Follow our Track @ NoForeignLand

For the most part, Greece is corralled by two seas. To the east lies the Aegean, stretching across the waters between the Greek mainland and Turkey. It is home to the Dodecanese, Cyclades, Sporades, and the Saronic Gulf islands.

To the west of the mainland, the Ionian Islands rise from the Ionian Sea. They are smaller, both in number and in coastline, than their Aegean counterparts. But their charm more than makes up for it, offering a delight that feels unmistakably its own

We began our westward traverse, and eventual departure from Greece, from about as far east as it was possible to be without actually standing in Turkey.

Before setting off, we had returned to Kos one final time to collect the last of the parts needed to complete the overhaul of our watermaker. The repair had evolved into a troubleshooting exercise worthy of the pages of Kepner-Tregoe (KT), with one fault leading to another and each solution uncovering the next problem.

Soon after entering the Mediterranean, we had noticed that the watermaker’s output had fallen by around 30 percent. The unit was showing its age, and several components were clearly overdue for replacement. Some of the reduced production was almost certainly attributable to the Mediterranean’s higher salinity, which naturally demands greater operating pressure from a reverse osmosis system. The remainder, however, was the cumulative effect of years of faithful service.

With the critical components now renewed, the unit was running much more smoothly and reliably than it had for quite some time. Although it’s not yet regained the production levels we had enjoyed before entering the Mediterranean, it is once again producing more than enough fresh water to keep us comfortably supplied.

Pegasus and the solo circumnavigator

Pegasus (or Pegasos) is the winged horse of Greek mythology, traditionally depicted as a magnificent white stallion. In the iteration that lay before us, however, Pegasus was an Excess 11 catamaran, a modern, sporty 37-foot cruising yacht whose skipper we were about to discover was every bit as remarkable as his vessel.

Keith, was attempting, rather unconvincingly I might add, to persuade us that he was 80 years old. Two years earlier, Keith, at the apparent age of 78, departed Southampton aboard Pegasus to pursue the dream of sailing around the world. He looks barely 60 years old!

We had been aware of Pegasus long before we met her skipper. While crossing the Indian Ocean and later transiting the Red Sea, we had heard of the yacht and its intrepid owner, although our paths had never quite crossed. It wasn’t until we reached Kos, where Pegasus lay at anchor while Keith was carrying out repairs, that we finally introduced ourselves.

Keith was nearing the completion of his circumnavigation, while we were not yet halfway through ours. Nevertheless, we shared the same general course, westward across the Mediterranean, and so, for a time at least, we would sail together through a small corner of Greece before our routes would inevitably diverge.

Departing Kos under the familiar threat of yet another northwesterly, a weather pattern that had become as much a part of our daily routine as our morning ablutions, we made our way north to Kalymnos. There we enjoyed a blissfully calm night, sampled the excellent fare at a taverna ashore, and discussed where the next leg of our voyage might take us.

Later that evening, aboard Luna Blu, our immediate passage plans were cemented while we made light work of a bottle of Irish whiskey. The inevitable consequences soon followed. Keith, fuelled by equal measures of adventure and whiskey, decided upon an unscheduled late-night plunge into the harbour. His impromptu swim quickly evolved into a good-natured rescue, accompanied by much laughter from all involved, a fitting beginning to a memorable friendship forged at sea.

The Cyclades, at pace!

By now, we had spent so much time exploring the Dodecanese that our 90-day Schengen allowance, of which Greece was burdened, was rapidly drawing to a close. It meant we would have to increase our pace across the Cyclades, a region where most cruising sailors would ordinarily devote the greatest share of their time. Islands such as Mykonos, Naxos, Paros and Santorini have become iconic destinations, attracting countless week-long charter holidays each summer. Sadly, all but one of those famous names would remain unexplored on this voyage, victims of both our dwindling time and a preference for avoiding the inevitable crowds.

Like Keith, we favoured a more south-westerly course, taking us first to Astypalea and then onward to Santorini. The two days it took us to reach Santorini remain etched in my memory as some of the most exhilarating sailing we have enjoyed aboard Luna Blu. Strong winds held steadily across our beam, allowing the boat to stretch her legs. We sailed conservatively, carrying two reefs in the mainsail while rolling the headsail in and out as the breeze dictated, yet speeds well in excess of ten knots were commonplace. Luna Blu came alive in those conditions, charging effortlessly through the Aegean and inspiring complete confidence. I only wished we could enjoy more days like these instead of the all-too-familiar routine of beating into a stubborn headwind.

Santorini also marked the point where our journeys with Keith would diverge. We shared one final dinner ashore before saying our goodbyes. From here, Pegasus would turn south-west toward Malta, bringing Keith ever closer to completing his circumnavigation. Our own course lay north toward the Saronic Gulf and the long-anticipated transit of the Corinth Canal.

We have no doubt our paths will cross again somewhere. Keith’s voyage remains one of the most inspiring stories we encountered during our own travels. To possess the determination, seamanship and energy to single-handedly sail around the world at that stage of life is an achievement worthy of the highest admiration.

Fair winds, Keith—and congratulations on a truly remarkable voyage.

The island of Santorini was the site of one of the largest volcanic eruptions in recorded history, which occurred about 3,600 years ago and knocked the stuffing out of the local Minoan settlement, and destroyed their civilisation in the process.

Leaving Santorini, we passed through the flooded caldera, the vast crater left behind by the eruption.

Towering above us were the island’s famous villages, their whitewashed buildings cascading down the cliffs and crowned by the distinctive blue-domed churches that are synonymous with the Greek islands. Viewed from the sea, they were not nearly as spectacular as the postcards promise!

Our course then turned north once more, which inevitably meant meeting the Meltemi head-on again. It was hardly our preferred point of sail, but transiting the Corinth Canal had long occupied a prominent place on our sailing bucket list, so northward we pressed.

Our next stop was the southern tip of Ios. With a strengthening northerly forecast, it seemed reasonable to assume that anchoring on the island’s southern side would provide welcome shelter. Few assumptions could have proved more wrong.

The surrounding mountains somehow funnelled and accelerated the wind directly into our anchorage, leaving us sitting in what felt like the windiest place on earth. Throughout the night a relentless 25 knots swept across the bay, easing only as dawn began to break. Fortunately, Luna Blu has always inspired confidence at anchor. Once the anchor bites and you feel it dig in properly, and experience tells you it is unlikely to let go. Even so, confidence never entirely replaces vigilance. Nights like this are rarely restful. Every unusual gust or change in the boat’s motion has you checking bearings, watching the GPS and peering out into the darkness. The anchor held perfectly, but solid sleep was in very short supply.

The following day we continued north-west to the delightful little harbour of Ormos Vathi on Sifnos. It was here that we truly began to regret not allowing ourselves more time in the Cyclades. The island, or rather the secluded bay into which we sought shelter, was simply beautiful. That evening we wandered ashore for dinner and sampled several of the local cheeses for which Sifnos is apparently renowned. As the sun slowly disappeared beyond the western horizon, the entire bay was bathed in a warm golden light. It was one of those sunsets that photographs simply cannot do justice.

From Sifnos we sailed onward to Kythnos, anchoring in another picturesque cove at Apokrousi. Once again we were reminded just how captivating the Aegean can be. Having spent several days punching into headwinds to reach Sifnos, our angle into the Saronic Gulf was now becoming rather more favourable.

Saronic Gulf and a change of scene!

The following morning we set off on a longer passage due west, toward the eastern side of Aegina, located in the middle of the Saronic Gulf, and due south from Athens. The spirited sailing between Astypalea and Santorini, followed by several days of hard beating to windward, had left Luna Blu thoroughly encrusted in salt. She was desperately overdue for a freshwater wash and we were looking forward to tying alongside a town quay, connecting to an unlimited supply of fresh water, and giving her the thorough clean she deserved before continuing toward the Corinth Canal.

From our first stop on Aegina’s eastern coast, it was then only a short three-nautical-mile run the following morning to the small harbour of Perdika, where a town quay offered exactly what we had been searching for.

Remarkably, despite the journey being little more than a three-mile hop, Aegina felt like an entirely different world from the islands we had just left behind. The Cyclades, and indeed all the islands of the Aegean, are renowned for their barren, sun-bleached landscapes, interrupted only by clusters of brilliant white houses clinging to rocky hillsides. Aegina, barely 50 nautical miles to the west, was noticeably greener. Trees and dense shrubs covered the hillsides, lending the island a softer appearance and hinting at a different climatic and cultural influence.

The architecture reflected the change just as clearly. The iconic whitewashed buildings and blue-domed churches of the Cyclades gave way to homes topped with reddish-brown terracotta roofs. Tall pencil pines punctuated the skyline, and there was an unmistakable Mediterranean character that felt subtly more Italian than Aegean.

Once alongside in Perdika, we wasted no time connecting a hose to the town water supply. Six hours later, thanks largely to Zippy’s boundless energy, Luna Blu had been transformed from a salt-encrusted passage maker into a yacht that looked almost factory fresh once again.

While we were tied up, we also took the opportunity to replenish our diesel tanks using a mobile fuel delivery service operated by an elderly local entrepreneur, who arrived with all the efficiency of someone who had been servicing visiting yachts for decades.

With the jobs complete, we wandered ashore for dinner. Even the menus seemed to reflect the changing character of the region. The ubiquitous gyros that had accompanied us across much of Greece began to give way to pizzas, pasta and other unmistakably Italian influences. Greek favourites were still there, of course, but the flavours, architecture and atmosphere all suggested we were entering a different corner of the Mediterranean. It was a subtle transition, yet one that was impossible not to notice

The Corinth Canal

The Corinth Canal connects the Saronic Gulf in the Aegean Sea with the Gulf of Corinth, which in turn opens into the Ionian Sea. Completed in 1893, it cuts through the narrow Isthmus of Corinth, separating the Peloponnese from mainland Greece. Constructed at sea level and without locks, the canal stretches for just 6.4 kilometres (4 nautical miles) and measures only 24.6 metres (81 feet) across at the waterline.

Its narrow dimensions make it impassable for many modern commercial vessels and, today, it serves far more as a tourist attraction than as a major commercial shipping route.

That last statement, which I had read before our transit, made me pause for thought.

Earlier in the year we had passed through the Suez Canal. At around 120 nautical miles in length, Suez is roughly thirty times longer than the Corinth Canal. Yet the transit fee we paid for the four nautical miles of Corinth was actually a little higher than what we had paid to cross Suez. So, when I read that the Corinth Canal has “little economic importance,” I couldn’t help wondering just how profitable this supposedly insignificant waterway must still be. Tourist attraction or not, it certainly wasn’t inexpensive.

Cost aside, however, the experience was absolutely magnificent.

We arrived at the eastern entrance the previous evening and set about pre-paying the transit fee online, a process that proved rather less straightforward than expected, even for Greek standards. Early the following morning we called the canal authority on VHF radio to advise that we were ready to proceed. About fifteen minutes later we were instructed to move closer to the entrance and wait while the last of the eastbound traffic cleared the canal. Once it was empty, permission came to enter and begin our westbound transit through the one-way passage.

Almost immediately the towering limestone walls closed in around us. Rising to nearly 70 metres on either side, they created an extraordinary sense of scale. Although Luna Blu had ample room to navigate comfortably, the steep rock faces produced the illusion that the canal was much narrower than it really was. At times it genuinely felt as though you could almost reach out and touch the cliffs.

At just four nautical miles long, and with a permitted transit speed of around seven knots, the journey seemed to be over almost as soon as it had begun. Yet it was unforgettable. In less than an hour, Luna Blu had carried us from the Aegean Sea into the Gulf of Corinth, one step closer to the Ionian and, ultimately, the Atlantic Ocean.

It felt like a genuine milestone.

For almost three months we had explored the islands and anchorages of the Aegean. Passing through the Corinth Canal felt like turning the page to a new chapter of our voyage. Ahead lay the Ionian, the Mediterranean beyond, and eventually the Atlantic Ocean itself. Home was still a very long way away, but somehow it felt just a little closer.

The Greek Ionian Islands

With the western entrance of the Corinth Canal now astern, we continued our steady march toward Greece’s Ionian Islands. We made good time through the Gulf of Corinth, passed beneath the span of the Charilaos Trikoupis Bridge linking mainland Greece with the Peloponnese, then continued through the Gulf of Patras before finally emerging into the Ionian Sea proper.

The change was immediately apparent.

Gone were the stark, sun-bleached landscapes and barren hills that had characterised so much of the Aegean. In their place stood a lush, verdant coastline, rich with forests of olive trees, cypress and pine. The air seemed softer, the countryside greener, and even the light felt different. After months spent among the dry beauty of the eastern Greek islands, the Ionian presented itself as an altogether more temperate and fertile world. And the sound of the cicada started to become commonplace!

The Ionian Islands lie just off Greece’s western coast and are traditionally known as the Heptanese, or “Seven Islands,” although the archipelago also includes numerous smaller islands and islets scattered between them.

Their history has shaped them just as profoundly as their landscape. For centuries the islands remained under Venetian rule, escaping the Ottoman occupation that influenced much of mainland Greece and the Aegean. That legacy is still evident today. Venetian architecture, Italian-inspired cuisine and a distinctly European character give the Ionian Islands an atmosphere quite unlike anywhere else in Greece. It wasn’t until 1864 that the islands were formally united with the modern Greek state.

Having already noticed subtle hints of this changing influence around Aegina and the Saronic Gulf, we were now entering the region where those Venetian roots would become unmistakable.

Kefallonia

Until now, the collection of apps we relied upon for weather forecasting, wind prediction and assessing the suitability of anchorages had proved remarkably dependable. Of them all, Windy had become our trusted companion. Its only consistent fault was a consistency at underestimate the wind strength. Experience had taught us to mentally add somewhere between five and ten knots to whatever it forecast. Beyond that, it had been impressively accurate.

With that confidence, we arrived in the delightful north-facing bay of Sami on the island of Kefalonia. The bustling waterfront was lined with cafés, bars and restaurants, while a pair of town quays welcomed a steady stream of visiting yachts. About an hour’s drive away lay several large supermarkets, making Sami the ideal place to replenish stores after weeks of island hopping.

We hired a small car and set off across the mountains toward Argostoli on the other side of the island. The drive itself was worth the trip. Towering pencil pines lined the road, while the unmistakable scent of lavender drifted through the open windows. Around every bend another spectacular view revealed itself, reminding us yet again why Greece had captivated us for so many months.

A few hours later we returned with a car overflowing with provisions. The plan was simple enough: unload everything into the dinghy tied alongside the town quay, ferry it back to Luna Blu, return the hire car, and settle in for a quiet evening.

Nature, however, had other ideas.

While we had been away, a fresh northerly had sprung up. Not only had its strength gone entirely unforecast, but its direction meant the bay had developed a significant fetch, allowing a surprisingly steep sea to build. The once-calm harbour had become distinctly uncomfortable.

Loading the dinghy now resembled trying to pack groceries onto the back of a bucking horse. Timing each wave, we somehow managed to load everything aboard before making two wet and increasingly lively trips back to Luna Blu. After returning the hire car and completing one final run, it was obvious that the anchorage was rapidly becoming untenable.

There was little point hoping the conditions would improve. We weighed anchor and went in search of somewhere better protected.

Our chosen refuge was Andisamis Bay. Unsurprisingly, it was already busy with yachts similarly seeking shelter from the same unexpected northerly, but eventually we found what appeared to be a suitable gap. According to Navionics, the charted depth was around 11 metres.

As we hovered over the spot preparing to drop the anchor, however, our depth sounder stubbornly refused to show anything less than 20 metres.

Twenty metres wasn’t a problem in itself, we carry 100 metres of chain aboard Luna Blu, but it dramatically increased our swinging circle in what was already a crowded anchorage. With daylight fading and options becoming limited, we committed to the spot. The anchor disappeared into the deep blue below and eventually found the seabed, followed by another 30 metres of chain before it finally bit.

As always, the real test came over the next hour. Bearings were checked repeatedly, the GPS anchor alarm remained under close watch, and every gust prompted another glance toward the shoreline. Fortunately, the anchor held. Better still, as dusk settled over the bay, the northerly gradually eased and the sea began to calm.

By nightfall, the anxiety of the afternoon had faded into the gentle rocking of a secure anchorage, and we were finally able to enjoy a well-earned night’s sleep.

Lefkada

Our journey north through the Greek Ionian Islands continued as we push onwards to the eastern coast of Lefkada, where we turned into the wonderfully sheltered cove of Nydri.

To call it a cove hardly seems adequate. With only a narrow entrance opening to the north, the bay felt more like an inland lake than a natural harbour. Once inside, it opened into a broad expanse of perfectly protected water, its shores lined with town quays, boatyards and waterfront tavernas. The water lacked the crystal clarity we had become accustomed to elsewhere in Greece, a consequence, no doubt, of the bay’s exceptional shelter and limited water exchange, but what it sacrificed in clarity it more than made up for in tranquillity. The surface was as smooth as glass, scarcely disturbed by the faintest ripple.

After the busy weeks that had preceded our arrival, Nydri proved to be exactly what we needed.

We spent two nights there, slowing the pace considerably and allowing ourselves time to simply enjoy being in one place. There were no long passages to plan, no weather windows to chase and no pressing maintenance jobs demanding attention, yet! It was an opportunity to decompress, wander ashore at leisure, linger over a meal, and appreciate the simple pleasure of being securely anchored in a place where time seemed to move just a little more slowly.

Paxos

A small island, lying almost midway between Lefkada to the south and Corfu, the northernmost of Greece’s Ionian Islands, became the setting for our penultimate night before reaching Corfu.

The 45-nautical-mile passage began with one final challenge. Leaving Lefkada required us to transit the busy Santa Maura Floating Bridge, one of the more unusual navigational bottlenecks in Greece. A long procession of yachts had already gathered within the narrow approach channel, each jockeying gently for position while waiting for the bridge to swing open. With little room to manoeuvre and boats converging from every direction, it required some deft touch at the helm!

Once the bridge finally opened, the convoy threaded its way through before quickly dispersing into open water. With the congestion astern, Luna Blu settled comfortably into her stride, and the remainder of the passage north passed without incident. By late afternoon we arrived at the crystal-clear waters of Paxos, where we found a quiet anchorage for the night.

Until now, most of our anchoring had been in sand, with only the occasional patch of seagrass making anchoring difficult. As we approached this anchorage, the water was so clear that a glance over the bow appeared to confirm the perfect sandy seabed.

We dropped the anchor into four metres of water, paid out another fifteen metres of chain, and gently reversed to set it.

Normally, our anchor bedding into sand produces a reassuring but progressive increase in resistance. The boat slows gently as the anchor buries itself deeper, and before long you instinctively know it has taken a firm hold.

This time, there was nothing gradual about it. The chain snapped tight with a violent bang, bringing Luna Blu to an immediate halt.

It quickly became obvious that the anchor hadn’t buried itself in sand at all. Instead, it had hooked beneath a broad, flat slab of rock which, viewed through the crystal-clear water, had looked deceptively like sand.

While we had complete confidence that the boat wasn’t going anywhere, that reassurance was immediately replaced by another concern.

How were we going to get the anchor back?

At only four metres deep, free-diving to recover it was certainly an option. Failing that, we carried a 12-volt hookah diving system aboard, a compact deck-mounted compressor supplying breathing air through a twenty-metre hose and regulator, which would allow us to work underwater for as long as necessary.

Even so, the prospect of spending the following morning wrestling an anchor free from beneath a rock did little to encourage a restful night’s sleep.

Fortunately, daylight brought perfect conditions. The wind had disappeared entirely, leaving the sea as smooth as polished glass. Looking over the bow, we could clearly see the problem. The chain had wrapped itself around several rocks before leading to the anchor, which sat neatly wedged beneath a stone ledge.

Being able to see everything transformed the recovery. By slowly manoeuvring Luna Blu first one way and then the other, we carefully unwound the chain from around the rocks. Once the rode led directly to the anchor again, a gentle reverse was all it took to persuade it to slide free from its rocky prison.

Moments later the anchor was safely aboard, the engines in gear, and we resumed our northward passage toward Corfu.

Corfu and the Chequered Flag

After the short passage from Paxos, we dropped anchor off Corfu Town, the capital of Greece’s northernmost Ionian island and, for us, the final Greek landfall of this remarkable three-month journey.

Corfu’s history is immediately apparent. The ancient city of Korkyra once stood here, while the remains of Greek temples and archaeological sites still lie scattered around nearby Palaiopolis. Towering above the town, imposing Venetian fortresses stand as enduring reminders of centuries spent defending the island against pirates and successive Ottoman sieges. Remarkably, Corfu Town remains the only city in Greece enclosed by two fortresses, earning it the official title of kastropolis, the “castle city.”

It seemed entirely fitting that Corfu would also become the place where our paths crossed once more with Kerry and Tom aboard Aquatarius. We had sailed together across much of the Indian Ocean, sharing anchorages, weather forecasts and the inevitable challenges of long-distance cruising. There was something wonderfully symmetrical about meeting again on our final Greek island before each of us set course for different corners of the Mediterranean.

Once Luna Blu had settled, we wandered ashore together and disappeared into Corfu’s old town. Her narrow laneways leading to another hidden square, another centuries-old building or another inviting bar. Although surprisingly busy that evening, it was still a city that encouraged aimless wandering, rewarding curiosity at every turn.

Over a long dinner, and, inevitably, a few more drinks than originally intended, we reflected on everything that had brought us to this point. The Indian Ocean already felt like another lifetime, yet somehow the memories remained remarkably fresh.

From here, our voyages would diverge.

Kerry and Tom planned to winter Aquatarius in Montenegro before continuing their Mediterranean adventure the following season. Our own plans were rather different. Luna Blu would continue pressing westward, bound for the Adriatic, Italy, France, Spain and, ultimately, the Atlantic Ocean beyond.

For now, however, there was nowhere else we needed to be.

Sharing good food, a few beers, some rosé and, eventually, several late-evening tinctures of Metaxa (Greek fire starter), in the company of good friends in the heart of Corfu, was the perfect way to bring our Greek chapter to a close.

Epilogue

Depending on which official happened to be reading our paperwork, we had either departed Greece just inside our 90-day Schengen allowance, or well outside it. We’ll leave that judgement to the bureaucracy.

What is beyond dispute, however, is that Greece captured both our hearts and our imagination.

When we first arrived back in early April, I wondered whether my enthusiasm was simply the product of recency bias. After the demanding months spent crossing the Indian Ocean and navigating the uncertainty of the Red Sea, almost anywhere might have seemed like paradise. Perhaps I was viewing Greece through the lens of relief rather than objectivity.

As the days became weeks and the weeks became months, that theory steadily dissolved.

The more we explored, the more Greece revealed itself. Beneath its postcard-perfect scenery lay something far more enduring: the genuine warmth of its people, an extraordinary depth of history, and a collection of islands, each possessing its own unique character and understated charm. We found ourselves particularly drawn to the Dodecanese, although, in truth, there wasn’t a corner of Greece that failed to leave an impression.

For cruising sailors, Greece feels almost purpose-built. The Meltemi may occasionally blow harder than one would like, but it also means that sailing, rather than motoring, remains the norm. Every island seemed to offer a new personality, a different harbour, another welcoming taverna and yet another story waiting to unfold.

Like every cruising destination, Greece has its quirks. The bureaucracy can occasionally test one’s patience, and even as I write these words, I’m not entirely convinced we have completed the checkout formalities correctly. Somehow that seems entirely fitting. It is all part of the adventure.

As Luna Blu turned her bows westward for the final time, leaving the Greek islands astern, there was a genuine sense of sadness. Three months had slipped by far more quickly than we could have imagined. Greece had welcomed us generously, challenged us often, and rewarded us beyond expectation.

We leave with heavy hearts, grateful for every mile sailed, every anchorage enjoyed, every friendship made and every lesson learned. The voyage continues, and new horizons await, but Greece has undoubtedly earned a place among the most memorable chapters of our circumnavigation so far.