Kalami is a small village in the north east corner of Corfu which sits beside one of the most beautiful bays in the Ionian Sea.
In the early evening we sat amongst the now sparsely occupied loungers enjoying the orange skied sunset, the gentle swish of the ebb tide and the sudden realisation that the pulsing sound of the cicadas in the trees behind us had left for the day. We enjoyed silent company at the start of our holiday.
The peace was interrupted by a couple, middle aged, like to ourselves, George and Brenda from Harrogate. I’d never met anyone from Harrogate before or since. Uninvited they deposited themselves on loungers either side of us. Our eyes spoke. However, it was much better than we expected they were keen to share what they’d found. The secret beach. Giving us directions and reassuring us we would enjoy it they left, off to pack for home tomorrow. We thanked them sincerely. The thought of a quiet beach interested us.
The following morning, we set off to search. It was on the road north towards Kassiopi. At the bottom at the start of the steep climb at the end of the village stood the White House. Once the home of the Durrell family and where Lawrence Durrell wrote his book Prospero’s Cell with the idea that Shakespeare may have had Corfu in mind when he wrote of the enchanted island in the Tempest. Durrell describes the building aptly in its text and I quote,
“White House set like a dice on a rock already venerable with the scars of wind and water.”
It was now a restaurant and where we sat later that evening on the boarded water front enjoying meals of freshly caught fish complimented with glasses of anise flavoured ouzo as the waves lapped below us.
Halfway up the hill on the left, as described, was an entrance little more than a tunnel, thick with the foliage of olive trees. As we walked, there was a sense of the surreal, the mix the heavy scent of olives, the call of the cicadas, the earth covered with black netting in preparation for forthcoming harvesting. Heads bowed low to get through the overhanging branches. Then we broke into the light and ahead a long rough rocky path bordering the allotments, plants laden with shiny aubergines, and yellow and red tomatoes. As instructed we took a left through a tree lined path which suddenly burst open onto a panoramic view of an isolated bay. The secret beach.
We’d smiled. It had been worth it. Not a soul to be seen. We found a comfy place on the edge of the bay where rocks lay like slabs warm and ready to accept towels. Settling with our books we were grateful to George and Brenda.
The heat rose as the morning moved towards noon we decided to find somewhere more sheltered. Suddenly the quiet of the bay erupted. The air was filled with laughing and screeching as a group of naked young men and women headed for the water. They frolicked and dived, petting and teasing oblivious or unconcerned about our presence.
Later as we left the we noticed the “private naturist beach “sign we’d missed on arriving, meaningless in Greek but not in smaller writing in English below. Had George and Brenda known about this?
Don Russell 24/02/2018