Cats of Corfu.

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 live in harmony with the rhythm of the place. They sleep where it's comfortable. They appear where it's quiet. They disappear when it gets noisy.

I often caught myself using them as cues. If a cat is lying on the road, it's okay to walk slowly. If it's sitting by a café, it's a sign that they'll linger. If it's looking out to sea, it means the day will be long.

They lack attachment in the usual sense. But they have presence. They're there—not because they have to be, but because that's the way it is.

Corfu's cats are part of the landscape. Like a stone, like an olive tree, like the shadow of a shutter. They don't decorate the island. They live in it.

Sometimes it seems they understand better than anyone how to be here: take your time, don't explain, and choose a warm spot in the sun.

And perhaps this is where their quiet wisdom lies. Not in independence, but in the ability to be where you feel comfortable.

Sometimes such details make a place truly come alive—and stay with you longer than views and routes.