The Found and the Forgotten: Uncovering Naxos From Port to Peak

I wasn’t even planning to visit Naxos initially. I was already pushing my luck trying to fit three Cycladic islands into 11 days. But when an island this beautiful is so close, I simply couldn’t resist. I’m happy I squeezed it in because Naxos off the beaten path, both the coast and the mountains, is a completely different island from what most visitors see.

The Polished Charm of the Port

My first morning in Naxos began the way most of my European mornings do: I just wandered. I’ve always found that the most interesting things are usually found by accident, stumbled upon when not even looking.

Even at 10:30 AM, the Chora (the name for a Greek island’s main town) was surprisingly quiet. The shops were open, but the crowds were thin; perhaps they were already at the beach… I mean, it was summer in the Mediterranean, after all.

Well, for me, I like to do things a little bit differently. The morning’s quiet gives me a chance to wander back alleys and see the world before it wakes up.

I passed by a taverna that was so picture-perfect, it looked like it was designed for a movie set. Underneath the white two-top tables, I noticed the iconic whitewashed stone paving that are so quintessentially Cycladic. The morning sun shone brightly on a cafe that wouldn’t open until evening.

I then caught a glimpse of the local heartbeat: two elderly women leaning over a stone wall to talk. I imagined them gossiping about the neighbors or chatting about their children. It was lovely to see a what a normal morning was like for people where the island is a permanent home.

The Working Side of the Old Town

Leaving the residential side streets, I headed back to the main area as the activity was starting to increase. I stopped at a shop that felt like the island’s general store. Right by the entrance, there was a wonderful mix of famous Naxian spices in open burlap bags (reminding me of a Moroccan souq) and massive wheels of the local Graviera cheese. But stepping further into the store, I noticed just how cluttered it was. It looked like an old antique store where every inch was filled by an object or item for sale.

Looking around the shop was like a treasure hunt; there were so many fun surprises hidden in plain sight. There were violins hanging next to evil-eye charms and bottles of local wine in plastic jugs, priced around 4 euros each. Above a vintage 1970s radio hung hand-carved shepherds’ staffs, commonly used in the mountainous areas of Naxos.

This wasn’t one of those perfectly curated boutique shops that catered to tourists, but instead, it was a store piled with random shit: the everyday necessities for the people who live on this island year-round.

The Road to the Island’s Interior

As much as I enjoyed my general store treasure hunt in the Chora, I knew I had only scratched the surface of the island. To find the untouched, forgotten character of the island, I knew I’d have to leave the coast behind.

At 4:00 PM, I met up with Kostas Andris, a local photographer whose typical booking is for romantic couple photoshoots. However, we arranged a photo walk to two of the villages built into the rugged Naxian mountains.

As we drove towards the mountainous interior, navigating steep, winding switchbacks in Kostas’s gray Toyota Auris, the scenery quickly changed. Glancing out the window, the scale of the island hit me. Naxos is, in fact, the largest island in the Cycladic chain.

From the scenic lookouts, you can see the island’s natural diversity: the shimmering blue Aegean Sea in the distance and the hills of green, dotted with white houses. While there are mountain towns (like Halki and the “marble village” of Apeiranthos) which are frequent day tours from the port, Kostas was taking me to two places which felt unspoiled by tourism.

Koronos: A Time Capsule of Naxian Life

Koronos was our first stop. I was glad I wore my sneakers because Koronos is one of the steepest villages in all of the Cyclades. But it wasn’t built into the mountains for the views, but instead, it was constructed for the nearby mining industry.

After parking, we first stumbled upon a man behind a weathered chain-link fence, preparing some food. Kostas struck up a conversation and translated that the man was making gardoumia, a local delicacy made of goat intestines.

He wasn’t working in a stainless steel, immaculate kitchen. Nope. Behind him was a concrete house where buckets, coils of rope, and tools were hanging from hooks. These are the moments that are special to me; to stumble upon this scene where someone is just going about his daily cooking routine on a stone surface stained with the history of a thousand family meals.

When he finished a few, he held them up for us to see, smiling broadly. This was just a man proud of his heritage and the delicious meal he was preparing, and I was glad to be able to capture it.

The House That Stood Still

The most jarring moment in Koronos didn’t come from seeing an animal’s innards, it came from a window. As we navigated a quiet alley, I peered into an open window and was shocked to find a house that had seemingly been frozen in time. It was like the family had just vanished into thin air.

On the dining room table, a red and white checked tablecloth was still perfectly in place, holding a stack of dusty plates and some glass bottles. Portraits still hung on the walls, their faces staring into the abandoned room. A bulky tv still sat on its stand, with armchairs still there, waiting for someone to sit on them.

I looked to Kostas, hoping for an explanation, but he couldn’t say for sure. Kostas described how many people leave these mountain villages behind, looking for work in Athens or at other popular islands. But still, to leave their house as-is seemed unthinkable.

Ultimately, I never got an answer. The house remained a mysterious time capsule of a life interrupted by circumstances unknown. It’s a house that was clearly loved and lived in, which makes the fact that someone just left all their possessions behind even harder to understand.

We continued on and found that despite the stark apocalyptic scene we had just glimpsed, there was still a lot of life that remained in this old mountain town. In fact, it ended up being more welcoming than anything I’d found on the coast.

A Seat and a Slice of Cake

As we walked on, we found some small pockets of life. An old man (badly) played the violin at a little outdoor café. Then came the cake. Without ordering anything, the owner came right over, bringing two generous slices of what looked like a homemade Mille-feuille cake.

I reached for my wallet, but she waved it away, not allowing me to pay. In any other city, you’d probably pay ten euros for a slice like this. In Koronos, it was apparently a thank you, on-the-house, for simply sitting in their café and listening to the music.

As we ate our delicious treat, the skinny elderly man, who was dressed in a pink button-down, scratched out a tune and sang about the endurance of life in the mountains. As I filmed and took pictures, Kostas joked to him that he would “become a star” now that his music would be shared online.

To me, Koronos felt like was still trapped in a different era. It’s a village that survived on hard labor well before tourism picked up to what it is today. It’s a bittersweet reality: seeing the infrastructure crumbling even when the residents’ spirits remain strong.

Komiaki: Life at the Highest Point

Our second stop was just 15 minutes further up the winding roads from Koronos. We reached Komiaki (officially named Koronida) which sits at the highest altitude on the island.

Entering Komiaki felt and looked different right away. Instead of the sandy tan walls of Koronos, Komiaki was a sea of bright white and Aagean blue. It felt a little more lived in too; children played in the whitewashed streets, running past houses topped with modern solar panels.

Whereas Koronos was built for mining the nearby hills, Komiaki was established for agriculture. Much of the island’s wine is grown on these slopes and its famous cheese is produced nearby. Despite these differences, both villages were constructed with the same steep steps and held the same small community feel.

The Gift of the Gourd

Kostas and I walked up and down the streets, photographing the raw surfaces of the walls. Then, up ahead, just beyond a white stone archway, I heard music. In the distance, two men were sitting in plastic chairs outside of their white-and-blue homes, chatting over the noise.

If they were surprised to see two people strapped with cameras walking down their street, they didn’t show it. In fact, the opposite! They welcomed us to join their little party, offering us each a shot of raki, which was already sitting on the table, just waiting to be poured.

One of the men, sporting a full black Adidas tracksuit and a traditional Greek sea captain’s hat, was especially excited for visitors. He aggressively offered us candies from a massive jar, saying “Take some! These are yours!“

Then, he walked across the little alleyway and picked up a black plastic crate overflowing with dried, rust-colored gourds. He posed proudly with them for my camera. I later learned that these are classic mountain “canteens” that have been used for decades. He didn’t just offer me one; he thrust it toward me, offering me a special gift. When it was explained that I couldn’t possibly travel home with a giant dried vegetable, he looked genuinely baffled. He looked at Kostas, who was translating the interaction, and asked “Yati?” (Why?).

Although I agreed to accept the gourd (he wasn’t having it any other way), I did unfortunately leave it behind when I took the next ferry. I hope it ended up finding an owner who would drink from it for all their remaining days.

We continued on, my new gourd in hand, climbing endless stone staircases tucked between houses.

The Saturday Night Ritual

By this time, it was nearly 8:00 PM and it was still light out—thank you, Greek summer! We found a small, nondescript corner café where it seemed like half the village had gathered.

Some sat outside, enjoying the cooling air, but the real action was inside. A group of four men sat around a green checkered tablecloth, hunched over their cards, lighting up cigarettes. It felt like a weekly ritual that had probably been going on for decades. That Saturday evening in June, we witnessed the local heartbeat of a small mountain community.

It was the perfect final taste of life in the Naxian mountains: unhurried, uncomplicated, and authentic.

Two Sides of the Same Coin

I started this post thinking I’d be writing about the contrasts between the glamorous port and the raw mountains. But as I got to writing, my perspective shifted.

I realized that Naxos isn’t an island of contradictions. Both the coast and the mountain villages are simply two sides of the same coin. The spirit of the people remains whether or not it’s been gussied up for tourists or left to crumble in the mountain air.

Most people come to Naxos for the temple sunset and the glow of the Chora at golden hour. I am no different. But if you’re willing to climb the stairs, you’ll find that the most beautiful things on the island aren’t the ancient monuments built for gods. They are the moments shared with the people who never left the mountain.

In a way, the marble gate at the port acts as a barricade. It holds the “Found” Naxos at the water’s edge so that the “Forgotten” Naxos can keep its cards on the table, its wine in the gourds, and its houses frozen in time.