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| | | | Not too many home comforts
I have just returned from Kalamaki, Zante. I had a very quiet and relaxing holiday. The Greek people were very friendly and helpful.
The island is famous for the Loggerhead turtles. Unfortunately, I never saw a real one, only replicas in the shops.
The weather was very hot and the food was great. I would recommend the resort only to people who don't care too much for home comforts and are easily pleased with very little facilities in their apartment. I was assured that all Greece was the same.
Travel guide: Ionian Islands
Italy and back in minutes
From the Daily Mail
On the waterfront, relishing a breakfast of spinach pie and black coffee in the shade of a heavily-laden pomegranate tree, I felt triumphant. I had just staked my claim to a world record. Smiling, snowy-headed locals who had witnessed the feat confirmed it had never been done before. It would look good in the Guinness Book Of Records, I mused: The first person to swim, non-stop, from Greece to Italy - and back.
'Oh dear, you forgot to time yourself,' my wife chuckled. 'Ah well, I'll have to do it again before lunch,' I grinned. 'Nothing like getting the rehearsal right.'
The rocky, 600-yard, turtle-shaped islet of St Nicholas is a mere 200 yards off the northern tip of the seductive Greek island of Zante. But - more than 200 miles from Italy - it remains Italian, an outpost from the 300-year Venetian occupation of Zante.
Incredibly, uninhabited St Nicholas, passed on to Vatican ownership, was overlooked in the island's unification with Greece in 1864. So the international swimming record could legitimately be claimed, but I decided not to pursue the idea. I hadn't packed a stopwatch, anyway.
Idyllic, verdant Zante (population 37,000) is a small island, 23 miles by ten, roughly the size of the Isle of Wight. It captivated us. We explored the gem in the oh-so-blue Ionian Sea first by boat, taking a leisurely day-long cruise from Zante Town aboard the 145ft Delfini, which never reached its top speed of 17 knots.
There are 25 beautiful, top-rated beaches - and countless deserted coves accessed only by boat - on the island, including the longest in Greece, the six miles of golden sands at Laganas Bay, the breeding ground of the loggerhead turtle.
From the Delfini, we spied all of the beaches, stopping for a dip at three of them. The absolute must-stop is Smugglers' Cove in St George's Bay. Here, half-buried in the sand, lies the rusting wreck of a cigarette-smuggling cargo ship which ran aground in the late Eighties. It is one of the most famous sights of Greece, though suspicion surrounds the shipwreck story. Perhaps, so perfectly placed, bang in the middle of the cove, it was beached deliberately. What a coup by the island's tourism spin doctors.
At Cape Skinari, we were astonished as the sleek, white Delfini nosed into the Blue Caves. The refraction of the light turns everything in the water blue, even the boats.
Travel guide: Ionian Islands
Slow road to a perfect beach
From the Daily Mail
We'd hardly had time to settle onto the transfer bus from Kefalonia airport to the small resort of Scala where we were staying when the tour company rep jumped up. Handing me a welcome party invitation, she said: 'There's a music bar opposite where you're staying, I'm sure you'll want to get in there straight away.' Peaceful, pretty Kefalonia expects families, thirtysomethings and couples as its visiting guests. And largely, that's what it gets.
They don't expect three slightly hysterical, twentysomething girlies. Wouldn't we rather be on Zante - our livelier, neighbouring island - the locals wondered? No, no and no again. We wanted a quiet week somewhere beautiful, and Kefalonia fitted the bill. The biggest of the Ionian Islands, it is also the most unspoilt.
The island is a collection of coastal villages circumnavigating the huge Mount Enos that dominates the island, a patchwork of olive groves and fields saturated with poppies and dandelions - disturbed only by tiny, winding roads linking the villages. The main street of our village, Scala, was lined with simple tavernas, pretty garden bars and a few souvenir shops and supermarkets. No throbbing clubs, pubs or other horrors. Lovely.
Unfortunately, what Scala didn't have a lot of was atmosphere and, to an extent, that's true of most of Kefalonia. Levelled by an earthquake in the Fifties, the island has many new buildings that bear little relation to the traditional Greek architecture and fishing village charm common to most islands. Only the village of Fiskardo, on the island's northern tip, retains any original architecture.
But the beaches are where Kefalonia scores. Staying somewhere as small as Scala means a change of scenery - and a hire car is essential if you want to get out and about. But as roads are narrow and speed limits restricted to 40mph, it can take a while to get around. So we started off nearer home - the small village of Lourdas, with golden sand and rolling waves, and the tiny, almost Caribbean beaches of Kourkomelata and Avithos.
On the last day we ventured further to the port of Sami and the neighbouring beach of Anti-sami. Although a three-hour drive, Anti-sami proved worth it - a long strip of sand shaped like a crescent moon, backed by lush green mountains that encircled the sea. Beaches like this no longer officially exist - no sign of tourism, no cafe or toilets, just the clearest azure water and the blissful feeling that comes from being surrounded by unspoilt natural beauty.
Travel guide: Ionian Islands
Nothing is too much trouble
We had a lovely relaxing holiday. Nothing is too much trouble for the people on this island. Meals were excellent - we ate Greek food, of course.
The most amazing thing was that there is no crime on Kefalonia. It seemed strange not to carry everything with us (including our cash). Bars are also plentiful and very, very good. Beaches also are something else. We would recommend Kefalonia to anybody.
Travel guide: Ionian Islands
Lovely and laid-back
We stayed at Scala, a quiet, pretty resort with a backdrop of green hills on the southern tip of the island. The sand and shingle beach is clean, with parasols and sunshades costing about £5 for two all day.
The water is lovely and clear, although there was a fair bit of seaweed at one end and the shingle shelves quite steeply at some points, so it's not suitable for very small children.
Scala has lots of good tavernas and a few shops plus the bonus of the remains of a Roman villa in an old olive grove - lovely. There are a few hotels, but it's mainly self-catering here.
We hired a car and drove round the island in a day. We loved the pretty harbour front at Sami and visited the nearby Melissani Lake (a bit touristy, but fun) and the Drogarati Cave (lots of steps and people).
Fiskardo, at the northern end, has some lovely restaurants and you can watch the posh yachts come in as you eat - fantastic ice cream parlour here, too! Myrtos Beach was dramatic (as is all the coastline on this side of the island) but is a long drive down and lots of flies at dusk made the idea of staying for sunset rather unappealing.
Had a meal on the harbour front at Argostoli on the way back. Unremarkable, but this is more of a working town than a resort.
Took the ferry from Sami to Ithaca - a beautiful, unspoilt island. Especially loved the little port of Kioni and the spectacular harbour at Vathy, but a car is vital to get around.
Food on Kefalonia was great - plenty of traditional Greek dishes and quite a few vegetarian options. Best local wine is the dry white Robola. A lovely, laid-back island!
Travel guide: Ionian Islands
Captain Corelli's Kefalonia
From the Mail on Sunday
The elderly Greeks rub their eyes in disbelief. They left the island of Kephallonia in 1953, when a devastating earthquake flattened towns and villages. They saw their homes destroyed and Argostoli, the capital, levelled.
Now, half a century later, they emerge on to the decks of the arriving ferry and discover that their home town has spectacularly resurrected itself from the rubble. The column-fronted courtroom and the Venetian-style villas that crumbled to dust - all have reappeared after an absence of nearly 50 years.
It's only when the passengers have disembarked that they discover the cause of this wonder. This fine old town is a masterful illusion, a conjuring trick of the eye, that is held together with nothing more than scaffolding, bolts and epoxy resin.
'Camera . . . and ACTION.' Actor Nicolas Cage struts across the set clutching a bulbous stringed instrument and the British film crew spring to work. I watched all this happening last May, when Captain Corelli's Mandolin - the film version of Louis de Bernieres' best-selling novel - was being filmed on the Ionian island of Kefalonia.
The movie has been produced by Working Title - the company that made Notting Hill, Elizabeth and Four Weddings And A Funeral - and when it opens next month looks certain to be the year's biggest hit. Cage is playing Corelli, Penelope Cruz is his lover, while John Hurt plays the irascible but caring father in this epic tale of love and brutality, set amid the Italian occupation of Greece during the Second World War.
The story is beautifully told. The irrepressible Corelli - an eccentric Italian soldier with a passion for the mandolin - at first infuriates the village doctor, Iannis, whose home he is occupying. But as the doctor starts to appreciate his exuberant personality, so Corelli falls head-over-heels in love with his daughter, Pelagia.
The fighting draws ever closer; storm clouds gather. When Italy switches allegiance the Nazis land on Kefalonia and vow to slaughter every Italian on the island.
Those terrible war years were one of the darkest periods of Kefalonia's troubled history and were - until recently - as unknown to the outside world as the island itself. Tourists flocked in their thousands to nearby Corfu, but Kefalonia remained unspoiled and largely unvisited, a quiet backwater in the Ionian sea.
But this scretive and spectacularly beautiful island may not be able to hide its charms for much longer. Tourism is on the increase, and a large influx is expected after the release of the film.
Travel guide: Ionian Islands
Captain Corelli: Loved the book, like the island
From the Mail on Sunday
Kefalonia, a small, rocky island in the Ionian Sea, has never loomed large in the British consciousness. Until, that is, the publication of Louis de Bernieres' novel, Captain Corelli's Mandolin.
The book describes the romance between Pelagia, a local doctor's daughter, and Captain Corelli, a captain in the Italian army, and is mainly set during the Italian occupation of Kefalonia during the Second World War. The book remains on the bestseller lists four years after publication, and is even featured in the screen romance between Hugh Grant and Julia Roberts in the film Notting Hill.
The physical world which de Bernieres describes has been almost completely destroyed, as a cataclysmic earthquake razed the island to rubble in 1953. But has the spirit of true romance and courage remained on the island? Or have the islanders been corrupted by their newfound fame? I went to Greece to find out.
On the charter flight out of Gatwick, I began to suspect that my fellow holidaymakers might not be committed Corelli fans. The lads sitting behind me, who had clearly taken advantage of their local tanning facilities before they came out, were complaining loudly about the selection of duty-free cigarettes.
At the tiny airport terminal, the conveyor belt was jammed with crown green bowling bags. I assume most of the flight's passengers were bound for Lassi, Kefalonia's mass-market tourist resort. I was heading for the small town of Fiskardo, on the other side of the island.
Fiskardo is little more than a village, a cluster of pink-shuttered, whitewashed houses built around a small harbour. It looks much as it would have done 50 years ago, because it was the only village left standing after the earthquake.
All the buildings here are founded on solid rock, which protected them from the worst of the tremors. The smallness and simplicity of Fiskardo belie its sophistication. The yachts moored in the harbour must cost £1 million a year to run. It's just as well that the food is so good in Fiskardo, as there is little to do in the village but eat and gaze across the harbour at nearby Ithaca.
Early in the season, most of Fiskardo's visitors are British, but later in the summer the main tourist traffic comes from neighbouring Italy. The local businesses earn enough from rich Italians during August to stay empty for the rest of the year.
The restaurants along the harbour, although inexpensive by British standards, are light years better than the Greek average. Particularly enjoyable is the eccentric atmosphere of Nicholas's Fish Restaurant overlooking the harbour. The walls of the restaurant are covered in newspaper reviews, most of which focus upon the 'colourful' character of Nicholas rather than the food.
The meal, however, was probably the best Greek cuisine I've experienced outside Athens, and even the Hellenic staples such as tzatziki were subtly better than the norm.
Travel guide: Ionian Islands
Odyssey to an isle of peace
From the Daily Mail
Harry stared into the distance as the boat shuddered and rolled under us. Ahead was the long lobster tail of Meganissi, an island he hadn't visited since 1942. Then he had journeyed there in a small fishing boat under the cover of darkness as he and other young men of the Greek Resistance distributed scarce food between the islands.
His brother Costas had told us Harry had fallen into the hands of the occupying Italians, who repeatedly threw him downstairs to get information from him. All Harry would admit was that he had fallen, possibly twice; anyway, they were good chaps really and he had ended up singing with them.
Now he sat silent with his memories at the prow of a boat taking a party of holidaymakers to the island. Behind us, an hour away, was our starting point, Ithaca - the Ionian island from which Odysseus set sail on a journey that was to last 21 years.
Meganissi is green and pretty despite a chronic shortage of water, with the island of Lefkas a mountainous mass looming out of the heat across a narrow channel. We anchored in tired Porto Spilio before taking a long winding road uphill to wander the labyrinthine streets of enchanting Spartohori.
We had met Harry in Ithaca, where a group of us were enjoying bed and breakfast at Hamilton House, run by his brother Costas. Harry was making his annual pilgrimage from Johannesburg to the place of his birth. Learning of his links with Meganissi, we had persuaded him to join us for the trip.
Hamilton House is a handsome stone building that dominates the quayside of the pretty port of Kioni and is one of the few buildings to have survived the earthquake that devastated the island in 1953. Locals claim it was built for Lady Elizabeth Hamilton, a niece of Nelson's mistress.
Its terrace and balconies command an excellent view of the endless comings and goings of boats and fishermen in the bay. At Kioni, tourism and Greek life go on side-by-side the village's best beach is right in front of a graveyard. If Harry proved reticent about his years with the Resistance, he was voluble on the delights of Ithaca, a habit he shared with other Greeks we encountered.
The taxi drivers who take you on tours of the island for a few pounds always suggest that you sample the waters of Kalamos: according to legend, anyone who drinks from this spring will return to Ithaca. One driver, a Greek-Australian called Con, swore that the legend must be true. After all, hadn't he drunk of the waters and then returned seven years later to live on the island? Not that it had anything to do with his wife being from Ithaca . . .
Travel guide: Ionian Islands
Paddle power across the Ionian Sea
From the Daily Mail
You'll be singing Kumbayah round the camp fire, the bugs'll bite and there's bound to be an argument about who steers the canoe, prophesied my companion of 14 years when the subject of a sea-kayaking holiday around the Ionian Isles was first broached.
'You go. I'll book into a small hotel and see you when you get back.' And, of course, she was right. Within hours of setting off from the beach south of Nidri on the island of Levkas, my old friend Mike, who'd agreed to join me on the trip, was complaining about pains in muscles he never knew he had.
Cooped up in the front cockpit of our double-kayak, knees chafing, feet scrabbling for the rudder pedals, he kept up a running commentary on his discomfort. And as he did so, the prow of our bright red plastic kayak swung like a drunken compass needle. 'Right, that's it,' I snapped. 'As soon as we reach camp, I steer, or it's separate kayaks from now on.'
But that evening, as the flames licked heavenwards and the blue Ionian slipped into darkness, all animosity was forgotten. In the distance, the lights of the island of Meganisi twinkled.
Later, the first prophecy came true: we did indeed sing Kumbayah - but only to say we had. No one had a guitar (let alone a harmonica) by Adrian Morgan and none of us knew the words.
Sea-kayaking, provided you keep up a steady rhythm and avoid overexertion, can be very relaxing, although it's worth remembering that your accommodation is a tent each night, so you can get fairly grubby along the way. Although the kayaks are slender, there's still room for little watertight compartments fore and aft to store provisions and keep your sleeping gear.
And if you go in an organised group, like ours, a sailing boat with outboard motor follows behind to provide support and encouragement. Not that we needed it. The Ionian in May was glassy calm, and it was hard to envy the charter yachts motoring idly through those oily swells, even if they did carry iceboxes and cool drinks. The drum of an engine was no match for the swish of our paddles, which attracted an unexpected bonus.
Travel guide: Ionian Islands
Island hopping for beginners
More than two thousand islands belong to Greece, of which more than 100 are inhabited.
Those that do not have people on them range from little more than large rocks with a few trees teetering on top to great expanses of uncultivated land. So, where should you start?
There are seven distinct groupings of islands: the Ionian, Cyclades, Sporades, North Aegean, Argo-Saronic, East Aegean and Dodecanese.
Before you book anything - flights, ferries, hotels - you should decide what kind of holiday you want.
The Ionian sea to the west of the mainland has six main inhabited islands including Corfu, Cephalonia and Zakynthos and some of the best beaches in Greece.
Together they are, perhaps more than most groups, package holiday territory. Cephalonia in particular has suffered from a huge rise in visitor numbers since Louis de Bernieres's book Captain Corelli's Mandolin and the subsequent film.
The Dodecanese has some of the biggest party islands, Rhodes and Kos being the most raucous. Rhodes town, however, is well preserved and well worth a look.
In the Cyclades there are dozens of inhabited islands, and transfer times between them are short.
These islands vary enormously in style, from smart Mykonos with its flashy yachts to Ios with its loud and lively nightlife and Santorini, frequented by cruise ships and beautifully embellished by its gigantic volcanic crater and black sand beaches.
The Cyclades and Dodecanese in the southern Aegean perhaps offer the easiest options as they have plenty of islands, most with short transfer times between them.
Travel guide: Ionian Islands
Sleepy isle where life can be so wild
From the Daily Mail
Finding the Strawberry Pink Villa took for ever, but it was worth it. Leaving the busy coast road near Corfu Town, I headed inland, climbing through olive groves into the elegant suburb of Perama.
The house was hidden behind an overgrown garden. In five minutes I'd swopped noise and pollution for leafy green peace - and entered a world unchanged since the Durrell family lived here in the Thirties.
This is the Corfu immortalised by Gerald Durrell in his book My Family And Other Animals.The Durrells lived on the island from 1935 to 1939: the villa was their first home. There are still people on Corfu who remember Britain's best-known family of expats, who led a comically adventurous, lotus-eating life in what was then an unknown Mediterranean backwater.
Following in the Durrells' footsteps is less a matter of tracking down particular sights than entering into the spirit of Corfu. Walking is a better idea than driving. An appreciation of nature and a sense of humour are musts, as is the ability to swim. Optional extras include a huge appetite and the ability to knock back several glasses of retsina without falling over.
Corfu is different from the rest of Greece. This sickle-shaped island has been colonised by a succession of rulers. The Venetians built fortresses above Corfu Town and planted the olive trees. The French added grand public buildings and an esplanade modelled on the Rue de Rivoli.
The British chipped in with a cricket pitch, still in use. The Greeks, in turn, have brought volatility and a love of life (plus a seemingly equal love of chaos) to an already loopy mishmash of cultures. It was Durrell who noted that life on Corfu was occasionally similar to a comic opera. But he also described the island as a garden, and - despite some overbuilding along the coast - so it remains.
Walking in the interior takes you through scenes that haven't changed for centuries. In the hills north of Barbati, one of Durrell's favourite haunts, an ancient donkey trail winds its way upwards into a landscape of deep green hills, crisscrossed by valleys lined with cypresses. The mountain village of Episkepsis might never have seen a foreign visitor.
Travel guide: Ionian Islands
Making a getaway
My husband David and I weren't too sure about the late deal our travel agent turned up. Wasn't Corfu full of lager louts and hotels overrun by kids? Thankfully, the answer is no.
Yes, there are areas to avoid if you want a quiet life (like Benitses) and yes, the idyllic island described by Gerald Durrell has become over-commercialised, but it still has some lovely spots - Paleokastritsa is one of them.
Corfu Town is an interesting place, with its esplanade where we watched cricket and had coffee in the elegant Parisian-style arcade, which is lit up with lovely old lanterns by night. An easy place to spend a day.
We went in September when the season's winding down and is more pleasant. Hiring a car, we explored the north and west coasts. Every now and again we hit a pocket of mass tourism, but simply jumped back in the car. Heading away from the coast is also a good plan - in the island's interior Mt Pantokrator can be found among some more traditional mountain villages.
Travel guide: Ionian Islands
Small and still beautiful
The most loveable thing about the tiny Ionian island of Paxos is not its prettiness, like a sliver of jade afloat on an azure sea; nor its white-pebbled beaches and silent olive groves; nor even the warmth of its people and its climate.
No, what endears Paxos to me is that, during more than a decade of the hectic expansion in the global travel business, it has not changed.
We spent a fortnight here in 1989. Having flown to Corfu, we chugged the 10 miles to Paxos in a weatherbeaten old motorlaunch. The voyage, including a pause to admire a passing sea-turtle, took an afternoon.
We landed at the miniature fishing village of Loggos, stepping onto the jetty as the sun set, amid a throng of cats, early evening ouzo-drinkers and Captain Nikos tying up his boats for the night.
What followed were two weeks which our four children have never forgotten. The miracle is that nearly 15 years later Loggos, which my wife and I have just revisited, is startlingly the same.
The small, curved terrace of pastel-coloured buildings is unaltered. Legions of cats still besiege the taverna tables. Captain Nikos is still renting his outboards. The grumpy baker is still selling spinach pies, croissants and hefty local loaves.
Not a single new building has intruded on this picture postcard waterfront. Even the abandoned factory, which until 40 years ago made soap from the residue of the island's olive oil presses, remains no more than a picturesque stone ruin.
It was hard to believe time had stood so still. True, our passage from Corfu had been updated. This time we travelled by hydrofoil, skimming across the sea in barely an hour, with no turtle-stop.
Two things protect Paxos from ruinous development. There's no room for an airport, and there is a lack of fresh water, which makes the prospect of posh hotels with pools and palm trees out of the question. Even flushing the loo one is urged to do only in extremis.
Almost everything about Paxos is on a scale too small for mob tourism and too modest for the flashy rich.
The island is only seven miles long and three miles across at its widest. So most visitors get about either by bus, boat, hired scooter or on foot, using Ian Bleasdale's Walking Map Of Paxos to guide them through the olive groves.
The winding roads are largely free of traffic, save for pedestrians and goats, and there are just two petrol stations on the island - the same number as there are policemen.
We travelled with Simply Ionian, aptly named since simplicity is what it (and Paxos) is all about. Our small apartment, though spartan, was clean, comfortable and commanded a lovely view over Loggos harbour.
Travel guide: Ionian Islands
Beautiful island with a dramatic past
From the Daily Mail
The skills of British novelist Louis de Bernieres may have put the Ionian island of Cephalonia firmly on the tourist map. But my trip had nothing to do with following the trail of his hero, Captain Corelli.
I'd heard from a friend about the amazing tale of a British hero, John Capes, the sole survivor of an Allied submarine, the Perseus, that hit a mine one night in December 1941. And I wanted to find out more.
Capes, who wasn't an official member of the crew, was napping in an empty torpedo rack when the impact occurred. What followed showed an extraordinary presence of mind.
Having managed to open the escape hatch, Capes then used an improvised breathing lung, to rise 170ft through icy water to the surface, before swimming seven miles to Cephalonia's shore. There he collapsed on the pebbled bay of Mavrata, a tiny village on the southern tip of the island.
The story of his remarkable achievement, for which Capes was later awarded the Distinguished Service Order, is hardly known outside naval circles. The sailor was found by islanders, who sheltered him from their Italian, and later German, occupiers before arranging his escape in a small boat across the Aegean Sea to Turkey 18 months later.
The risks these Cephalonians took in shielding him were immense. The reprisals for hiding an enemy could have involved burning down a whole village. So Capes would regularly be moved by locals in the dead of night from one safe house to another.
It was those men and women - the youngest now in there 80s - I had come to talk to.
Travel guide: Ionian Islands
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| | | | Exploring an enchanted island
The rugged west coast of the island is awesome - sheer 1,000ft cinder-toffee cliffs plunging into the sea, alongside towering limestone arches and shadowy tunnels fashioned by erosion.
On land, we didn't leave a stone unturned, discovering the island in a hired car. Comfortably, over three days, we clocked up 250 miles of stunning sights from our base, a spotlessly clean studio in a complex of 21 on the outskirts of Alikes, a quiet resort.
As first-time visitors, we immediately noticed the distinctive churches of Zante. All over the Ionian Islands, they have the stamp of Venice - separate bell towers. Even the smallest villages boast impressive detached campaniles.
Zante Town was effectively destroyed by an earthquake in 1953. It was carefully rebuilt, modelled on the original, but, the townsfolk told us, it has lost a lot of its quaintness. Yet we thought it was an enchanting place. Its claim to fame lingers: on a hill overlooking the bustling, shimmering harbour, the poet Dionysios Solomos penned Greece's national anthem.
Inevitably, there are coastal villages which have become highly commercialised. Laganas is the worst. It has its own Golden Mile, a neon strip of fast food joints, karaoke bars, satellite TV pubs and tattoo parlours. But most villages, especially inland, on the plain and in the mountains, are virtually unspoilt. Life there, hinged on farming, the top earner, goes on unchanged.
The women of charming, hilltop Volimes are renowned for their handwoven woollen carpets and rugs. These make wonderful gifts, costing from £5.
We were amazed by Zante's highest - and tiniest - village, 1,787ft up in the Vrachionas mountains. Medieval, lime-stone-built Yiri (population 86) is a carbon-copy of Derbyshire Dales hamlets. At Porto Koula, we drove through a vast, remarkable grove of olive trees, 500 years old, with enormous, gnarled, surrealistic trunks.
At Keriou Limmi, my curiosity got the better of me, so I paid the price. With a cane, I poked into a disused pitch well, called the Herodotus Spring after the ancient Greek historian. Beneath its shallow, crystal-clear surface water, sticky cold tar oozes. For centuries it was used to caulk the caiques. It was a messy job cleaning up after my probing experiment.
Locals had urged us not to miss the spectacular sunsets at Kampi. From a cliff-top taverna, we were treated to a silent, unforgettable show of nature as the deep pink sun sank beneath the sapphire sea. Five hundred years after the Venetians called Zante the Flower Of The East, it still lives up to that enviable name.
I miss being woken every morning by the competitive chorus from cocks and turkeys - or the tolling bells from the nearby pretty pink and gold church of St Mary's. And I especially miss my early morning swim.
Resurrecting Argostoli
Kefalonia is the biggest of the Ionian islands, a chain of mountainous jewels strung out along Greece's western coastline. It takes two hours to drive from the north to the south of the island, across rugged terrain dotted with olives and wild thyme. The highest peak, Mount Enos, is 1,000ft higher than Ben Nevis; its northernmost port, Fiskardo, is perhaps the most picturesque fishing village in Greece.
Strangely, the island was last on the list of possible locations when film producer Kevin Loader began his search for the ideal place to shoot Captain Corelli's Mandolin. 'We had numerous requirements and searched throughout Greece to find the perfect location,' he says. 'But there were always major drawbacks.'
The neighbouring island of Ithaca was considered but rejected. 'There were simply not enough hotel rooms for the crew.' The port of Khania in Crete seemed ideal, except for the town's prominent mosque. Next to be rejected was a handful of locations on the Peloponnese, while Corfu - the favoured choice - was too overrun with tourists.
'And then,' says Loader, 'I was sailing towards the Kefalonian port of Sami and I thought "this is it". 'Although all of the old buildings had been destroyed by the 1953 earthquake, there was a harbour deep enough to anchor large warships - an important factor - and a stunning mountainous backdrop.'
The more the film crew explored, the more they realised that Sami was the perfect place to recreate the pre-war capital of Argostoli. The main building on the waterfront was a hotel, the Kastro, which they were able to block-book for the duration of filming. The other buildings were either derelict or their owners were willing to lend them for filming. Within months, the waterfront was receiving the biggest makeover of its life.
The older islanders were amazed to see their one-time capital being resurrected on the other side of the island by a team of British set designers, craftsmen and engineers. 'They brought their grandchildren to show them around,' says Loader. 'They told them, "this is what it used to be like".'
They were even more surprised to see warships anchored in the harbour and German tanks being unloaded on to the quayside.
Many locals still have painful memories of the wartime atrocities that happened on Kefalonia. The barbarous massacre of the Italians by the Nazis, recounted in chilling detail in the novel, was not invented by Louis de Bernieres. 'One old man told me he was witness to the horror,' said Loader. 'The butchered Italians were not buried for five or six days. He could still smell the stench.'
Filming continued for much of last summer, allowing visitors a fascinating insight into the makings of a blockbuster movie with destroyers in the bay, troops drilling in the streets and battered armoured cars being driven to various locations. 'The Greek navy has lent us warships and landing craft,' said Loader. 'We've also borrowed real troops as extras.'
Mystifying Melissani
Still searching for the romance that is Greece, I took a trip on the boat Romantika to the town of Assos. A cold sea-sprayed hour away, Assos is even smaller than Fiskardo. Here, however, the food is similarly divine (in the harbour I ate the best homemade baklava imaginable), and the town boasts a medieval fortress on top of the hill. The winding, dusty walk up to the top of the hill is more rewarding, in a way, than the fortress itself, which lies in ruins.
A Jeep ride around the island took me to the mystic caves of Drogarati and Melissani. The Drogarati cave is a vast, musky, underground cavern, which, because of its superb acoustics, is used for mandolin concerts during the summer.
The Melissani lake is even more mystifying. The place is a rare natural phenomenon - an inland, underground salt water lake with no tide. I descended a steep concrete ramp to the edge of the water that fills the bottom of the cave. A raddled Charon-like boatman picked me up from the edge of the lake, then propelled his wooden craft around the water with a long thin oar.
The lake, although 100ft deep in places, is bright blue and totally clear. Eels swim in the water below the boat, and around the sides of the lake hang strange salt water stalactites. As part of his patter, the boatman pointed out the ones which might look familiar. 'Look - Dumbo!' he said, pointing to a formation in the shape of an elephant's head. As he rowed on, the only sounds in the cave were the splash of the oar and the dripping of water down from the stalactite.
I was amazed as I travelled around the island that even in the more touristy areas like the town of Argostoli, there is no attempt to cash in on the Corelli phenomenon. Tourism began to boom quietly on Cephalonia several years before the novel's publication, and any recent increase in tourism seems largely incidental, not consequential.
On my final night in Kefalonia, I left Fiskardo and made my way to a brand-new hotel to the south of Argostoli. Owners Nikos and Sofia have built a very luxurious hotel, by Greek standards, on top of a high hill overlooking Trapezaki Bay. Nikos spent 20 years working as a jewellery maker in New York, and returned to his native Cephalonia to build his dream. On this opening night, Nikos and Sofia were not in the high spirits one might have expected.
They were thin, drawn and pale. According to their two friends from Aberystwyth, they have both gone down two sizes in clothes in the past few months, and haven't slept for weeks because of the sheer worry of their enterprise.
During the long, drunken evening that followed, Nikos confided that in building his hotel he had made only one mistake - he'd never worked in the hotel business before. Such was the intimacy of this despair in the face of success, that I found myself guiltily longing to laugh.
Here, in this deserted palace at the crown of a hill, I finally found some of the charm of Captain Corelli's Mandolin. The proud and pessimistic spirit which pervades the book is alive and well in the Cephalonia of today.
Fjord-like Vathi harbour
Close to the spring is a decaying building, once a hotel. Reputedly Maria Callas and Winston Churchill were among those who soaked up the stunning, azure views towards Lefkas and mainland Greece. When the owner died, his two sons decided not to carry on. Some say they were too rich to be bothered, others that they could not agree on how it should be run. So now it slowly slides towards ruin. But the hotel lives on in memory.
An old lady walking with a donkey at the roadside was pointed out as having served tea to Churchill. The bay below is where the Royal Yacht Britannia anchored on the Prince and Princess of Wales's honeymoon so that Charles and Diana could enjoy a beach barbecue. They should have drunk the waters, mutter the locals, then all would have been well.
One of the highlights of a tour is at the pinched waist of the figure-of-eight island. As you go from the north to the less populated south, a riveting view of Cephalonia just two miles away across the sea is blocked out to be replaced in a trice by a beautiful view of the capital, Vathi.
From this distance the nondescript town is made attractive by a setting as spectacular as any Norwegian fjord. From Vathi, which offers regular ferries to Cephalonia, you can seek out the Homeric sites of the Arethousia springs and the Grotto of the Nymphs.
But always the north remains more entertaining. In busy Stavros one taverna advertises itself as the best on the island; another one says: 'You've tried the best, now try the worst.' High in the hills is Exoghi, a delightful rambling village where the island's ubiquitous stone terracing reaches gravity-defying heights except a closer look shows that gravity is winning.
The terracing is falling away, reflecting a decline in population from 1,700 in its winemaking heyday to 16 inhabitants, all over 70. Exoghi wine is still prized on the island but so scarce that the locals keep it to themselves, unless you are very lucky.
Ithaca is not for those pursuing watersports and the high life. Slowing down is what it's all about. And the way you get around reflects this. There are few buses and, though you can hire cars or mopeds, most people walk, take taxis - or hire a small boat.
The outboard motor is the perfect way to find a secluded cove or hunt down the ideal spot for snorkelling. So did I drink the waters of Kalamos? And will I be going back? Yes, and yes.
Dolphins in tow
Ionian dolphins, it seems, keep away from motor boats, but are curious about little red plastic canoes. One evening, camped on the shores of Kalamo, we saw a flotilla of bottlenoses cruising the channel between us and Mytika.
Launching our craft down the pebbly beach, like whalers in pursuit of Moby Dick, we got to within 100 yards before the creatures began showing off, leaping into striking poses so beloved of wood carvers. Two days later we also saw a rare and curious monk seal off Kalamo town.
Our fellow kayakers - we were nine in all - were a hardy bunch. Three had trekked in Kathmandu, over the Atlas mountains and to the foothills of Everest. The leader of our modest expedition, Steve, had been an Alpine mountaineer and whitewater canoeist.
When you have bivouacked on the North Face of the Eiger, clipped to the sheer rock by three hooks, a gentle paddle around the Ionian is no great hardship. Thus, with such excellent company round the evening barbecue fire, the lack of a guitar and knowledge of the words of Kumbayah were no loss.
The first campsite at Dessimo Bay was about an hour's paddle from Nidri, but full of Germans in fully equipped camper vans. We were not sorry to leave next day for Vathi, the main town on Meganisi. Three hours was enough to see us over this glassy stretch of blue, skirting Skorpios, that separates the island from Levkas.
Lunch of Greek salad and fish in a typical harbourside taverna set us up nicely for the short leg of our paddle to the next campsite.
Daniel, just 11, had no trouble keeping up, while his sister Ellie, nine, hitched a ride in the back of Steve's double kayak. By early afternoon we were unpacking the tents from our mother ship and building a fire on the beach.
The support vessel keeps a wary eye on stragglers, and those who crave a change from paddling can always jump on board. The lugger could tow the whole fleet, if it came to it, which it didn't. In the afternoons, while some of our group swam, others read or explored the hinterland. A few would set sail down the coast.
Safety vastly improved
Islands within the seven main groups each tend to be linked by one shipping line, so it is simple to jump from one to the next, and more difficult to hop between the groups.
For this reason, it is probably best to take one, or part of one, group of islands at a time.
The main mode of transport between the islands is, of course, ferry. Between some islands in the Sporades, the Cyclades and Dodecanese, the larger car and passenger ferries are supplemented with the much smaller, and nippier, hydrofoils and catamarans, which have cut journey times between islands dramatically since their introduction in the 1980s and 90s.
The Greek passenger shipping industry has come a long way since the Express Samina disaster in September 2000, when 82 people died after the 35-year-old ferry crashed into rocks off the coast of Paros.
Older boats have been taken out of service and safety has vastly improved.
Unfortunately, ferries still have a tendency to either turn up late or sometimes even not at all.
The key is to be flexible and not to get too worried if your plans are pushed back a few days. You may have to leave out islands, so visit the most important ones to you first.
The Sporades in the western Aegean are a good choice for the first-timer, with one of the shortest journey times from the UK at just over three hours, only three main islands to see, and quick and easy hydrofoil and ferry connections.
Skiathos has the only airport, but those in search of a slower pace tend to head for its neighbours, Alonissos and Skopelos.
The largest island in the Sporades, Alonissos is also quietest.
Our accommodation on Alonissos, near a quaint port, had a rocky beach just a few steps from our front door, two supermarkets and a few tavernas selling fresh fish priced by the kilo and Greek salads the size of Mount Athos.
A warm welcome
Not a souvenir shop or tourist menu in sight. I arrived in the plateia, watched by a few curious locals, one of whom filled a bottle with water from a spring and passed it to me.
I fielded a few typically Greek questions - how much did I earn, was I married, how many children did I have - before setting off again, refreshed.
And just as Durrell encountered many colourful characters on his rambles so, on a high ridge, I ran into the local beekeeper. He seemed pleased to see me, waving me on with a gap-toothed salute.
Time was when visitors to Corfu insisted on being by the sea. Wise ones, like the locals before them, have forsaken the high temperatures and overcrowding of the coast for the cool, quiet interior.
My base was a rented villa near Kalami, tucked away in the olive groves with a terrace looking over the bay to the mainland. Kyria Eleni, the owner's black-clad granny, arrived on my first morning bearing a litre of olive oil and some cheese. This gesture of welcome was a reminder that the Greek word for 'foreigner' is the same as 'guest'.
She chattered in lopsided English, while I tried even more lopsided Greek. Goodwill is more important than grammar in this situation. We shared a cup of coffee in contented silence.
Off in the distance, fishing boats trailing delicate wakes crisscrossed the pale blue bay. Kyria Eleni pointed a bony finger out at the view and smiled. 'Poli orea,' she said. Yes, indeed. Very beautiful.
To see Corfu at its best, you need to get out on the water. Skimming over the waves in a rented boat, I headed towards tiny bays that reached out towards seaborne arrivals like an encircling arm.
Uncrowded little beaches
The mid-September sunshine was glorious and we spend long days sampling the three enchanting, uncrowded little beaches near Loggos.
Our favourite was the closest, Leurechio, mainly because of the beachside taverna presided over by the engaging Spiros and his mother.
Spiros grinned and joked while running between the lunchtime tables to dish up his mum's stuffed tomatoes, spicy butter beans and the best tzatziki I have ever tasted.
'Sorry for my late,' said Spiros, if he was delayed more than a minute with the local rosé. The food had certainly improved since we were last in Loggos. At the Taverna Vassilis on the harbour-front, we had rabbit with oregano, octopus in red wine and moussaka as rich as fruit-cake.
At I Gonia, just by the jetty, we tried a pungent cheese dip called tirokafteri and chunks of tender 'lamp in the oven', aka roast lamb, the Greeks evidently having as much difficulty with our alphabet as we do with theirs.
With only a week to explore the island, we hired a car. This meant we could have several mornings of tennis - on a court strewn with fallen olives - at the Paxos Beach Hotel, near Gaios, a 15-minute drive away.
We paused in Gaios to browse the beachwear shops and admire the little cinnamon-painted church in the village square. But compared with Loggos, the place felt a touch too urban.
Nearby, we discovered Mongonissi, a cove favoured by flotilla sailing folk, which boasts Paxos's only (man-made) sandy beach.
With its resident white duck and an amiable taverna, it would have been an idyllic spot, but for its popularity with the parents of small, noisy children. Fifteen years ago, of course, we would have been among the culprits.
Pretty little Lakka, at the northernmost end of the island, is humbler than Gaios but a touch more sophisticated than Loggos. It has not only a cash-point but also a bar that serves espresso.
Best of all, it has Nikos's aquarium, housed in his own cottage, and perhaps the only one in the world whose proprietor personally catches each of the exhibits then releases them back into the sea at the end of each season.
On our last day, we took a boat down the west coast of Paxos, to the deep caves at Kastanitha to admire the indigo of the water below and the rock formations above.
Postcards rate these caverns as one of the island's main attractions, but I longed to be on our way to the real highlight of the voyage, the minuscule isle of Anti Paxos.
This fragment of rock off the southern tip of Paxos is just a couple of square miles of myrtle and maquis, but it boasts what must be one of the most perfect little beaches anywhere, and not a jet-ski or a pedalo in sight.
In the early evening sunshine, we sailed back across the wine-dark sea to Loggos, seeing the grey-green foliage of a quarter of a million olive trees give way here and there to bursts of cypresses and the odd glimpse of a church spire.
The Romans, Venetians, Turks, French, British and latterly the Greeks have all held sway over Paxos at one time. But apart from the Venetians, who planted all those olives, none left much of a mark.
Not even those new imperialists, the tourists, seem able to spoil a good thing.
TRAVEL DETAILS:
Simply Ionian (020 8541 2202) or visit www.simplytravel.com
Wartime bravery
Basing myself in the island's capital of Argostoli, I discovered that one of those who helped Capes lived in Poros, on the eastern coast. So I drove across the island, circling the base of the island's highest peak, Mount Enos, with its thick ring of rare black fir trees and huge flocks of sheep and goats, tended by teenage shepherds on battered mopeds.
In Poros I talked to Nikos Vandoros, a shopkeeper who became Capes's best friend and eventually escaped with him. 'He was my brother,' said Nikos, now 86 and white-haired.
Nikos clutched his wife's hand over his small wooden table and recounted how, while waiting for the sailing boat that was to take them away, they decided to hide in the empty basement of the German HQ.
'It was the safest place to be - right under their noses,' he said.
'We had to stay near the beach where we knew the sailing ship would be picking us up, but we didn't know exactly which day it would manage to get here.
'By this time Capes looked like an islander - he'd lost weight, got a deep tan and spoke Greek, and for months I'd managed to pass him off as my brother.
'But some of the villagers knew I did not have a brother, and I was scared someone might betray us.
'People were starving and desperate, and it wasn't unknown for someone to trade information for a loaf of bread. That's why we ended up in the basement - hidden from everyone.'
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| | | | Panorama of the Peloponnese
Most of the filming took place in and around Sami. I found it wasn't hard to flee the bustle and escape the film crews. Hire a car, drive inland, and you'll soon find yourself high in the mountains with only the goats and their clanging bells for company.
The lofty heights of Mount Enos - accessible by dirt track - is the place to get your bearings. On the ascent, you'll pass Agios Giorgios, or St George's Castle, a monumental stone bastion occupied, at various stages in its bloody history, by Byzantines, the French, Turks and Venetians.
The road climbs higher and higher, winding a breathtaking route over the peaks as it leads upwards towards Megalos Soros, the highest point of all. Open the car door and smell the air: it's cool and refreshing and scented with pine. The view is truly spectacular. Mount Enos commands a fabulous panorama of the Peloponnese; nearer, and more distinct, are the islands of Zakinthos, Ithaki, Lefkas, and Corfu.
This is not a place for those with vertigo. I look directly down a sharply descending slope of scree and see - thousands of feet below - the tiny village of Trapezaki, where I'm staying in a delightful, family-run hotel.
In de Bernieres' novel this grandiose mountain, clad in Kefalonia's unique black pine, is home to the simple shepherd, Alekos. He watches an English parachutist land from the heavens, and thinks he's seeing an angel. It's actually Lieutenant 'Bunny' Warren who has come to spy on the Nazis and relay information back to Britain. His spying was to prove in vain, for the British betrayed the islanders by ignoring their pleas for help.
Deep beneath this tortuous landscape lie vast caverns and waterholes. Don't miss the dank Dhrogarati Cave - bedecked with stalactites - or the Melissani Cave, filled with icy water and best explored by boat.
The centre of Kefalonia is, strangely, pancake flat. The fertile meadows, dotted with rambling vines and sweetly scented lemon groves, are home to the church and monastery of Agios Gerasimos. This is the resting place of St Gerasimos, a high-born holy man who forsook his riches and lived out his days in a Kefalonian cave.
His dusty bones are revered and worshipped, for, it is claimed, they have healing powers so strong that the mad and the sick have been spectacularly cured after attending the all-night vigil. A nun ushers me into the church - charcoal black after the blinding sunlight outside. Slowly, as my eyes adjust, a vast silver sarcophagus emerges glittering from the gloom.
Memorable meal
Our own esprit de camp was boosted by the discovery that our Kathmandu-hiking companions came from the same tiny Dorset village where we had grown up. Mike and Dave soon discovered this was the first of many things they had in common and became inseparable. My, didn't the long evenings under those starry Ionian skies just fly.
Not that all seven evenings were like this. One glorious, balmy night we trekked from a campsite on Meganisi, through the olive groves and over the hill to Vathi. Turning left we followed the main road up to the village of Katomeri.
Vathi was quiet, but this was the Greece of Captain Corelli, though no sound of mandolin filled the scented air. Halfway down the main street you'll find a taverna that is almost too much like everyone's idea of a Greek taverna to be true - run by Stavros. That evening he laid on a meal that will linger in the memory: fried aubergines; 'leetle feeshes' (white-bait); Greek salad; crusty bread; pork chops; chicken; olives and white wine. As we ate, the bar filled with men from the village.
By the fifth day, camping had almost become fun, mainly because the proliferation of bugs had proved more fascinating than fierce. Our tent sported a makeshift path, marked by white stones, with a flag on the gable end. Washing hung out to dry. While every word and nocturnal noise was audible through the tent, the veneer of British civilisation stood.
Mornings were relaxed. By ten, the breakfast things put away, it was into our lifejackets and spray-decks - a kind of skirt which clips round the cockpit to stop water dripping off your paddle into your lap - and off to the next beach.
By the end of the week, ten miles of paddling was quite painless, if a little tedious. Skirting the coast, seeing the rocky features slip past, peering into the clear waters, is both absorbing and mesmerising. Progress seems swifter when you're passing close to the shore.
Not so the long passages across the wide waters separating the islands. With the lugger watching and herding us, dispensing encouragement and Coca-Cola to the needy, we headed for Spartakhori, on Meganisi for lunch, and made it back to the camp of the Germans on Levkas by mid-afternoon.
By late June neither mad dogs nor Englishman would be wise to go paddling canoes under the midday sun, but in late May the climate was perfect. T-shirts and shorts by day, and a pleasant nip in the night air. With the kayaks drawn up neatly on the beach, washing on the line and white wine flowing, it was a grand way to spend a week. We had sung Kumbayah, encountered an entomologist's paradise and nearly come to blows, but it hadn't spoilt things one iota.
Notoriously bad roads
We found some lovely beaches, mostly stony but all clean, calm, safe, and great for swimming and snorkelling due to Alonissos's status as a nature reserve.
Evening entertainment is centred on the restaurants and bars of the two main towns, old Alonissos town and the new harbour town at Patitiri.
The old town has some spectacular views, and if you climb to the very top, there is a charming street with a choice of restaurants.
On the day of our intended departure to our second island, Skopelos, we were stranded due to a five-day shipping strike. Strikes are common in Greece, and there is little you can do to avoid them.
To venture outside Skopelos town, you'll need to hire a car. But the roads are notoriously bad.
After braving the only main road to the end of the island one afternoon, we tried to travel back to Skopelos town via the dirt road through the middle of the island.
This road, we were told, would take us to the highest point on the island, Delphi, at more than 2,000ft.
After climbing to the top, however, we were greeted by the ravenous barks of what sounded, to our heat-addled brains, like wild dogs or even wolves.
We hurried back to the car and moved swiftly on. I was glad to get back to civilisation as after an hour spent on the harmless sounding 'dirt track' my head felt as if it'd been through a spin cycle.
My feeling on returning to the airport for the flight home was that a week was simply not long enough for a hopping holiday.
However, the Sporades delighted us with lively towns and sleepy villages, secluded beaches and bustling ports. This was laid-back island hopping for the beginner.
TRAVEL DETAILS:
* If you're planning to travel independently, fly to Athens (eg easyJet on http://www.easyjet.co.uk) then take one of the many boats from Piraeus, Rafina and Lavrion to the islands.
* Services are greatly reduced in the low season (October to May). Timetables can be found on http://www.gtpnet.com although these are likely to change without warning.
* It is also possible to fly directly to Crete, Corfu and Rhodes on a charter flight without changing in Athens. Call Avro on 0870 036 0111. Contact The Greek National Tourism Organisation (http://www.gnto.gr tel: 020 7734 5997).
Rachel Galbraith travelled to the Sporades with Greek Islands Club (http://www.greekislandsclub.com tel: 020 8232 9780).
The lotus eaters
At Kalami there was another Durrell connection. Here, just as it was 60 years ago, was the White House - once the home of Gerald's brother Larry and now a holiday villa available to rent through a British travel company. Nosing down the coast from bay to bay, I stumbled across the Shrine of St Arsenius.
From a platform of flat, slab-like rocks, I dived into a crystal-clear pool, with the tiny, white shrine standing guard above, and no sound but the lapping of water and the whirring of cicadas. Time for lunch at Agni. Three tavernas sit in a deserted cove, the oldest dating from 1879. You tie up your boat at the jetty and find a table at the water's edge.
At Toula's, the middle taverna, the house speciality is fresh prawn pilaff. But it's best in Corfu to order as the locals do and ask for ligo apoola - a bit of everything. This means little plates of mussels, marinated anchovies, peppers stuffed with feta cheese, grilled squid, salad . . . it takes copious amounts of chilled retsina to wash down.
Afterwards, feeling like a wine cask on legs, I staggered off into the shade, clutching one of Toula's free sunloungers for a siesta. Bliss.
It's easy to see why the Durrells fell in love with Corfu: with its crystal light, blue water and noisy, friendly people. The family left the island just before the outbreak of war.
What is best about Corfu has not changed. At sunset, in a cafe high above the peninsula of Kanoni, I looked across the sea to the Strawberry Pink Villa. Durrell's 'chessboard fields', marshlands rich with wildlife, glittered in the silvery evening light. It was easy to picture a young British boy there, rambling without a care in the world. 'If I could give a child a gift, I'd give him my childhood,' said Durrell before his death in 1995.
The rest of us might not be so lucky, but we can go to Corfu and sample the Durrells' lotus-eating life, if only for a while.
Mountain dance festival
The next day, back in Argostoli, I met Dionysis Georgatos, the island's prefect. Last year, just after his election, it was Dionysis who arranged for a commemorative plaque, dedicated to the bravery of both Capes and his gallant Greek benefactors, to be erected on the beach at Mavrata.
Now, though, Dionysis is more preoccupied with continuing improvements to Cephalonia's roads and hotels. He expects the release of the film version of Captain Corelli's Mandolin (it opens nationwide in the UK next week) to increase tourism by up to 30 per cent over the next two decades.
He invited me to accompany him to a fete that afternoon, high on Mount Enos. It took two hours to travel the few miles from the foot of the mountain, bouncing around deeply rutted hairpin bends, the small car's suspension groaning loudly.
Conversation was impossible because each massive bump knocked the breath out of us.
Finally, we jerked to a halt near the tiny Mother of God chapel on a small plateau with spectacular views over the Peloponnese.
Crowds appeared as if from nowhere, and suddenly a festival was in full swing. The church holds only 15 people and was built 300 years ago on the spot where a local man had a vision of the Virgin Mary.
Once a year, the villagers of nearby Xenoboulo trudge uphill to set up a marquee, play old Cephalonian songs on bazoukis, boil up great barrels of thick goat stew and laugh and dance until nightfall.
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| | | | Ruins of the past
As I tour the island, I stumble unexpectedly across the occasional evidence of filming. In one bay there's an Italian camp - a mass of barbed wire, observation posts and khaki tents. On a nearby hilltop, I find set designers busily building an Orthodox church out of plywood sheets.
Much of Corelli's Kefalonia survived the war, only to be destroyed on a single night in 1953. On August 13th the fault-line that runs through the Ionian islands gave a groan, rocking the island with such fury that most of the buildings wobbled and turned to dust. Thousands were killed, many left for good, and those who survived were left homeless.
New villages sprung up next to old ones and today's visitors will find picturesque, abandoned and half-ruined settlements dotted all over the landscape. One of the most beautiful is to be found high above the modern village of Karavomilos. Follow any one of the overgrown tracks up into the hills and - after 15 minutes of wheel-churning climb -you find yourself among the ghosts and phantoms of Fifties Greece.
Facades stand guard over empty ruins: push the front door and you'll find a riot of lemon and fig trees. The church has folded in on itself like a long-neglected tomb; a farmhouse is heaped with the rubble of decades; crickets and beetles have made safe havens in the old cobbled road.
Abandoned villages are everywhere in Kefalonia. Farsa, Anti-Pata, Foki. I find a villa with shutters still closed for the afternoon siesta. Another clings to its delicate wrought-iron balcony. In one old farmhouse, a coffee cup still stands on the shelf - left there by its owner almost half a century ago.
Museum's moving history
The next day, back on the trail of John Capes, I visited Helen Cosmetatos in the eccentric museum she has created beside Argostoli's small library.
Helen, with great foresight, picked through the rubble left after the devastating earthquake of 1953 which flattened most of the island, and salvaged all she could find.
Now her haul, ranging from priceless medieval icons to bits of domestic detritus, forms the core of the museum's collection - the seemingly unrelated exhibits dotted around the rooms with an appearance of charming abandon.
Helen is frail and stooped but, in 1941, she was summoned by islanders to interrogate Capes after his unorthodox appearance on Mavrata beach.
'I was a fluent English speaker, and I had to make sure he really was British and not a spy,' she explained. Later, she hid him for several weeks in her farmhouse in the village of Minies.
'One day, some Italian soldiers arrived unexpectedly, looking for more supplies of olive oil.
My husband panicked, not knowing where to hide Capes, because the soldiers were likely to turn the place upside down looking for the oil.
'In the end I pushed him into my bedroom and pulled on a bathrobe, so when they came to my door it looked as though I'd just got out of bed. Thankfully they were gentlemanly enough not to come any further.
'After that, Capes had to stay hidden in the basement during the day, which he hated because he was a big and active man. But we couldn't afford to take any risks, and he was moved to a new safe house soon after.'
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| | | | Finding peace in Fiskardo
A geological quirk saved the northern tip of the island from the worst effects of the earthquake. If you want to see the Kefalonia of Corelli's day, the magical island of Venetian villas and solid smallholdings, then you'll need to head to Fiskardo.
The lofty coast road that leads there clings to the edge of the mountains and is a work of audacious (British) engineering. Where the contours allow, tiny side tracks wind down to hidden jewels far below.
Myrtos is one of these gems: it boasts one of the most spectacular beaches on earth. The sea is milky blue, the result of limestone pebbles and pounding waves, while the bleach-white cliff towers into the sky like the facade of an awesome natural cathedral. Elsewhere you can swim in water so crystal clear that the fish swim round and round, perplexed to see themselves reflected on the white pebbles on the bottom.
Continue along the high road for a few more miles and another hairpin trail plunges down snakelike towards Assos, a toy-town cluster of cottages sheltering for protection beneath a stout Venetian castle. There's a small beach, some fine snorkelling and a handful of shaded tavernas in which to while away the lazy hours of mid-afternoon.
The cliff-top road ends at Fiskardo - a tiny but glitteringly chic port with Venetian villas, a cluster of restaurants and a little harbour. It's quiet by day and lively at night. The yachting brigade will tell you it resembles pre-war St Tropez.
The name of the place derives from Robert Guiscard, a terrifying mercenary crusader who sacked Rome before rampaging through Greece. Guiscard destroyed many of the places he visited, but Fiskardo's enchanting beauty worked its spell on him and he decided to spare the place, devoting his energies, instead, to building a monumental church whose broken ruins still crown the natural harbour.
As the sun sinks into the dark sea, the lights flicker on and Fiskardo's little quayside begins to sparkle. It's so unbelievably picturesque that it looks for all the world like a film set. Each night, before I go to bed, I tap the walls and windows. Just to remind myself they're real.
The man behind the legend
For such a compact island - it takes two hours to drive from tip to tip - there's a lot to do on Cephalonia.
It's a walker's paradise, with terrain ranging from rugged mountainous lemon and olive groves to flat fertile fields of pasture and thyme.
The landscape is dotted with deserted stone villages, the roofless, bramble-filled houses a ghostly legacy of the earthquake.
Sheltered beneath sheer white cliffs, Myrtos will satisfy the most discriminating beach lover, while there are fabulous underground caves at Dhrogarati and Melissani.
For those who prefer their architecture man-made, there's St George's castle on the striking Assos Peninsula, and the quaint Venetian port of Fiskardo at the end of the mountain road, both seemingly impervious to the tremors of war or nature.
But on my last morning I couldn't resist another visit to Mavrata. On the way I had collected Nikos to show him the memorial to his old friend John Capes, who died in 1985.
I also wanted to ask one last question. Was the gossip true that Capes, for all his legendary charisma, had been a huge drinker, teller of tall tales and shocking womaniser?
The years fell away as Nikos rocked with laughter. 'Of course,' he said. 'Why do you think we were friends?'
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| | Available rental properties in Ionian Islands |
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| |  | | Villa Olive Grove
3 bedroom property suitable for 6+ guests
Full kitchen, open & airy living space, modern romantic decor
4 patio & balcony areas with fantastic sea a
|  | | VILLA ANEMONE
A luxurious spacious villa (250m2) with panoramic sea views in the cosmopolitan island of Corfu. Very peaceful, surrounded by two acres of land.
|  | | evis loft
a great loft in acharavi 100m from the beach
|  | | villa eleni
villa for 4 person self catering with a lovely private garden 100 m from the sea
|  | | villa eleni 2
lovely villa near the beach set in a garden of 4000m2
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