth waking him for, I also wondered how I was going to describe this place; the term sleepy village being dismissed in travel writing as a cliché.

I opted to wake him. It was a question which required serious consideration. For that sort of pondering a beer was an essential accompaniment.

We were there to help pull together a new Slow Travel holiday for UK specialists Inntravel. It’s an island whose charms are as abundant as the wild flowers which decorate its walking routes in spring and yet, thankfully, it remains in the mainstream holiday shadows. Better known near neighbour Mykonos isn’t as pretty, so Andriots told us, but it attracts the rumbustious holiday crowd. As long as there’s sunshine and beaches then there’s a huge chunk of sun-starved travellers who don’t care for the aesthetics of pleasing countryside scenes. Which leaves Andros for those of us who do.

Over the course of a week’s walking from north to south we passed a grand total of seven other walkers. Three of these were Greek, the others were a Dutch couple we passed twice.

The glorious paths

I don’t care if I sound like a trading trail geek, but many of the paths (stenes) on Andros had us in walking raptures. We’ve tread many former merchant trails in various countries, most have had us bitching about their unevenness and toll they take on the soles of feet after numerous kilometres. Not so on Andros where many paths consist of wide, flat stones – veritable walking avenues you could stroll along in your walking finery. Flanked by the most elaborate dry-stone walls we’ve seen they are works of art, and beautifully maintained by a group of dedicated, passionate volunteers, Andros Routes.

Green scene

Underground springs keep Andros green even when there hasn’t been a cloud in that intense Greek blue sky for weeks. The gurgling from springs and streams was a common accompaniment on our walks across hill, dale and ravine after ravine. There are oaks, chestnut trees, maples, hawthorns and poplars as well as figs and that proud evergreen which adds a distinctive Mediterranean stamp to vistas, cypress trees. Each route we walked threw up different landscapes. At some point every morning we’d clamber onto a wall for an energy-giving cereal bar hit and spend some quiet moments enjoying whatever green scenes lay before our eyes.

History

Similar to our experiences of walking on Crete, the island’s past felt close at all times. The paths themselves are an obvious link to former times. But Venetian bridges; ancient ruins; perfectly preserved towers from 3rd century BC; intriguingly fancy dovecotes and hundreds upon hundreds of small churches all add their tales, painting an evocative picture of island life. For example, the multitudinous churches exist because this is an island with a seafaring heritage; everyone needs to have a place close by in which to pray for the safety of loved ones at sea.

Quaint harbours

A Greek island wouldn’t be a Greek island if there weren’t harbours backed by tavernas. What made me smile on Andros is that places described by some as bustling and busy seemed more on the tranquil and sleepy side to us. But we were there in April rather than summer. Gavrio, where the ferry arrives, isn’t the prettiest Greek harbour around, but as ferry ports go it isn’t bad. Basti is closer to stereotype whilst the place in the picture above was described in some literature we read as “everywhere apartment complexes are being built…” Not the impression we got as we sat at a taverna opposite the sea on a road so quiet a swan took up residence in a hollow in the centre of the dusty street.

The other island

There’s something special about archipelagos where neighbouring islands are visible; in former times being able to see other lands must have woken many travel bugs and launched countless mini odysseys. As we walked from north to south, on the horizon drawing our gaze was a mysterious island with a lone peak. Gyaros has no water or trees and was a concentration camp for political prisoners up until as recently as 1974. What’s unsettling is it remains completely out of bounds, even fishermen are not allowed into the waters around the island.

It’s sophisticated

I come from a small island. There are certain traits small places completely enclosed by water share, no matter where they are. There’s an insularity which can be both positive and negative. Andros felt as though it broke the mould. For a tiny island it seemed surprisingly sophisticated, especially in Chora, the main town, where many restaurants and coffee shops had a more cosmopolitan style than I’d expect. The Athenian influence may be a factor. But being an island of mariners as well as having links to the shipping industry, and therefore a travelling mentality, must also have helped shaped its character. Whatever the reason, it made it quite different from other islands I’ve visited.

People with big personalities

This might be linked to above. As well as being bend-over-backwards friendly, many of the local people we met were smart, interesting, direct (as a Scot it’s something I always respond well to) and with big personalities. People seemed passionate about their island and also about sustainable tourism. Even the clergy surprised me. On one occasion we watched two playful Greek Orthodox priests ‘steal’ food from each other’s table to give to their own flock. In a monastery high in the hills, a young priest invited us in for coffee and sweets; possibly the first time I’ve ever been in a place of worship that actually felt more like a welcoming sanctuary.

Feasting on local food

Arriving the night before Easter Sunday, we were invited to the family Easter Sunday dinner at our accommodation. Having to almost run around our first walking route in order to make it back in time for a 2pm lunch date, we found ourselves surrounded by generations of family and friends, none of whom apart from our hostess could speak English. Thankfully, embarrassing attempts at trying to communicate were interrupted by a feast which included a full lamb, buckets of tzatziki, country sausages, fried liver, Greek salad, trays of spinach and feta pies, and potent home-made wine. It was a good introduction to Andros’ culinary scene.

Full of flowers

Being spring, the island was looking at its colourful best; many paths were lined by a scarlet poppy army. Perfumed orange blossom and the sweet aroma of ripe figs are fragrances I associate with Greek islands anyway, but on an island with a thousand types of plants, 400 species of mushrooms and over 170 varieties of herbs; the Andros air is scented with so much more than orange blossom and figs.

Chora

The biggest town on the island Chora, aka Andros Town, boasts not one but two sandy beaches, and the main town doesn’t back either. Instead, it runs from the ruins of an old fort across a dodgy looking bride and along a ridge inland. It’s curious and unlike any other Greek coastal town we’d seen before. But as picturesque Greek coastal villages are ten a penny, it makes it stand out from the pretty crowd and in many ways gave it extra depth and made it more of an interesting place to explore.

As he drove us to the ferry at the end of our visit, Dino, the owner of apartments we stayed at on the outskirts of Chora, sort of summed up Andros after asking which other Greek Islands we’d visited.

“So until now you’ve only been to the touristy islands.”