Flowers of Corfu.

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 life—as natural as the shadow of a tree or the salt in the air.

I've noticed how the perception of time changes when you begin to see flowers not as a backdrop, but as signs of the season. Not by the calendar, but by feeling.

Spring comes through color. Summer through density and fragrance. Autumn through rarity and the silence between them.

The flowers here aren't fragile. They know heat, wind, and lack of water. They don't resist—they adapt.

There's a special beauty to this. Not ostentatious, not requiring care, but calm and resilient.

I've often found myself thinking that the flowers of Corfu linger in my memory longer than the views and routes. Because they're not about "looking." They're about "noticing."

And perhaps that's exactly what they offer—to stop, to see, and to demand nothing from the moment.

Sometimes such details create a sense of place more powerfully than any words.