Of all the Greek islands, Patmos is easily the most serene to me. Although a little smaller in area than, say, Cambridge (at about 13 square miles), it’s richly sprinkled with monasteries, and is known as the “Jerusalem of the Aegean”. The main town, Chora, has more than 40 chapels, and not a single cornershop or grocery. Meanwhile, down on Petra Bay, there’s a rock for hermits, rising up like a five-storey Swiss cheese, complete with cells and cisterns and 11th-century plumbing.
Patmians are still happily self-contained. During our week, we met some who’d never left the island. Others would save up all their medical problems for an annual, eight-hour voyage to Athens. But most were happy just being Patmian: fishing, thinking, building little hotels or teasing vegetables out of the rock.
Despite wars, droughts, Romans and a Russian occupation (1770-74), there are still more than 3,000 permanent islanders. An unofficial telephone directory lists an occulist, two dentists, the National Guard and the Cave of the Apocalypse.
There are only 12 taxis across the island, so we got to know the drivers. They all said the same thing: “Why would we want to leave? We live in the most beautiful place in the world.”
It’s true, Patmos is compellingly magnificent. It was once listed – by Forbes magazine – as one of Europe’s most idyllic places. It’s an unruly beauty. To a passing eagle, the island must look like a splatter of mountains dropped from a great height. Most of the coves are unoccupied: too steep, too rocky, too wild. But the blues are proper cobalt blues, and across this miniature, upended desert, there’s always a lingering scent of oleander and herbs.
Every morning, before it got too hot, I’d scramble over some hill, or along a stretch of shore. It was funny the things I’d find: shrines, of course, but also the basket-maker. Every day, his van would come trundling through the hills, like some strange mechanical hedgehog, bristling with baskets.
To the Romans, the awesome loveliness of Patmos suggested punishment, and it became a place of exile. According to the Christian tradition, this is where Saint John was sent in 95 AD, and where he heard the voice of God. His shallow granite cave is clustered with chapels. It would have been a nice place to absorb the bad news, now known as the Apocalypse. I only hope that the end of the world smells like this, of sandalwood.
Patmians have never quite shrugged off the idea that the world ends here. Perhaps it helps that this is now the very edge of Christendom, and that – only 15 miles to the east – Turkey (and Asia) begins. In 1088, the Byzantines began a fortified monastery up at Chora. It’s still there, with ramparts 15 metres tall and views of the sea in every direction. Radiating defiance, it proclaims itself a last bastion of civilisation.
I loved this cranky fortress and clambered up there several times. Inside, it’s a labyrinth of tunnels and caverns. It’s also a repository of the Holy and the Strange. Among the treasures, there are the chains of St John, several skulls, some sixth-century manuscripts, a medieval flip-flop and a large crucifix donated by Catherine the Great that is barnacled in gems. Until the Italian takeover in 1912, this was the nerve centre of the island, exuding piety and awe.
For all this, Patmos is still the Greece we know and love, with its wonky lanes, biddable cats and magnificent scented landscapes. And you can always find a Mini Moke to hire, or a restaurant dangling off a mountain. Loza, on Chora’s outer ramparts, has dizzying views over half the island.
Only a hint of theocracy survives. There’s no airport, thanks to the monks, and the nightlife is stunted. It’s also said there are strict rules about “looseness” and nudity. When some hippies tried to settle in the 1970s, they were swiftly evicted by the anti-promiscuity squad. You might even find the odd pamphlet announcing the Downfall of Man. But we can save ourselves, I was told, by unplugging the internet.
None of this deters the super rich. All sorts of big names have dropped by, from David Bowie to the Aga Khan. You occasionally spot their great glass mansions up on the hilltops or down in the coves. But mostly they come in their own fancy boats. Every day, they gather in Skala (the island’s only port) in a great carnival of nautical bling.
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On this quiet island, we had the quietest spot of all. The Onar Patmos sits at the end of the track on Petra Bay. Built into the hillside, it has its own tiny chapel and sits above a little beach. Like all places run by Aria Hotels, it’s understated, spectacularly sited and endearingly staffed.
I don’t know what you call the style but “four-star farmhouse” will do. Our little manor had a stone fireplace and flagged floors, and our daughter slept in a sort of designer hayloft up in the eaves. Each morning, Giorgos, the manager, brought us coffee and rolls on our terrace, and if we listened carefully we could hear a rivulet of bells on the island opposite. It was the goats, filing down to feed.
There was always plenty to do. Another favourite place to visit was the Simantari Mansion. Owned by the local maths master, it had been in his family for nearly 300 years. They’d never thrown anything away, including their pictures of Marie Antoinette. “These,” said the teacher, “were a demonstration of our sophistication.”
Before leaving, we joined a trip to the outlying islands. They were all different: Macronisi looked like a pile of giant coins; Aspronisi was chalky white; and Arki was covered in goats. But best of all was Marathi, where the fishermen had gigantic moustaches, and were knitting their nets on the quayside as if the last few centuries hadn’t really happened.
On our last night, we went dancing. The waiters and waitresses at Aloni have always danced, in their baggy pantaloons and stiff velvet tunics. We were soon hauled on to the dance floor. Obviously, it wasn’t the wildest night, but we were up until the small hours, merrily prancing round in circles, and – by the end – we were all the best of friends.
Looking back, I wonder if Patmos is always like this: spirited, magnificent, utterly lovable and just a tiny bit bonkers.
Accommodation was provided by the Onar Patmos Hotel (doubles from €160, open April to mid-October, ariahotels.gr). Ferries run from Piraeus (8 hours, £40), Samos (2½ hours, £33) Kos (2 hours, £36) and Rhodes (5 hours, £47). Day trips to the outlying islands can be arranged through patmosdailycruises.gr (€40 each)
John Gimlette is the author of The Gardens of Mars: Madagascar, an Island Story (Head of Zeus, £10.99). Order a copy at guardianbookshop.com. Delivery charges may apply