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