Island

Nearly every day during the summer months, a steady stream of mega-cruise liners dump thousands of tourists into the Old Town of Corfu. Thronging the narrow streets, they marvel at trinkets stacked ceiling-high in the row-upon-row of tourist shops. Come dinner time they dine at one of the restaurants along the alleys and streets, before wandering back to their ship.

The buildings lining the cobbled streets speak in dialects of Sicilian, Genovese, Venetian, French and English even though they are standing on the shores of the Ionian sea, with Albania visible just beyond spitting distance. Traces of conquerors, empires, and rulers long dead linger.

Step down a side-street and the place changes. No crowds, just neighbours and cats going about their business. The shade of the alleys providing a welcome respite from the relentless summer sun.

As in many other cities and towns, locals are being displaced by short-term rentals. Crumbling facades are renovated and painted, interiors are updated. Eventually, I am sure, there will be no residents left in this part of town. It will be a perfectly preserved place, encased in amber, never changing and devoid of life.

A far cry from the long sandy beaches in the north of the island or the spectacular cliffside coves on the east-side, beach goers squeeze in along the narrow pebbly beach next to the city seawall. No island holiday will be complete without a few days lost on the beach.

After centuries of inhabitants, visitors, occupiers, pilgrims, and passers-by this island is it’s own place, hard to define and hard to forget.