BLEFOUTIS LEROS AND ME…

I am not afraid to admit it: I dreamed about this tiny plot of land tucked away at the edge of the world night after night. During my nights in France, I would retrace every step of the journey to get there. That scent of wild rosemary greeting your senses as you approach the airport, the cicadas striking up their swelling chorus—the feeling would wash over me: this day was going to be truly wonderful…

Blefoutis Bay Leros, and Me…

My first encounter with this haven happened back in 1973—a vast, untamed marshland with hardly any beaten track. A truly unforgettable day through the eyes of an 8-year-old child; the kind of holiday that leaves an indelible mark for life. Taking three connecting flights from Lyon to Athens, discovering the wide world through Milan, Rome, and the Leaning Tower of Pisa. Those majestic aircraft of Alitalia and Olympic Airways, and an entire plane bursting into genuine tears when the flight attendant announced that we had just touched down in Athens. My young ears also realized that not everyone spoke French: the waitress at Milan Linate introduced me to the lively, singing cadence of Italian, and suddenly there I was in Glyfada, riding a shuttle bus navigating right between Olympic Airways jumbo jets. Where on earth was I in this city, so starkly different, so unexpectedly refined? Naturally, traveling to Greece back then was earned: the journey was long, exhausting, yet thrilling—and what lay ahead was beyond words…

Manolis was waiting for us to take us to his parents’ home. In Greece, leaving guests without hospitality was utterly unthinkable. He ushered us into a midnight-blue Alfa Romeo coupé to drive us into central Athens—complete with a wooden steering wheel and him wearing leather driving gloves right in the middle of August. It is precisely these vivid details etched into memory, these tactile impressions, that forge our life story. Manolis instantly became my childhood hero, and through the car windows my eyes glimpsed the Acropolis perched atop its rock for the very first time. His father owned a town mansion right at the foot of the Acropolis, with a souvenir shop occupying the ground floor. My eyes stood level with the second shelf of miniature Evzone figurines. With a single sweeping gesture of his hand, the entire display went straight into a bag, and those Evzones fueled my childhood games back home for years. Eager to host us properly, they drove us toward Voula at the edge of the Glyfada runway, arriving at a magnificent residence where everything was immaculate—astonishingly in order.

My very first Greek meal: while I watched my mother’s mouth water at everything landing on the huge dining table, I recognized virtually none of it. Yet the sheer abundance of dishes radiated the unmistakable sense that everything had been prepared with deep, generous love. My mother was overjoyed to practice her colloquial Greek, but our hosts took exquisite care to converse in French—a language they considered noble—speaking it impeccably. Everything gleamed, everything felt foreign; the surrounding garden teemed with Mediterranean trees and plants I was discovering for the first time. Then a deafening roar built up into an unimaginable din. I looked up, stunned to see B-52 Stratofortress bombers flying at very low altitude, their wingspan utterly staggering. There are days when a child’s eyes take in the world in vivid, full-focus widescreen—and what an unforgettable day that was! But it was merely the opening chapter…

I could also dwell on the days that followed: visiting the Acropolis, exploring the National Archaeological Museum, wandering the bustling streets of Athens, watching the changing of the Evzone presidential guard. A cosmopolitan capital steeped in American post-war vibrancy yet graced with the cultural elegance of French refinement. But our voyage was far from over. Manolis drove us once again in his Alfa Romeo; the Aegean drew closer as we wound through narrower streets leaving Athens behind, while my mother hummed “The Children of Piraeus” with a gentle quiver in her voice. Around a bend lined with stone facades, the harbor opened up before us—crowded with immense ships unlike anything I had ever witnessed, in scale or number. The atmosphere of that port was electrifying: Manolis dropped us at a café close to the departure quay, facing what looked like a colossal vessel through an 8-year-old’s eyes: the *Mimika*. Around us, the setting shifted completely. Street vendors with handcarts selling everything imaginable, a whirlwind of travelers arriving with heavy luggage amid a yellow taxi ballet—right from the quay, the air took on a vibrant, almost Levantine pulse.

I have no recollection of anyone ever detailing where we were heading or how we would get there. My uncle and his friends joined us just before boarding. Thankfully, we had secured the finest spot on board: third class, right up on the open top deck! The ferry slipped out of the harbor around noon—an unmatched feeling looking out toward the open sea horizon, sailing toward a truly unknown land. We were the only ten foreigners on this epic crossing. There were four of us children; after a few hours of navigating heavy swells, all the parents had turned pale green from the relentless roll of the ship. The good news: I never experienced another sea voyage quite as rough, and it settled one thing for good—I would never suffer from seasickness. The passage felt lengthy and meditative; occasionally an outline of an island drifted by in the distance, but little else. Then night fell, the ship’s navigation lights flickered on, the swell kept rocking… where were we actually going? Sleep finally overtook me on a wooden bench wrapped in a wool blanket: my very first night beneath an open canopy of Aegean stars.

“Wake up, Didier, we’ve arrived!” The ship had indeed ground to a halt in the dead of night—and remarkably, right in the middle of a bay! No quay, no dock, just distant flickers of light ashore. Leaning over the railing, I watched in disbelief as they lowered a car straight onto a small wooden skiff to ferry it ashore! “I don’t want to get off!” I thought. Where on earth was I?
That is how I first arrived on Leros, surrounded by all those overwhelming sensations. We went on to spend a truly magical holiday in Panteli—there wasn’t much else back then, just the solitary taverna of Apostolis’ father, traditional wooden kaikia fishing boats, and I can barely remember eating anything besides french fries and ice cream between jumps into the sea! The carefree days of an untamed child, grumbling when evening came to head up to Platanos for souvlakia at Manolis’. The entire square filled with the irresistible aroma of charcoal smoke—pure bliss! The taste still lingers with me today…

Then arrived our great summer day-trip: packed together inside two cars—rolling smoking lounges, really—heading out toward the absolute edge of the world, to the place that would leave an everlasting mark upon me. After half an hour of driving, there we were: absolute wilderness. A dirt track led to a marshy wetland where we stumbled upon ancient broken amphora shards. They remained treasured family heirlooms for decades, known affectionately as “the Blefoutis amphorae.” And there it was: a magical, unspoiled bay without a single building, without a soul in sight, yet filled with an incomparable aura of peace where you simply felt at home.

For decades, I kept returning to Leros precisely because of Blefoutis. To turn that dreamt journey into living reality: pausing on the gentle slope coming down the hill and quietly beholding the magic of the bay, its turquoise waters, and roaming goats. Taking note of what had changed each season—or rather, what remained blissfully unchanged. Blefoutis regulars were never quite the same as other tourists on Leros. There was a true community of Blefoutis lovers; we greeted one another with a knowing nod, bound by a shared reverence for this sanctuary. The only sounds breaking the stillness were the joyful laughter of children playing by the water until twilight fell. The tamarisk trees were the finest umbrellas in the world, sheltering us in refreshing shade.

Then came the hour to stroll over to the taverna to savor freshly caught calamari or comforting home-cooked Greek dishes that set the stage for a legendary siesta. I read countless books beneath those tamarisks; in France, I would choose books deliberately, telling myself: “This one is reserved for Blefoutis.” Here I discovered ideas and lessons that continue to shape who I am today. It was a fireworks display of inner impressions, balancing the spirituality of an untouched cove with intellectual contemplation. I believe I have never forgotten a single insight discovered at Blefoutis…

Inevitably, as the world turns, things evolve—starting with the local taverna. Not always in the most tasteful fashion, but it was done the Greek way: perhaps clumsy at times, yet the spirit of Blefoutis always reclaimed the upper hand, preserving the soul of the bay. Here and there, a discreet new home built in traditional Dodecanese stone would become the season’s talking point. We spent entire summers in Blefoutis, having lunch at the taverna from the opening to the closing day of the season, almost like permanent fixtures. We crossed paths with like-minded souls, forging warm, enduring friendships.

In Blefoutis, there is no pretense: you are who you are, or you simply don’t belong! A place of raw truth that grew over the years into a true ecological sanctuary for the island. In its wilderness, you witnessed scenes that modern life had long stripped away: Eleftherios guiding his herd of goats, a great black horse wading into the evening sea… A true jewel for Leros, perfectly suited for high-value eco-tourism that draws travelers with genuine respect. Blefoutis was a blessing for Leros. Yet in recent years, sacrificed for short-sighted financial gain, it has been disfigured—and tragically, this is only the beginning. Greed and bad taste know no boundaries; that is precisely how you recognize them!

The Age of Rampant Speculation
A handful of speculators took it upon themselves to ruin everything. That the bay could not remain permanently frozen in time was obvious; but at the very least, they could have built with taste, honored traditional island aesthetics, and maintained architectural harmony to mitigate the damage. And to think that committees exist specifically tasked with protecting Leros’ architectural heritage! Today, not a single building shares a consistent hue or proportional elegance—a cacophony of clashing styles. Tall tales were fed to the local community, claiming these new constructions were intended for local families with multiple children!

A blatant lie: they are nothing more than soulless, low-end tourist compounds completely devoid of charm. Beware: when architecture is this uninspired, it ultimately repels the very visitors you seek—good taste cannot be bought, and what has been built so far is an unmistakable failure. That foreign opportunists swoop down on Blefoutis like vultures solely for easy profit can be expected in 2026; after all, that is how the global market operates. But it may not last forever…

On the other hand, that this unfolded with the benevolent complicity of locals who profess their love for Leros remains an absolute mystery to me. What future awaits their children? What future awaits the people of Leros? What future awaits their own legacy on this island? Pockets are undoubtedly lined with quick, easy cash. Would it really have been so difficult to mandate thoughtful, high-standard projects that serve the island and its residents, rather than succumbing so cheaply? After centuries of foreign occupation and external rule, Leros is slipping into a far more insidious form of servitude: the rule of unchecked capital. Look at the faces of those speculating on Leros: do they truly look fulfilled, content, or at peace with life? Forever craving just a little more profit, with no higher purpose… Tomorrow, they will set the tempo of daily life on Leros, and no one else. The exact same tragedy plays out wherever speculation runs rampant. And history will remember, without mercy!

A few wealthy individuals with more money than sense have seized the bay to treat it as their temporary playground, only to discard it once bored—because sheer excess never taught anyone how to truly appreciate anything. I have encountered people like this my entire life.
You were not even capable of enhancing Blefoutis; you damaged it irreparably. Yet one certainty brings me solace: you can spend all the money in the world, and you will never capture an ounce of Blefoutis’ true magic. The bay has lost its pristine grace, and you will never recapture what made it sacred. When you break your toy, you will pack up and leave. But beware: the wheel always turns, and nature has a mischievous way of evening the score…
In 2026, I have sometimes blamed myself for no longer wanting to go to Blefoutis, yet it will forever live on in my memories, and in my heart…

At the very least, the architecture could have been graceful and refined…

Leros beaches
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