Amorgos

There is an island in the Aegean whose name rolls off your tongue with the deliciousness of honey. Amorgos. Pronounced slowly and deliberately, lingering emphatically, for a moment on the -gos. On that island, there is a tiny bakery with apple pastries in flaky phyllo that taste of mulled cider and Christmas. And you will sit in a blue wooden chair on a cobbled patio and sip your foam-covered cappuccino. You will watch as the shop keepers busy themselves with preparations for another day of customers while the local fisherman toy with the heap of netting that rest in mounds on the deck. You will marvel at the crisp whiteness of the waterfront shops and cafes with their geometric form and iconic azure shutters. And you will note that the rustic, but freshly painted fishing boats boast the same blue and white tones-- accented with candy apple red.

Amorgos, with its pristine beaches and untouched timelessness, sits at the eastern edge of the Cyclades. Due to its relative inaccessibility (no airport or cruise ships, and a long six-hour ferry ride from Athens), the local authenticity of this island has been preserved, exuding a quaint, unpretentious feel. The coastal villa of Katapola is one of the islands two harbors. Its waterfront is lined with taverns, cafes, shops and moorings for the local fishing boats and occasional sailing visitor. Inhabited for over 6000 years, this island is rich in history and culture. We arrive in Amorgos on day five of our sail. We procure a patio table at the bakery and enjoy pastries and dark, stout coffee. A calico sits at our feet and welcomes the buttery bits of phyllo that drop to the floor.

An aged woman perches on the railing of her second-floor dwelling examining us with sour curiosity. The proprietor at the neighboring food market casts us a huge smile and waves affably. Lovely looking fresh fruit arranged in wooden boxes on his patio lure us over. He warmly helps us locate a few provisions for the boat: cream for our coffee, local cheese, and savory cold-cuts. We tell him that we want to visit the monastery of Hozoviotissa—the gem of Amorgos. He informs us that the bus will not be able to service us due to the fact that we are outside of the summer season, but offers to rent us a vehicle for our excursion. We are escorted next door to the rental agency where we complete paperwork and are provided with a key to a dated but sparkling van. Everyone who comes to Amorgos visits the monastery of Hozoviotissa. The monastery is the second oldest in Greece, constructed in 1017. It was created as an ode to the Grace of Panagia—the Holy Mother. Legend tells of a blessed icon of the Virgin Mary that miraculously appeared on the shore in an unmanned boat from Palestine. The monastery was built to house this sacred icon of the Mother—and Saint protector of the island.

The drive is a short fifteen minutes from the marina. Sage bushes, olive trees and grape vines line the ancient stone walls that border the road. We park at the base of the mountain, and as we edge around the cliff we are dazzled by the magnificence of this hallowed site. The monastery, a startling alabaster, is wedged into the vertical face of the cliff in an imposing exhibition. Carefully laid stones form the curving 1000 step ascent. Looming over a thousand feet above the sea, this architectural delight is 130 feet high and only 16 feet wide. I am confounded by the grit demanded of those that carried and assembled the massive stones with bare hands a thousand years ago atop this monstrous cliff. Our climb is rewarded with unparalleled views of the cobalt Aegean. The clarity of the water is astounding—revealing the rocky nuances of the seabed.

Set in glittering gold tiles, the Holy Mother greets us at the entry. Dark, somber eyes disclose the ponderousness of her duty. Beyond her, a troupe of cats accost us with affectionate brushes against our legs. Within the white, cave-like walls of the monastery, the access stairway is steep and narrow. A scruffy looking monk in street clothes awaits us at the top. His disapproving glare unsettles me, and I look down to confirm that I am adequately covered from ankle to wrist. At my hesitation, he offers the slightest nod of his head, and a deep, brusque greeting and then ushers me into the alcove. Acting guardian, he similarly scrutinizes the attire of my eight companions; and upon approval, we awkwardly congregate in the tiny space one by one. Once assembled, he directs us up another flight of stairs which opens into the chapel.

Incense fills the air and portraits of holy figures adorn the stone walls along with other religious treasures. There is an altar, imposing wooden chairs, and silver lanterns dripping from the ceiling. We gather reverently and assume an air that we hope conveys homage to the Virgin. A second monk, tall, attractive and clad in black robes, addresses us somberly in a language that is foreign. We confusedly stare back, perplexed at how to respond. “Sei Italiano?” he inquires. “No, we’re American” we explain. He offers a handshake. “Good, good. Americans are our good friends.” We smile, pleased by his approval. He directs us to another room with a long table flanked by two wooden benches and an ornate wooden chair at the head. We slide onto the benches, and upon inquiring whether one of us should occupy the red-cushioned head chair—we are abruptly reprimanded and informed that that chair may only be occupied by a member of the “Patriate”, which clearly, we are not.

The small room is a monastic hall of fame: every wall showcasing black and white portraits of men who have dedicated their lives to God. Centuries of grim stoicism reflected. A final bearded monk, advanced in years, and with a kindly countenance, enters the parlor and acknowledges us with a nod and amiable smile. A black, round fitted cap is snuggly secured to his head and massive baroque medallions hang from his neck. The tall, younger monk remerges. A tray in hand loaded with shot glasses filled with house made liqueur and a bowl of soft, sugar coated candies—the Greek version of Turkish delight. Another group of pilgrims, German, join our table, and under the stern gaze of the monks immortalized on the walls, we tensely partake of the liquor shots.

Smooth, sweet, cinnamon elixir hits our taste buds and we relax into this curiously beautiful communion. A tribute and a toast, to Amorgos and the sacredness of this holy sanctuary perched on a cliff, where human creation acknowledges the divine.

Check out our greece photos and video