The mystical Greek island that somehow stays under the radar

A note about the many beaches on the island. This is not a self-consciously stylish destination; there are no designer shops, there is no swank. But for a bohemian, near-Mexican vibe with cafés on stilts along the sand there’s Eressos, the birthplace of Sappho, Greece’s prolific and most famous female poet, who eroticised women (indeed, she was the very first “lesbian”) but killed herself over a ferryman. Just off the northeast coast, the sand of the Tokmakia islands – a nature reserve – is as white as in the Maldives. The shoreline of Skala Sikamineas, the northernmost village overlooking Anatolia, is pebbled but has the clearest swimmable water. A chapel in the port here contains an icon of the Virgin with the tail of a mermaid – a Madonna who hasn’t descended primly from heaven but has risen from the sea and belongs to the depths: a supremely Lesbian image of eternity.

At the rocky cove of Krifti in the south, there are hot springs only accessible by a hike or a boat. I catch a lift there from Plomari early one morning with a fisherman, Rafail. He speaks all the way in a meandering stream about legends and family and the tuna that come to herd sardines in August. His eyes are an all-seeing electric blue. “When I was young I saw a turtle almost the size of this boat…” Goats and gulls gnarl the coastline as the morning lengthens into a scorcher. At one point, Rafail mentions Dionysus, and then a migrant Iranian doctor who recently married a local girl. Time and history feel elastic, the heat bringing a woozy, resinous quality to the air. Rummaging in a bag under the ship’s wheel, Rafail hands me an apricot, perfectly cold.

I do eventually reach that beach on the north of the island, beyond the pistachio grove. The shoreline shimmers all the way to Molyvos and its Byzantine fortress; a van winds up the streets with a loudspeaker promising “Anchovies! Anchovies!” When I drive home later on a mountain road, the breeze tastes like pine and the Aegean has a crimson aura; it could be a faraway dream. A man passes me on a Vespa, thick-bearded like Odysseus, a cigarette plugged in his mouth. At dusk, on a road close to the southeastern shore, one sign is irresistible, more parable than destination: “The Well of Achilles”. I pull up and there it sits, without pomp, by an olive grove on the side of the verge, old stones encircling darkness. Dropping in a handful of dirt, I wait for the sound of it hitting a soft bed of moss. By now the low sun is turning the trees to metal, and in the grove, quiet as a shadow – as though safe after a sojourn in the underworld – is a tiny black foal, settling beneath the boughs to sleep.

The best hotels in Lesbos

Lesbos Sam

On a quiet hill above a yacht club, the grand renovated former house of writer Tasos Athanasiadis exudes a warm storybook feel with its tall windows and doors. It’s a cosmopolitan Greek family’s home, full of paintings and good books that soften the marble and high ceilings. Mytilene is just a short walk away, but the view from the garden pool to the town and out towards Turkey is so addictive it’s hard to leave the grounds, especially during rose-gold sunsets. The owners are a font of knowledge about the island’s history, controversies, fun and beauty.