It takes three to five hours to get from Athens to Sifnos by ferry. There is no airport. Mostly, visitors are domestic – Athenians and Thessalonikians – and the island does not suffer from rampant tourism in the same way the likes of Santorini, Mykonos or Rhodes do.
Sifnos is modest in size and surrounded by deep water. There aren’t as many beaches with shallow turquoise seas on bright sand, lovingly kitted out by Zeus for Instagram (though there are some).
What’s more, the western part of the island, where the boats dock, is relatively barren, and so Sifnos does not immediately dazzle in the same way, say, Antipaxos does, far from the Cyclades, with its shallow bay and encircling tavernas.
There aren’t many taxis on the island, either. A lot of Greek travellers bring their own cars or advance-book a ride to their hotel – all boutiques; there are no resorts with people wearing Hoka running trainers.
And so, last year, my companion and I had to hitch a lift with an eccentric French couple who were amusingly open about their wealth. They blanketly refused repeated offers of money, dropped us off and were on their way.
We found a reliable taxi driver later in the week: he was charming, late, and patient, not to mention helpful with cigarettes. Any good traveller will know how to find a good taxi driver (become lost and don’t be a dick about it; they will find you).
The island is small enough to hop from cove to cove by foot, at least for those happy enough to traipse in the hot sun, meeting horses along the way; finding pottery workshops and painters; libraries and whitewashed walls. Behind the first line of mountains are rich olive groves and swaying almond trees, slopes peppered with wild juniper that breathe rich fragrance into warm hillsides.
There is a peace and a gentleness to Sifnos. It is understated. But there are people there making magic; a nightlife that flows with the tides.
Sifnos measures 74 sq km and has little more than 2,000 people. Its folklore and general customs have been maintained; communities are pocketed within steep valleys.
Before the height of summer, you might trek two hours from Nus restaurant in Platis Gialos, a beautiful village of red flowers, seashore walkways and small beers, to Kastro further north, and encounter hardly anyone.
Kastro is a staggered village. The houses, shops, bars and restaurants are painted, classically, in white. Cars must stop on a single road before the first building, and so it is accessible only by foot.
It is worth it, partly because on a tiny rock jutting out to sea is the Church of the Seven Martyrs, a chapel with a blue domed roof and a little blue door, which from land appears to be almost floating on the rolling sea. It is breathtaking.
And then there is Cantina, a hyper-local, minimal-waste restaurant established by Sifnos’s most famous export, the chef and former molecular biologist Giorgos Samoilis, who also founded Omega3, long-loved by food lovers enchanted by the Aegean. Cantina is also enchanting, set into the cliffside, shack-like and wedged between rocks, blue seas and cloudless skies; a tribute to island cooking.
When I was there, it was hot, and the restaurant was still whirling in the motions of early-afternoon preparation. Service was an hour away.
But there were Sifnonian craft beers to be had on Seralia beach before whole squid on braised beans with chimichurri; a deconstructed spanakopita where soft spinach was blanketed by feta foam, wisps of dill and crisp strips of filo pastry; chickpeas as panisse, log-like chips to be dunked in an aioli, near enough, with oregano; and barbecued pork next to lemon sauce. All this with wines, natural, alfresco among the circling birds.
After lunch, I’m not sure anything matters. But there is a local man who describes himself as Cuban running a bar in an alleyway. There are characters to be found there. I think some of them might be hiding, a little like Sifnos.
