The road ends at a stone jetty where the town keeps its boats in a loose, unhurried line. Nobody here is going anywhere in a hurry; the water taxi runs on “when it is full” time, which is to say, on the tide and the mood.
Over seven days we walked the coast path in stages — cape to cove, cove to beach — stopping for coffee in kitchens that double as cafés and for lunch at tables set under olive trees.
The itinerary is deliberately thin: one long swim, one long lunch, one long nap. In the evenings the light turns the whitewashed walls the colour of apricot, and the whole village gathers at the harbour to watch the sun go down.
It is not a holiday that fills a camera roll. It is a holiday that empties the mind.