The Wing-It-Way. 2nd stop: Paros – The Island of two halves
If you are tempted to book your trip down to the last ferry ride back to Athens, there is a danger it may limit your experience. Ferry prices don’t vary if you book a month or an hour before hand, although they do alter depending on what speed of boat you choose. And as with any type of travelling, you will meet people along the way that will sway your decisions about where to go next.
So will recommendations made by the Lonely Planet, a book more important that a clean pair of pants whilst travelling. Swatting up and having a rough idea of some islands you would like to visit is great, but so is being flexible….
Paros is an island right in the heart of the Cyclades, and so the theory was to do one long journey first (4hrs30mins) and free ourselves up for shorter ones in the following weeks to come. Once on Paros, other islands were a stone’s throw away. Paros is neighboured by Naxos, the largest island of the Cycladic Islands. However, Paros is still regarded by backpackers and professional travellers as the better of the two. The little airport means that Paros hasn’t had to cater to large groups of tourists and 18-30 year olds on corresponding holidays, so it is much more authentic. It is not exactly as lush and green as say, Amorgos but approaching it via the port Parikia, the skyline is littered with Greece’s traditional bright, white buildings and blue roofs.
Upon arriving we were quite unprepared for the onslaught of hostel, hotel and campsite promoters and so pushed through them like robots, refusing all. However, this barrage of sweaty Greek men is a prime time to get your accommodation sorted. These guys will drive you to your abode straight from the port meaning you can unstrap your backpack (otherwise known as that pain and strain in your ass) and explore the island back-sweat free.
The key word here is haggle. It is the Marrakech of sleeping arrangements and so don’t take their first offer. Another couple of islands and Becky and I had become season pros at this.
Our first stop was a pharmacy to get Becky some form of medication for her worsening case of tonsillitis. The thinking was that they sell antibiotics over the counter in Spain, so why not here? An odd game of charades ensued whereby I pointed down Becky’s neck and made a face and she clutched her throat and gurgled. We were presented with a throat spray and sent on our way.
After a spattered barter with an English guy still loitering around the port, we agreed on a price to stay in his camping spot on the southern side of the island. After bundling ourselves into his scorching hot truck, our driver gave us an animated tour pointing out that there are two halves to Paros: the more secluded side (our present destination) and Naoussa, where nightlife resided, at which point he wiggled in his chair to demonstrate “nightlife”. We understood much better after that.
The southerly beach is known as “The Golden Beach”: clean, white sand, crystal clear sea and chilled-out, generic music coming from the bar up the beach, straw umbrellas and lots of Armani and Cavalli wearers sauntering about the place. There wasn’t a wibbly-wobbly, cap wearing, sunburnt Brit insight…apart from us obviously. Two days of this coupled with incessant spraying and Becky was almost cured, and I was craving something else to do but sunbathe. Relaxing and peaceful as it was, out of season if you are not an avid sun-worshipper, restlessness will kick in down South. On our third day we travelled over to Naoussa to see what we could see.
It felt like we’d entered back into civilisation after being at some kind of retreat. Here there certainly were Brits to be found. The beaches aren’t quite as nice however, there is far more to do, be it water sports, eating in a different place every day, sitting in a swing chair on the balcony of a bar watching the sun set or just plain people watching.
More trinkets and junk than in an episode of Bargain Hunt can be found in the stalls and markets along the seafront, broken up by the divine smell of garlic, butter and all manner of seafood. All the while, Becky and I had found it quite hard not to quote and draw references to Shirley Valentine and so on our last night in Paros, we asked the waiter if we could move our table to the edge of the sea and feel the cool waves lapping at our feet. He said no. So we settled for sharing olives, bread, Greek salad a bottle of deliciously cheap white wine on the sea front under a string of fairy lights and overlooking the bobbing boats.
On our way back to the campsite, we met a German boy (I say boy, he was 18 but looked 5) called Malta who consequently we would then meet up with on the boat to Ios the following morning and spend the next five days with. After a few drinks, Malta promptly divulged that the owners of the campsite had been placing bets as to whether Becky and I were lesbians or not. The next day we both wore dresses and mascara.
“Can’t find what you’re looking for? Try Google Search!”
Tags: beach, Beth Colmer, paros
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