For me, the olive trees of Corfu aren't just a landscape. They're a feeling I return to. I've seen them in different ways. In the morning—calm, almost transparent, when the light filters through the foliage and doesn't linger. In the afternoon—dense, collected, when the shade beneath them becomes the only place of peace. But most of all—at sunset. Sunset comes slowly in Agios Gordios. It doesn't fall, doesn't break—it seems to unfold in time. First, the air changes. Then the

Flowers in Corfu don't demand attention. They aren't arranged in compositions or wait to be seen. They simply grow—where they're allowed sun, wind, and a little earth. Sometimes it seems the island speaks through them. Not with words, but with shades, scents, and the shape of petals. White, pink, yellow—they appear suddenly, without warning, along roadsides, against stone walls, between steps. Corfu flowers aren't decorative. They aren't created to beautify. They're a part of

Cats appear on Corfu before people. You might not even have time to wake up, and they're already sitting on warm steps, on stone fences, at doors that have long since ceased to be just doors. They don't ask for attention. They allow it. It seems as if the island belongs to them as much as the sea. They know all the shadows, all the shortcuts, all the hours when the sun sets softly, and the moments when it's best to retreat deeper into the yard. Corfu cats don't fuss. They liv

I didn't see it right away. It wasn't conspicuous and didn't try to be noticed. White, almost transparent, it grew right in the scorching sand—where, it seemed, nothing should grow. The sun was high. The sand was hot, almost scorching. And right there, at the very edge of the shore, the lily bloomed. It seemed fragile. But the longer I looked at it, the clearer it became: its strength wasn't in its defense, but in its ability to exist. It didn't hide. It didn't seek shade. It

In Greece, you don't have to adjust to the  time.It  is already configured differently here. The morning doesn't start  abruptly.It  unfolds gradually, through the light, the air, the silence of the streets.Even the traffic is softer here, as if the world knows in advance that there is no hurry. The rhythm of Greece is not about  slowness.It 's about  consent.It 's about the ability not to resist the day, but to go along with it. I've often noticed how easy it is to make...

Photo: PixAl Photography - Alan Jacobs (Facebook) I heard them first. Not saw them—I heard them. A subtle, almost weightless scent appeared in the air so unexpectedly that I stopped, trying to figure out where it was coming from. It was softer than any perfume—not insistent, not sweet, but pure and transparent, like morning light. It was in Monrepos. The park still held the warmth of the past summer, but a different breath was already in the air—calm, damp, autumnal. And only

This is Corfu. View of the old fortress. For a long time, I couldn't pinpoint the moment when Greece became more than a country. It didn't happen right away. Not on my first visit, and not on the most beautiful day. At first, it was a backdrop—the light, the sea, the lines of the houses. Then, it became a habit. And then, it became a state that doesn't end when you leave. In Greece, everything happens more slowly, but not lazily. Time doesn't drag here—it simply takes its tim

I don't remember addresses. I remember light. Every house we lived in remained not just walls, but a feeling—the morning air, the sound of footsteps on the floor, the view from the window that eventually became familiar. Some houses were temporary, but they felt more secure than permanent ones. It was easy to breathe in them. Easy to be silent. Easy to be yourself—without the role of a guest. We arrived briefly, and when we left, it was as if we had to leave something behind.

There are roads you don't take to get to a destination. You don't look at your watch or check your route. They exist not to get you somewhere, but to keep you moving. I didn't fall in love with these roads right away. Before, I always needed to know where I was going and why. Now, all I have to do is leave the house and let the day unfold. This is especially noticeable on the islands. The road can end abruptly—at the sea, at a village, at a turn where there's nothing left. An

Winter arrives unnoticed in Corfu. No sudden cold, no dramatic changes. The island simply becomes quieter—as if someone has removed unnecessary sounds and left only the essentials. The sea changes color. It no longer tries to be a postcard—it becomes deep, heavy, and real. The wind brings the scent of rain and wet earth, and the island's greenery seems to become even denser, even more vibrant. In winter, Corfu belongs to those who live here. The beaches empty, the roads clear

After a while, Corfu ceases to be an island. It becomes a backdrop—like the light outside the window, like the familiar sound of the sea, like a shadow that falls a little differently every day. You stop noticing that you live "in a beautiful place." The beauty doesn't disappear—it just stops demanding attention. And that's when you realize: you're not a guest here. Days begin to take shape from little things. From morning commutes you know by heart. From stores where they no

Corfu entered my life quietly. Without promises, without flashy gestures, without any desire to please. It simply was—in the greenery that never fades even in the sun, in the soft air, in the feeling that the day can last as long as it needs to. Here, time isn't divided into "to make it" and "not to make it." It simply flows—like a road between hills, like the shade of an olive tree, like the sea, always nearby but never demanding attention. In Corfu, I felt for the first tim