Island of Paros and a Perfect Anchorage

by Nancy Knudsen on 20 Jul 2006 As we escape the anchorage in Mykonos – the lovely white houses with blue windows and red waterfalls of flowers, it is again blowing a steady 30-35 knots. The wind whipping across the water constantly destroys any enjoyment of the beauty of the anchorage. The weather forecast has been for high winds in some areas, so we leave ready for anything.

But what a surprise! Fifteen minutes later, away from the island, we have a very pleasant 20-25 knots, on the quarter.

And a few hours later we reach an anchorage that all sailors dream of. It’s called Ormus Ay Iaonnou, but it is across the bay from the village of Naoussa, on the Island of Paros and the locals call it Monastiri.

We’ve had such gales since we left Ayvalik that we moodily expect some factor to mar our stay, but it never comes.

The anchorage is broad and long, shallow and sandy. It’s protected from the weather, and surrounded by high ochre cliffs, and a small swimming beach at the end, with a taverna and sunbaking chairs for hire at €9 (gulp). We have our own ‘sunbaking chairs’ so we’re definitely not customers. In the early morning and late afternoon, scatterings of mountains goats can be seen leaping impossible crevasses and their young bleating after them.

Because of the swimming beach, regular caiques – those strong wooden painted fishing boats so typical of every Greek port – make regular trips to and from Naoussa.

We dinghy to the ‘wharf’ – a concrete pad set against the cliffs, more like a helipad than anything nautical – and lope into town across the wide exposed waters. And here, awaiting us, is all the charm one dreams about in a Greek fishing village. There are tourists here on summer holidays, but they are mostly Greek. As artificial as was Mykonos, so is Naoussa genuine. As self conscious and arrogantly cute was Mykonos, so is Naoussa relaxed and comfortable with itself. Like Mykonos, all is white stucco, with a church in every vista and bouganvillia billowing over walls above our heads as we stroll. In the cool narrow streets people go about their daily lives, washing, chatting, drinking coffee. Kids on summer holidays shout and bounce balls in the alleyways.






Now I have the skipper in one of his enthusiastic bursts saying. 'Well, I could live HERE you know!'

FINDING THE POST OFFICE

Greece is not Turkey. During two pleasurable years we have basked in the caring warmth of the Turkish people. Now here in lovely Naoussa, it’s mid afternoon, sunny and warm, and we look for the post office. Locals are casually helpful, nodding and pointing up the street. We walk, looking, and keep asking. 'Yes,' they say, 'Further along – keep going.' It’s now very hot in the sun and the dusty street is winding up a steep hill and out of town. 'This can’t be right,' says Ted. There are three men sitting in an outdoor taverna, heads together, sipping Coke. 'It’s ten minutes walk up that road' one disturbs himself enough to mumble, 'past the Bakers.'

Now we’re committed, so we slog it out through ever more deserted residential streets, checking our watches and perspiring freely in the heat. Twenty minutes later, we haven’t found a bakery, but see a butcher’s shop. Entering gratefully, we ask the lone butcher. ‘You’ve come too far’ he grunts sweetly, ‘just down the road.’

Finally, we find a building that has a large Greek sign, but small English sign to one side that says, ‘Hellenic Post’. We rush forward, and it’s – shut. The sign tells it all: 0900 - 1400.

As we wind our frustrated perspiring way back towards town, the three Coke sippers are still in the taverna. I can’t resist: ‘The post office – it is shut.’ I call out, as kindly as I can muster. ‘yes yes,’ nods the mumbling one, ‘shut every afternoon.’

No, Greece is not Turkey...

Back on the boat we swim and laze away a couple of idyllic days before continuing. Our plan is a short overnight stop at Faros, on the Island of Sifnos, before an overnight leap southwards to Crete.

FAROS, ISLAND OF SIFNOS AND DASHED HOPES

The wind is pretty high today and Blackwattle leaps along with the wind behind her, loving the exhilaration of the ride. The sea is a midnight blue, depth more than 150 metres as it’s off the scale, water rolling and shining with happiness behind us.

As we turn into the anchorage at Faros around midday, it’s picture perfect - there’s a high whitewashed church on our left cliff and some other light white structure on the cliff to the right, just one boat in the anchorage. However, while the water is flat in the lee of the high mountains, the wind is whistling, and we anchor in a small bay-within-a-bay for extra protection. The Spade anchor bites hard as usual, but there’s a close and rocky lee shore, never comfortable. The wind does not abate, but whips across the tiny anchorage, coming in bursts of up to 35 knots. We curse the ‘windy Cyclades’, and the Church mocks back, arrogant in its high secure position. On the beach children play and swim, and we can see people picnicking, oblivious, as though the world was normal today.

We don’t launch the dinghy, we don’t swim. We sit irritable, on anchor watch, waiting for the wind to abate. An hour or two later two more boats arrive, and anchor on top of us. One boat’s stern is only a few metres from our bow. We’re confident of our Spade, but how do we know their anchors will hold? The evening comes and there’s no drop in the wind, so tonight we go to our bunk with high piping whine in the rigging and the humming of the wind generator lulling us fitfully to sleep.

Whenever will we get out of the miserable Cyclades?!….