My Tiny Home on Tilos
Bedecked with Bougainvillea: My Tiny Home on Tilos
I have always wanted to live in a village. The kind of village where each house in the village fits so snugly 
together that should you be on a hillside overlooking the sea, the buttressing effected by adjoining
staircases and tongue and grooved patios and eaves saves you from all tumbling headlong to the shore.
Where walls are only figurative as there is always the sense that your lives are inherently shared: you awake to the same
rooster, the same riotous ringing of church bells, the same trucks braking as they reach
the bottom of your hill, the same children howling because they have to go to school. Where your door opens to white terraces of light and your neighbour’s jasmine scents your morning tea. Where trips to the
village market always take longer than planned as there are families to ask after, babies to admire, cats to count, the day’s
catch to be viewed and gossip to share. Where you need to give yourself time to breathe in the collegiality of the town square – the shopkeepers sweeping their stoops, the newsstands buried under the Benjamin Fig trees, the Tilly-hatted hikers holding court in the café and the chattering children waiting at the bus stop – and exhale with the delight of knowing that this kind of quiet goodness is what awaits me every time I come home to Greece.
Aromatherapeutic Roots of Tilos
Yes, home. In a village, a small Greek village on the tiny island of Tilos (64 sq km) which lies just off the coast of Turkey in the southern Aegean. Part of the Dodecanese Archipelago, this island of Tilos, like all other islands in the archipelago, was subject to a vast number of rulers, civilizations and occupations throughout its history but always maintained an identity of its own due to its natural springs, thriving
plant life and fertile soil. The first mention of the island’s fertility was through the Greek legend of Telos who came to the island to gather the therapeutic herbs necessary to heal his ailing mother, Alia, sister of
sun-god Helios. His success led to the erection of a sacred sanctuary in honour of his mother and Poseidon and the earning of the title “hierapolis” (a holy servant). Poetess Erinna, a contemporary of Sappho, was similarly smitten by the pastoral nature of the island and left 
behind, in 350 B.C., one particular poem, “Ilakati”, which sings the praises of the fragrant isle of Tilos. Twenty-four centuries later, this song to Tilos still holds true and a recent designation as a conservation area (“Tilos Park”) has ensured that its flora and fauna will be protected well into the future. Now completely off limits to hunters, endangered bird species such as the Bonelli’s eagle and the Eleanora’s falcon, for instance, are flourishing. As are the Tilos goats, one might add, heirs to the best goat blood line in Greece!
Happiness is a Glass of Wine, the Sound of the Sea
Given its wild and rugged beauty, its fascinating multi-layered history, its holy origins, and its progressive
steps: it’s conservation efforts, its pledge to become the first island 
sustained by renewable energy sources, and the first island, in 1981, to support same-sex marriage, I am proud to call the island of Tilos my Greek home. It’s an adventure every time we come, the only way off and on the island being by boat, usually by ferry from either Rhodes in the south or Kos in the north. Within minutes of landing (unless you are enticed to stop for a cold one in the leafy square on the way) and after multiple stairs to the top of the village, you will be on my doorstep, disentangling yourself from the thicket of bougainvillea that douses my patio in a brilliant pinks, reds and purples. The house itself is a model “tiny home” with ancient bones; a traditional Greek ‘peasant’s’ house with foot deep walls, two rooms, flat roof, whitewashed walls inside and
out and brown trim and shutters. The tiny kitchen has room for a fireplace and a window that looks out onto the
sea, and the more spacious bedroom is blessed with a bevy of built-in storage spaces and two windows, one which looks out onto the patio and beyond to the sea. The bathroom is ideally situated – it’s outside. Or, to be exact, it is accessed via the patio which means that middle of the night calls are answ
ered only by taking in the night sky; the stars through the bougainvillea and the ring of lights which rim the
harbour, A tiny storage room abutting the bathroom completes the tiny plot of ‘land’. The heart of the house is the patio, radiant with Aegean light and heat – as filtered through the bouganvalia – from sunrise to sunset. From it lies a panoramic view of the village, the harbour, the malecon-ringed beachfront and the towering hills of Tilos. Set like jewels in the terraces of these sage-green hills are the tiny white chapels that are scattered around the island, and above
one stands the ruins of Aghrioskyia, one of the Knights Hospitaller castles that once dominated the hilltops of Tilos. The sensory experience of stepping onto my patio generously rewards those who have travelled the distance.
The Island Community
As one is likewise gifted by the sense of serenity and safety that pervades this corner of the world. You are in Greece, ten kms from Turkey, two countries who, should one believe the media, have literally imploded in the last few years and there is only a deep peace here as if communed from the herb-infused soil. Though it has endured its share of invasions, occupations and deprivation, these times have been anomalous and abhorrent to what one quickly surmises are a
people in love with life. In spite of the spiralling debt, the po!itical corruption, the
crushing demands imposed by the European Union, the soul of Zorba lives on. You are acknowledged on the street with a wave, a greeting, a smile and businesses – shops, restaurants – remember your name. Greek hospitality is renowned the world over; the warmth with which you are welcomed, and always the extra distance ran – the drink upon arrival, the lavishness of the breakfasts, the after-dinner surprise (a dessert of spoon sweets and yogurt or a glass of their local spirit). And in full season on Tilos – June-September – you will have a wide choice Of restaurants to spoil you, mini-supers to supply you with olives, feta, Swedish cider, retsina and bakeries for all your petit four ice-cream needs (I’m not joking!). And you’ll be doing that unhustled in the company of Greeks and foreigners alike (British, Scandinavians, German, French), never once experiencing the gutted feeling that you are part of that scourge – tourism, greed- that levels a culture in favour of Western familiarity.
Walking into Glory
And the delights of Tilos do not end tableside. A tidy harbourfront begs a ramble about it – to eavesdrop on the lost yachties (Tilos is a magnet for seasoned sailors; those who have circled the Mediterranean enough to know that here lies an island without the lipstick), to admire the crenellated Italian façade of the
police station, the bijoux perfection of the Byzantine church, the exquisite offerings of the tiny silversmith’s shop, and then…..the walks into glory. As the island is a chip off Anatolia and simply a compact series of mountains rising abruptly
from the Aegean, any walk takes in panoramic views of both island and sea. And these walks, chiselled into hillside and ravine, are plentiful, dating back to when the entire island was terraced and farmed. These were the routes of the
goatherders and the townspeople moving from winter to summer settlements. Be prepared to be staggered by the beauty of these byways and by the haunting presence of the homes, fields, olive orchards, castles and chapels left behind. No less than seven Hospitallers castles remain on the island, once important sources of protection for island people
during times of unrest and invasion from the sea. One of the ‘castles’ was actually a monastery (disguised as such to deter intruders), and the only one gloriously extant today. Be sure to take the Sunday visits to the St. Pandeleimon Monastery; the jaw-dropping drive to it aside the precipitous mountains on the northwest of the island alerts you in advance of the special sacredness of this site.
Coming Home
And so this is the place where I shall hang my hat mid-travel to Europe, the Mediterranean Basin, and places beyond. It’s leanness, ruggedness and simplicity of island life
called to me and when I walk the hills something deep, almost ancestral, tugs at my soul. Perhaps it is because, as a friend once suggested, I am reconnecting to a former life as a goatherder amongst olive groves, or perhaps it is because I sense the mythical power of the Biblical landscape that lies outside my door. In a deep, Abrahamic way, my stone hut on a barren but bougainvillead hillside in Greece is leading me home, to where Henry Miller felt “marvelous things happen – those which can happen nowhere else on earth. God’s magic is at work, Greece is still a sacred precinct.”
