RIP Leonard Cohen, you’d hate it here now
It was pure chance that brought me to Hydra. My friend Annie had reached out to a bunch of hotels on the island and managed to wangle a free 3-night stay in exchange (for the never-ending need) for content. She had proposed a moodboard of whimsical island shots in an editorial style. Initially, her boyfriend Spencer was meant to join her on the trip, but luckily for me, work got in the way. About 2 weeks before the trip, she rang and asked if I would like to come with her. It was a no-brainer.
Hydra, in Greek mythology, is a serpentine lake monster eventually slain by Hercules. It was said that when you cut off its head, two would appear in its place. I fear that the prophecy has fulfilled itself for the island.
There we were in Athens airport, she’d flown from London and I from Barcelona. We piled into a taxi and excitedly talked all the way to the port. The port of Piraeus in Athens was smelly, everything seemed to be covered in a fine grey dust of pollution, and it was noisy and frenetic, the perfect energy for our chaotic excitement. Everything was going seamlessly; we even managed to coordinate picking up weed at the port. With our bags full and our baggie full too, we boarded our boat, the Speedy Cat, to Hydra. Being the end of September, it wasn’t the sunny summer day you’d probably have in mind when thinking of Greece; instead, it was a little cloudy and moody, yet that infamous Aegean sea still delivered. It was an unusual colour, a sort of metallic gun metal grey mixed with petroleum, and flecks of bright silver bounced off the surface when the sun broke through the clouds. We hadn’t eaten all day, and just as we were losing patience, the little horseshoe port of Hydra, flanked by its dry rocky mountains, came into view.
Although the island is famous for Leonard Cohen (my husband is a massive Leonard fan, and I feel Leonard is to men what Joni is to women), Annie and I are both die-hard fans of Joni Mitchell and the whole Laurel Canyon gang of the '60s. Joni had spent time on Hydra living in a hippie commune in a cave. We were excited to be enveloped by the Bohemian creativity that the island seemed to have given so many. We didn’t manage to bring a guitar with us, but figured we could find one on the island.
Alas, like almost everything this side of the 21st century, there are no secrets anymore. The island has succumbed to a terrible fate; it is now ‘cool’. You can find an oat milk flat white almost anywhere—and look, I know I’m part of the problem. I love flat whites. There is even a Jeff Koons sculpture that, I hate to admit, I quite like. There were people dressed as though they had just come from Burning Man, and others wore chinos so incredibly tight they seemed to strangle their overworked calf muscles, topped off, of course, with boat shoes. Where were the hippies?! I realised, over a 15-euro Paloma at a reformed windmill perched on a hill, playing ‘chill’ music, that the hippies had long been priced out. Having had only 1 meal and now fueled by a potent mix of tequila and weed, we were determined to find a little local bar, with old men drinking Ouzo and someone merrily playing the guitar. We stumbled down the hill to the port and stopped halfway when I turned to Annie and said, “We need to go close but far.” She giggled and said, “That doesn’t make sense, but I get you.” Agreed on the plan, we turned down a small cobbled side street and came across what can only be described as something out of a film set. Think Midnight in Paris, but Hydra—strings of fairy lights, bougainvillea, white washed buildings, cobbled streets. We didn’t find a local bar playing live music, but we did find one playing Manu Chao records and yes, more Palomas. Things could be worse. We succumbed to our basic capitalist instinct and drank more.
There is an unmistakable charm to the island, one that I don’t think can ever be sucked from it. I feel it has something to do with the fact that there are no cars. When you arrive in the port, there are donkeys ferrying luggage up and down the cobbled steps worn smooth by centuries of feet sanding them down. I even saw a donkey carrying a swathe of olive branches and a guitar. Hope yet. Then there’s the cats. If you don’t like cats, maybe skip this island. They are everywhere: calm, happy, the perfect mix of wild and tame. Add to that the simple fact that you have to walk wherever you go. There’s something grounding about it—maybe it’s knowing there’s only one way, and one speed, to get from A to B. Why rush? Island life moves to its own rhythm.
After eating our first meal—Greek salad, taramasalata, and stuffed tomatoes—we wanted to swim. We walked up and around the port following the road along the cliffs (that's where we spotted the windmill bar we would later frequent). We kept walking until we found some stairs leading us down to the water. No beach, just a steel ladder that went off some rocks directly into the sea. We perched ourselves on a rock, rolled a joint, played some Joni through a speaker I had brought, and lay back. The weather was still patchy at this point, but within 20 minutes of being there, the heavens opened and the sun came out, and a bit of summer came in. We hurriedly put on our bikinis and jumped off the rocks into the sea. I live in Spain and am blessed by the Mediterranean, but there is something about the Aegean. It felt like silk against my skin, and when we clambered out and lay ourselves flat on the rock to dry, my skin felt soft, not cracked and salty.
It’s funny how quickly you adapt. The relaxed island spirit had taken over. And just as it did, we found out that there were national strikes across Greece on Wednesday, the day we were meant to be leaving. No ferries, no taxis, and our flights were cancelled. God(s) bless the Greeks. We managed to convince the hotel to let us stay another night, reasoning that if no one could leave, no one could arrive. They saw the logic and agreed.
Gifted with one more day and it being the sunniest, we decided to trek 40 minutes across the island to a beach. When we got there, we found a tiny pebbled cove that we had to vacate after the tide came in quickly. We walked to a bigger beach we had passed earlier with sunbeds. Not really our vibe, but we thought, why not? We were there for probably an hour before we looked at each other and knew we wanted to go back to our rock from day 1. After a 30-minute walk back toward town, we found ourselves there again, the Beatles, Crosby, Stills, & Nash, and of course Joni accompanied us. I had a twinge of sadness about the lack of a guitar, but it hadn’t been our sole mission anyway. After sunbaking and other kinds of baking, we lazily walked back into town, ready for our sundowners. We decided to try a bar we had noticed the night before, one that had been closed every other time we had walked past it. It had a certain vibe, something intriguing, and it had been playing great music when we’d walked back to our hotel the night before.
It was early evening, maybe 6:30 p.m., and when we arrived, the tables were set, but the chairs were still empty. We walked up the steps to ask if they were open, and three members of staff were gathered around the bar, one strumming a guitar. Our jaws almost hit the floor. Finally, it was happening. We were told that they had just opened and we could grab a table. Annie went to the loo and hurriedly came back, saying she had overheard the guy with the guitar talking about The Beatles, specifically Revolver. Overexcited, we ordered 2 Palomas in the space of 10 minutes, and started to play cards (we didn’t want to seem too enthusiastic). After two very strong drinks, I felt confident enough to ask the waitress if the manager—or who I assumed was the manager—ever played guitar at the bar, maybe in a kind of jam session. She said she would ask, but sadly, he only played for himself. Half-cut, we stumbled back in to settle the bill, the craving for carbs too strong to ignore. I asked the manager again, and he kindly offered me his guitar, saying,” I’ll turn down the music if you want to play!” The only problem was, we also only ever played for ourselves. He said that if we came back around closing time (1:30 a.m.), we could have a little jam session together. Unfortunately, we’d peaked too soon, but given a few more days or a touch more stamina, we would’ve been there. It’s still there, you just have to look a little harder.
Just like the Greek myth, this island has many heads. Cut one off, and more appear. Perhaps one day Hercules will come and save the day, bringing the island back to its simplest state.
Words by Lily
