Loutro, Crete, Greece
Depending on how you look at it, Loutro is either deeply inhospitable or a rare slice of seaside perfection. Backed by Crete’s hulking White Mountains, this tiny harbour – a curve of whitewash-and-blue, lapped by the Libyan Sea – is only reachable by boat or on foot. Getting here takes effort. Once you’ve settled in to its rhythms, though, leaving is harder still.
Humans have been making that effort for millennia. Loutro sits on the site of Phoenix, an ancient Greek and Roman harbour. Saracen pirates used it as a base for attacking passing ships. The Venetians drove them off, and built a small fortress; the Turks later did the same, and ruins of both still cling to the hills. But now there’s no such turbulence. Loutro feels apart from such things. Apart from all things. Here, life is shrunk to about 400 metres, the distance from the first taverna to the last.
I walked in, along part of the mighty E4 trail, which starts 6,300 miles away, in Spain. Hot and sticky, I took a simple room at Hotel Ilios (from around €55), right by the water’s edge – most of Loutro’s guesthouses are. With the windows wide open, I stretched out and listened: soft chants from the church, the hypnotic schwoosh of the sea. My hosts were the family Androulakakis: the old man sat sentry on a chair in the shade while his wife conjured creamy tzatziki, Sfakian cheese pie and fish stew in the kitchen; their sons served the dishes, plus carafes of quaffable rosé and, inevitably, raki – the potent conclusion to every meal, free and free-flowing.
It took no more than two minutes to walk from my room to a little patch of pebble and sand for a swim. But for spectacular bathing it’s better to walk 45 minutes east to Glyka Nera, AKA Sweetwater Beach, a dazzling bay backed by imperious cliffs. At the near end is a floating cafe, a few parasols – very civilised.
The far end is for naturists. I’d never skinny-dipped before but here I couldn’t resist. Maybe it was the colour of the sea – equal parts azure, cerulean, turquoise, emerald, teal. Maybe it was the raki. Or maybe it was the sense of being seen only by those who’d made the same pilgrimage. Whatever it was, I stripped off and plunged into the cool deliciousness.
Sarah Baxter
Stromboli, Italy
I’m an island addict: the smaller and more remote the better. I want to feel as if I’m far away from all the world, in a wild and magical place that could be out of a fairytale or a myth, the kind of place that makes you believe in dragons, where anything might be possible.
Stromboli is all of these things. It looks like an imaginary island from childhood, rising straight up from the water as you approach by boat, green and triangular. It’s one of the furthest-flung islands in the Aeolian archipelago that dots the Tyrrhenian sea between the north coast of Sicily and the tip of Italy’s toe. A hydrofoil runs from the Sicilian port of Milazzo.
Strabo, the ancient Greek geographer, wrote that this was where people thought Aelous, god of the winds, might live. I visited as part of my quest to map the islands that inspired The Odyssey and as soon as I stepped off the boat I felt it too. There is something elemental, otherworldly in the energy here.
There may not be dragons but there is one of the world’s most active volcanoes. Stromboli – the name of the island and its volcano – throws fire darts up into the sky with such frequency it’s known as “the lighthouse of the Mediterranean”. There are boat trips to watch the eruptions from the sea or you can hike up the volcano – by yourself, or with a guided tour.
I started walking in the late afternoon (it takes between four and five hours; bring a head torch and layers because it gets cold on the mountain at night). As I climbed, the sunset flashed pink, orange and golden across the water, blurring the horizon. Night-blooming jasmine began to perfume the air, and I could hear the wash of the sea against the rocks far below. Night was deepening by the time I reached the viewing platform. I looked up at one of the richest and darkest night skies I’ve ever seen. The volcano sent fire and smoke up into the air and it was deeply transportive, quietly reverent, all this beauty and power, the volcano and the stars, and the swish of the sea.
Stromboli isn’t the place for fancy hotels but there’s a decent range of simple guesthouses and apartments in San Vincenzo, the main village, including the traditional Pensione Aquilone (doubles from €60).
La Bottega Del Marano is a small deli in the village, while Ristorante l’Osservatorio, about a 30-minute stroll away, offers great views of the volcano. Beaches on the island are black sand – Piscità is the nicest. If you want to explore further, Ginostra, a village on the other side of the volcano, is accessible only by boat and mule.
Laura Coffey, author of Enchanted Islands: Travels Through Myth & Magic, Love & Loss
Menton, France
Tucked away in the south-eastern corner of France, between the Italian border and Monaco, the town of Menton basks in the warmth provided by its steep cliffs and the shimmering Mediterranean. For me, there is nowhere better to head for early sunshine. The town is famous for its own variety of sweet lemon, which it celebrates each February with an elaborate festival, but its microclimate is perfect for growing all citrus fruits.
An ideal first stop is the Val-Rahmeh Botanic Garden. When I was last there, I followed the paths that zigzag around the ochre-hued 19th-century villa at its heart and spotted trees filled with pomelo, clementines and the hand of buddha fruit – its yellow fingers lurking between the leaves. Elsewhere, towering cacti, spiky palms and floppy-fringed banana trees added to the exotic atmosphere. Next to the garden, I wandered into the town’s own olive grove, Le Parc Départemental du Pian, where retirees were playing pétanque on the sun-dappled floor. It’s not far from there to one of the town’s many beaches, the Plage des Sablettes, where you can crunch on the sand under the watch of the belltower of the old town’s Basilique Saint-Michel Archange de Menton.
Menton’s covered market, Marché des Halles, is worth a look for its stands of glossy vegetables, alluring patisserie and pungent cheeses. It’s also a good place to buy a slice of socca, a chickpea pancake that is the Côte d’Azur’s traditional street food. As the paper bag warmed my hands, I explored the maze of yellow and orange-painted streets of the old town, just a few steps away.
Above me hung lines of laundry that fluttered in the breeze and, from behind green-shuttered windows, I heard the chinking of cutlery and glasses that suggested lunchtime was approaching. I found a spot to eat on the steps of the Basilique, and bit into the crispy, golden socca while gazing out to the harbour.
The paths and steps of the old town eventually lead to the top of the hill, where an elaborate cemetery has avenues of grand tombs and gravestones that bear the English and Russian names of those who hoped that wintering on the Côte d’Azur would cure their tuberculosis – instead the humidity made it worse. Ironically, in their final resting place, they are rewarded with one of the best views in town: to the west, the Roquebrune-Cap-Martin juts into the Mediterranean; to the east, grand villas perch on rocky cliffs at the Italian border. The colours were as bright as any painter’s palette and provided the perfect antidote to the gloom back home.
There are a number of affordable hotels dotted around the newer part of Menton, including the newly renovated Hotel de Londres (doubles from €75), with rooms decorated with bright, floral prints. It’s just a 15-minute walk from the old town and market along the seafront – a great base for exploring.
Carolyn Boyd
San Vicente de la Barquera, Cantabria, Spain
With the melting snow of the Picos de Europa behind, luminous green grass underfoot and sparkling rivers and the sunlit sea stretching ahead, San Vicente in spring is the antidote to hibernation. This medieval fishing village of double-take beauty is in Cantabria, about halfway along Spain’s north coast and accessed via long, low bridges across the Escudo estuary. The actual sea is tucked behind the headland, with white sand beaches, Merón and Oyambre, that are popular with surfers. Sheltered within the estuary, idyllic Playa Maza offers views of colourful boats, plus easy access to fish restaurants.
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This all sits within the Oyambre natural park, nearly 6,000 hectares (15,000 acres) of dense woods, sandy coves, dunes and marshland, linked by winding hilly lanes (jammed with traffic during peak summer). A 20-minute drive west takes you to a coastal gorge and (after a climb down) picturesque Playa del Pedreru. If visiting after Easter, continue to Restaurante Bateau, tantalisingly visible upriver in Bustio, for a lunch of razor clams or catch of the day, but call first as opening hours vary.
There are kayaks and bikes to rent and surf courses in San Vicente and, for rainy days, a perfect bucket and spade style castle to visit, as well as Antoni Gaudí’s El Capricho villa in nearby Comillas, and the crystalline caves of one of Spain’s greatest cave systems, Soplao, 30 mins to the south.
Eating, however, is the best of the many on-shore activities. The village has what’s said to be Spain’s oldest working fishing cofradía (guild), and fresh-caught grouper, hake, scorpion fish and sardines – along with bonito in the form of sorropotún, the region’s signature dish – feature on every menu.
Several restaurants are on Avenida de los Soportales, each with tables under the ancient stone arches. The mixed grill of fish and langoustines at family-run Boga-Boga at the end of the avenue, on Plaza Mayor del Fuero, is a treat. Also recommended is Ostería San Vicente, with its wooden-planked terrace overlooking the water, because not much beats fresh oysters and a glass of albariño on a sunny evening.
The Posada Rural Punta Liñera (doubles from €50) is close by. It is friendly, great value and its setting in a field above a small cove couldn’t be better.
Sorrel Downer
Pomer Bay, Istria, Croatia
Maybe it was the scent of lavender, rosemary and helichrysum wafting on the warm breeze. Or perhaps it was the freestanding hammock in front of my safari tent that demanded complete indolence from its occupier (I can’t resist a hammock). Or even the calming sight of the pebbly beach just a few metres from where I was now reclining. More likely, it was all of the above that sent me into a state so relaxed I was almost catatonic.
I was in one of Croatia’s most popular regions, yet here in Pomer Bay, off Istria’s southern coast, I’d found a spot that seemed a world away from the sprawling campsites and waterparks that cover much of the peninsula. As the name suggests, Arena One 99 Glamping is purely glamping – just safari tents and lodges set under umbrella pines, with free bikes offered to all guests (lodges from around €100 a night). It’s on one of the many misshapen capes that dangle from the southern Istrian coast, most of it ringed by a pebbly beach.
An uphill path led me under the pines to the outdoor wellness area – five hot tubs and numerous sunloungers scattered around tipi treatment tents, a yoga platform and an A-frame wooden sauna with a glass wall opening up forest views. Just breathing in the fragrance of sun-baked pine was enough to make me unwind, let alone a good soak in the hot tub.
It was a bit of a wrench to leave the site and do some exploring, but some of Istria’s greatest sights lie nearby. A footbridge led to the Kamenjak peninsula and its nature reserve and intimate rocky coves. The lively resort town of Medulin was just across the bay, and Pula – Istria’s largest city and home to its splendid and unmissable Roman amphitheatre – is less than a 20-minute drive away. I carried on another 20 minutes north to the village of Fažana, where I took the ferry to the islands that make up Brijuni national park. There’s a bit of everything on the main Veliki Brijun island – Roman and Byzantine ruins, the resort built by a 19th-century Austrian industrialist, Paul Kupelwieser, who turned it into an elite playground, plus Tito’s former summer home and a safari park. You can even take a spin in Tito’s 1950s Cadillac if you fancy splashing out €700. Or you can just flop on a hammock and watch the sun go down over Pomer Bay.
Mary Novakovich
Porto Covo, Alentejo, Portugal
Sandwiched between a string of paradisiacal praias (beaches) along the west coast’s protected Parque Natural do Sudoeste Alentejano, Porto Covo retains a sense of Portuguese personality and pride that is sometimes buried in the brasher southern beach towns. Low-rise and unfussy, this not-quite-former fishing village is scarcely more than a dozen royal-blue-hemmed whitewashed streets angling towards the cinematic coast. It’s the Alentejo – Portugal’s largest but least populated region – at its simplest and slow-paced best.
Amble in either direction and a clutch of coves lapped by lazy, turquoise ripples unfurls. Cocooned by slate-hued cliffs, this is some of the country’s finest coastline. My pick is Praia da Samoqueira with its cream-coloured shores, speckled with shallow, silky sand tidal pools.
If you’re feeling more adventurous, pack hiking shoes and swimwear to tackle a one-day stretch of the Fishermen’s Trail – a linear, long-distance coastal hike that scintillates with wildflowers in spring. Set off at sunrise for ethereal light, ensuring an afternoon bus will deliver you back to Porto Covo’s Praia Hotel & Spa (ocean-view doubles from €169, including breakfast) in time for a muscle-relaxing sauna.
Roughly translated as the “port of fishing nets”, Porto Covo’s main attraction has long been seafood. Lone fishers pensively contemplating the assertive Atlantic Ocean from the clifftops remain a common sight. Just offshore, Pessegueiro Island recounts anecdotes of former fishing eras across the ruins of a 16th-century fort and a Roman garum (fermented fish) processing site.
In summer, a €15 boat trip will whisk you for a two-hour tour of the wild, sometimes wind-ravaged isle. Or embrace slowness and snag a terrace table at A Ilha restaurant instead, admiring the islet over a cold beer and a €10 plate of choco frito (fried cuttlefish). For elevated petiscos (snacking plates) paired with regional vinho (a chilled glass of Vicentino rosé, cultivated in sandy soils farther south, always hits the spot on a sizzling day) slip into chic Abranda wine bar on Largo Marquês de Pombal, Porto Covo’s central Lisbon-inspired square.
Summer sees the square invigorated as a steady stream of holidaying Lisboetas arrive (it’s a two-hour bus ride from the capital), peaking during late August’s patron saint-honouring Festas de Porto Covo, when it is carpeted by couples dancing to accordion-laced folk music. Seated on a bench, surrounded by smiles, swirling duos and a salty breeze, you’re reminded that Portugal’s soul is still alive in the Alentejo.
Daniel James Clarke