14 June 2022. We’re getting a bit concerned waiting for the ferry in Naxos. We wait and wait, wondering if we have the time wrong. Or the day. Where is it? We don’t know what else to do but to keep on waiting, watching as various vehicles arrive at the dock, conclude some business or other, and then leave. But where’s the ferry? At last other people arrive and join us. The ferry will be an hour late they tell us; they’d received a text. We had not, since we never had been able to chase down a local sim card in Greece. At least there’s shade. Even with our get-there-too-early travel style and then having to wait the extra hour, in the end the late departure is a blessing.

A few decades back Greek ferries had open decks as well as inside seating. Some still do, like the overnight ferry from Athens to Crete. But now the ferries on most of the shorter runs are all modern fast fully-enclosed water buses. So I have little idea what’s happening outside, especially as the sky darkens and night comes. On arrival at Adamantas on Milos Island I’m concerned with only two things – gathering all the luggage (two cases, two backpacks, and my camera bag), and finding a way to our hotel. As it turns out there are no taxis, and anyway our hotel is only 400 metres away, so walking it is. Normally this wouldn’t be a problem, but I’m dealing with all the luggage since Don’s hernia has clearly made its presence known so we’re trying to keep him in one piece until we get home; so no lugging luggage for him.

As I start hauling all our bags along the uneven pathway something makes me stop and look back towards the dock. It’s a heart-stopping moment. Right there rising over the water is the full moon, bright orange against an indigo sky.





Stop. Breathe in. Breathe out. Beauty. Joy. A moment of gratitude and grace. A reminder that travelling, and moving from place to place, beyond schlepping luggage, and trying to find our accommodation for the night, there is still this, this! This eternal natural symbol that the world is turning as it should; this emblem of the rightness of things; a full moon rising.





We hadn’t been paying attention to the weather. We’re in Greece in June, so of course it’s hot and dry, every day. Much less have we been paying attention to the phases of the moon. And here it is – this lucky moment, to remind us of our place in the universe, and that all is well, and that everything is magic.

Thus, a charmed arrival time and incandescent welcome to the island of Milos.





Milos is not like Santorini with its tourist vibes, conspicuous consumption, and stunning scenery that can lull you almost to sweet oblivion, or like family-friendly Naxos with it’s world-class beaches that go on forever. Milos apparently has more than forty beaches, though I’d hardly call any of them a beach so much as a meeting of land and water. This is not to disparage them; far from it. The Milos shoreline is an endless parade of extraordinary rock formations, of bright colours, of tiny bays and grottos notched into multi-coloured cliffs. There is nothing common about the beaches of Milos, but they are mostly difficult to access; some look to have very rough sand, let’s call it gravel; they’re small and have few or no facilities; and anyway I don’t think anyone should go to Milos for the beaches. That’s not what this island is about. If you want beaches go to Naxos (and probably plenty of other Greek islands), but if you want something really unique, something really special, go to Milos.

Milos is about this,





and this.





On a cruise that circumnavigated the island I see some of the beaches of Milos, and I’ve looked at plenty of pictures online, but this is the only beach we actually go to. This is Sarakiniko.

We take the bus from Adamantas and arrive here:





And then we walk.





Across and down, across and down, over an unearthly bright bone-white landscape of wind-sculpted ledges and valleys,





crevasses, crevices and cliffs,





until we arrive at last at the small beach.











This other-worldly stretch of coast is named for buccaneers. The rocky shore, filled with coves and caves eroded by the sea, is steeped in the stories of pirates. The name comes from the Saracen (Sarakinós in Greek) pirates who sheltered here before heading out again into the Mediterranean. This Saracen hideout was also used by other marauding groups; Sicilian, Ottoman, and Barber pirates also took safe haven here. For several centuries Sarakiniko was the headquarters of the Aegean pirates. With a convoluted volcanic landscape such as this to hide in it was the perfect place.

But we are several centuries removed from this ruthless band and have no reason to fear marauders hiding in the caves below. It’s time to go exploring.

Almost every mention of Sarakiniko I find online warns that there is no shade. It is all lies. We stroll a short distance inland from the beach to this:








And then discover the old mining shafts; plenty of shade here.








I do not understand how this next photo came to be. Those are not my legs. Nor Don’s,





though the photo does give a hint of the eeriness of the mine shafts, and perhaps the ghosts of pirates past are messing with us.

We head back out





to go climb a cliff to two, along with the relatively few other people here; in June, rather than July and August, Sarakiniko is still comparatively quiet.











Milos is a volcanic island, a semi-circle surounding a central caldera, the result of many eruptions millions of years ago. Sarakiniko’s white rock is pumice, a light porous rock formed when frothy lava cools rapidly, trapping gas bubbles within it; and then sculpted by wind and the sea over millennia into smooth undulating curves and intricate patterns. The landscape also includes tuff, and lava flows caught in place as if snap-frozen. Isn’t nature a marvel?!





Sarakiniko is a holiday beach in an alien landscape, and the landscape alone warrants its place at the top of any list of the best beaches of Milos. It’s much more impressive than Don expects, but not me. I’d seen the photos, and this time the place lives up to the pictures.

Not a soap opera: Aphrodite, the goddess of love and beauty, fell in love with Adonis. Adonis’ best friend was Milos, who was married to Pelia. Milos and Pelia’s son was named Milos after his father. When Ares, the husband of Aphrodite and the god of war, discovered Aphrodite had had an affair with Adonis, he of course killed Adonis. When Milos found out that his best friend had died, he killed himself. Pelia, madly in love with her husband, killed herself, too. Aphrodite, moved by these demonstrations of love, decided to protect the young Milos and sent him to colonise a new island. The island became one of her homes, and she gifted her beauty to the land. Thus, despite all the killing, Milos became the island of love and beauty, and since it has been inhabited for some 12,000 years perhaps it’s all true, with only the names changed to protect the innocent. Until a few years ago this luminous place was shared secretively within the Greek community. Now it has been discovered and rightly recognized as one of the most exotic islands in the Aegean.

Like most visitors we arrive on Milos at the port town of Adamantas, also called Adamas, a bright and pretty town of some 5000 souls. It’s the largest village on the island though Plaka, up on top of the cliff, is the capital. There’s a small sandy beach just west of the ferry dock;











the inevitable local fishing fleet;








a shiny modern waterside pedestrian boulevard with a string of tavernas and restaurants;





and beyond the beach an area called the wetlands, though at this time of year it’s pretty much bone dry.








We’re not exactly coddiwompling since we have a destination in mind. Don wants to find a restaurant called Milor, and we follow directions all over the place without success. We’re up to the top of the hill and down again, arriving at a place that’s completely different from what Don’s expecting, but we’re discovering the town along the way.




















Then we try finding it using maps.me and it takes us to another place and there’s nothing there. Finally we head down the stairs to the waterfront and sit down at the first place we come to, one of the seaside tavernas. Don goes to the bathroom; I peruse the menu; idly I turn it over to find the name of the restaurant. Milors! Having done all that searching, sadly our meal there is not very wonderful; a traditional Greek breakfast of dakos – crunchy bread a bit like croutons but bigger, with stewed tomato, sliced olives, and feta, followed by yogurt with honey. Ah, I’m generally not very good at trying the local dishes, and for breakfast I’d rather have toast and jam and a cup of tea. Having said that, Greek lunch and dinner food makes me very happy.

It’s a 25 minute walk from our hotel, but O! Hamos! has been recommended by a friend and we really want to eat dinner there. We walk and walk and walk, having this day already walked all over the town, out to the wetlands and back, and all over Sarakiniko. We arrive finally to be told there’s a 45 minute wait! I guess the whole world wants to eat at O! Hamos! Disappointed, we walk back to town and eat at Zorbas by the water.








It’s a fifteen kilometre day by the time we get back to the hotel. Exhausted. Milos is lovely, and Sarakiniko truly extraordinary, but we know the best is yet to come – a hike from Plaka by ancient local footpaths down to the brightly coloured fishing village of Klima, and a sailing cruise that circumnavigates the island – all in the next couple of posts.








All words and images by Alison Louise Armstrong unless otherwise noted
© Alison Louise Armstrong and Adventures in Wonderland – a pilgrimage of the heart, 2010-2023.