Kalami: an island within an island

Evening descends on the bay like a soft blanket. First, the shadows in the olive grove fade away - strict, almost theatrical. Then the roofs of the houses, the pebbles on the beach, the umbrellas by the water darken. And finally, the bay itself - round, like a horseshoe, enclosed by cliffs. Silence comes here. And with it - that very feeling for which we stay on the islands.

Kalami is a village in northeastern Corfu. It looks simple: a few houses, taverns, boats, shimmering stripes of light on the water. But this place has a memory. Gerald Durrell lived here. Lawrence looked at the stars here. And the White House, the same one, still stands on the edge of the water. Like a white cube thrown out to sea – smooth, open, alive.

Now it is a hotel and tavern. On the wall hangs a quote: "A white house that stands on a cliff like a dice." And next to it is a plaque in the shape of an open book. On the left is a boy with a net. On the right is a brother with a manuscript. Two lives. One island. Two different books - and both are loved.

When I was a teenager, I read My Family and Other Animals and thought: this is a fairy tale. The island with lizards, pelicans, lotuses - it seemed like the border of imagination. Jerry with the terrier was like Tom Sawyer in the Mediterranean. I didn't believe that all this was true. Even my mother, when I read her parts, shook her head: - No, Lilya, it's made up.

And then I came to Corfu. And everything fell into place.

Olive groves, the smell of basil, the morning light on white walls. The sea, sparkling like glass. The silence in which you can hear the ringing of memory . And even the image of the Durrells - not as a myth for tourists, but as a breath. They were. They felt this light. They taught us to see.

As an adult, I read Lawrence and it’s as if I’m returning to the same place, but by a different route. Now there are associations, balconies, conversations under the moon, the music of words. The sea becomes literary. Too beautiful to be just blue.

I think of them both often: Jerry, the child in love with dragonflies and pelicans. Lawrence, the adult, searching for shadows of the past in conversation and structure. They are both here. And I am here, too. Not with a book, not with a net. Just with myself.

Maybe that's the connection: to live, to watch, to remember. And to become again the girl who read about pelicans and didn't know that one day she would meet them on her way home.