NICK STOUT | Photographs and Other Observations

Lawrence Durrell once quipped that when the Greek inhabitants of Skopelos suffer from insomnia, they count not sheep (for there aren't any on the island) but churches — about 320 at last reckoning. But Skopelos, the second largest island of the Sporades chain in the northern Aegean, is such a quiet place that it is hard to imagine why anyone couldn't fall asleep. In the cemetery-still hours of early afternoon, when the sun sends everyone to siesta, there is little else to do.

Not only are there no sheep on Skopelos, but there is also no airport, no Marriott and, thankfully, no Club Med. Unlike so much of Greece, this island is also rather barren of archeological treasures and therefore appeals more to "visitors" than to "tourists."

Apart from the summer photography festival, its main attractions are serenity and seclusion. July and August can be crowded, I'm told, but everything is relative. This is not Ibiza. If you want finally to read "War and Peace," or perhaps write a sequel, Skopelos is surely the place.

Most visitors congregate in Skopelos town, the principal port and the only center of any real activity on the island. Soon after sunrise, local fishermen arrive at the harbor in their small wooden boats and prepare to sell their overnight catch to early-morning shoppers. Simultaneously, the oldest men in the village gather at their favorite cafés — unofficially off limits to women — for local philosophizing. By eight o'clock, children with backpacks are skipping to school through the narrow stone-paved streets, and the blocks of cafés along the waterfront are showing signs of life. Sit down for a coffee and you will probably be greeted with a smile and kalimera — good morning. People are friendly here. But find a shady spot, because already the sun is fierce.

Get your business done in the morning because by early afternoon the banks will be closed for the day. From about two to five o'clock the villages are steeped in stillness. Only the big cafés — with their parasols and padded chairs — show any activity. Apart from the beaches, they're the only refuge for the  visitors who would rather do something else  –– say, contemplate Kazantzakis –– than mentally count churches in mid-afternoon.

By six o'clock the arts-and-crafts shops are open again, and the ferries that deposited groups of sunbathers in the morning are now departing for the mainland or adjacent islands. Iced coffee served in tall glasses is the drink of the hour. The bustle keeps building, and by nightfall the bars and restaurants are all abuzz.

The island's single paved road, along the western coast, connects Skopelos town with the smaller community of Glossa at the northern end. The bus ride takes about an hour, with stops at various beach towns along the way. Glossa looks big on the map but is actually just a tiny maze of sloping walkways. The town of about 1,200 people — said to be pure-blooded islanders — rises steeply and overlooks the sea. The two-story houses, white-washed with a limestone mixture to keep the flees and lice away, are pretty to look at, but there's more human activity at the port, Loutraki, three kilometers away.

On the way to Glossa, you might stop at the ghost town of Klima, abandoned in 1965 after an earthquake left it uninhabitable. It's an eerie experience; most of the deserted dwellings look like they were bombed in a war. But today some of the houses are being purchased and renovated — presumably by confirmed hermits — creating an interesting hodgepodge of glistening white structures colorfully draped in flowers but surrounded by rubble.

The beaches of Skopelos are not particularly spectacular, being more pebbly than sandy, but what's nice about them is their seclusion.

One of my favorites was Agnontas, a 10-minute bus ride outside Skopelos town. Go for a swim in the glass-clear water, watch the fishermen paint their boats, and have lunch at one of the traditional tavernas. Once you've tried the grilled melanouri, a chewy fish of the bream variety, you might not ever want to eat anything else. Why is it that although cucumbers and tomatoes look pretty much the same everywhere, they never taste as good as they do in Greece when served with a slice of feta cheese and those olives as big as prunes? (Speaking of prunes, this island is made of them. Have them for breakfast as a topping on REAL yogurt — the all-fat variety that you can slice with a knife.)

Closer to town is the beach on Stafylos, a bay named for the legendary son of Dionysus and Ariadne and the first king of the island. In 1936, the 3,500-year-old royal tomb of Stafylos was excavated here along with artifacts characteristic of Minoan civilization. Access to Stafylos beach requires a mild but not difficult trek up and down a rocky trail. On the other side of a small promontory lies the sandier Velanio beach, where bathing suits are optional.

At the tiny Glysteri beach, about five kilometers from town on the eastern shore, the single restaurant is worth visiting for its folklore exhibition. Among a host of items portraying traditional Greek island life are a "blower used to smoke out bees, making them dizzy so the beekeeper could take the honey," "Karmaniola — a big saw used to cut pines in the shipyards," and a "copper spoon to skim milk for making a kind of softcheese." There is also a campsite here. A nice way to get to Glysteri is to take a caïque from the Skopelos port.

The eastern side of the island is more rugged, with most of the terrain covered with pine forests, olive groves and lemon trees. The roads are not paved and are best navigated by motorbike. (Rental agencies abound.) The reason for making the effort is to visit the secluded monasteries. And, of course, there are all those churches that seem to pop up at every turn.

-– NICK STOUT, 1998