A Requiem for Corfu: Honouring a Friend and an Island’s Soul.

This is not where you would expect an article about one of the Mediterranean’s most beautiful islands to start. It’s the tail end of winter, 2021. Kensal Green Cemetery in west London: the imperial mausolea canted and crumbling, low clouds dissolving into rain. We are still in that strange, disorienting phase of the pandemic when the world felt both vast and claustrophobically small, when we were masked, newly aware of our bodies and the space around them, and acutely attuned to the fragility of life. In this somber, muted landscape, far removed from the sun-drenched vibrancy of the Ionian, we gathered to bury Nikos, a man who for me, for many, was the very incarnation of Corfu. His passing, a stark reminder of the global crisis, cast a long shadow, yet it also underscored the profound, almost spiritual, connection many held to the island he so passionately loved and shared.

My twenties were a pilgrimage, a relentless pursuit of the quintessential Greek island. I journeyed from the celebrated shores of Mykonos and Santorini, with their dazzling white architecture and bustling cosmopolitanism, to the more rugged, less-frequented havens of Kythira, Symi, and Meganisi. Each offered its own unique charm, a fleeting moment of beauty, but none quite resonated with the idealized vision I had meticulously constructed in my imagination since childhood. My early literary explorations, transitioning from the historical epics of Robert Graves and the Hellenic narratives of Mary Renault to the evocative prose of Lawrence Durrell and the philosophical mysteries of John Fowles, had forged a powerful, almost mythical, conception of Greece. It was more than just a geographical location; it was an idea, a profound state of being: freedom unbound, deep philosophical contemplation, and a sensory tapestry woven from sand, the tang of salt, and the heady scent of wild thyme. This imagined Greece was a place of intellectual awakening and untamed beauty, a vision that stubbornly eluded me in my island-hopping quests.

Then, quite unexpectedly, a whimsical invitation arrived: to play cricket in Corfu. At the time, my knowledge of the island was scant, limited to little more than its geographical position. I was unaware of its rich and complex strategic history, a narrative of conquest and cultural amalgamation that had profoundly shaped its unique identity. I hadn’t yet experienced the leisurely stroll along the Liston, the elegant colonnaded arcade in Corfu Town, whose architectural grace could easily transport one to Venice, Trieste, Bologna, or Perugia, were it not for the incongruous yet captivating cricket pitch laid out directly in front of it. This pitch, a testament to centuries of British influence, is surrounded by a car park, its diligent groundsmen locked in a constant battle against the relentless Mediterranean heat, corrosive salt spray, playful digging children, and the occasional fouling dog. Yet, despite these challenges, it stands as a truly singular phenomenon: the only cricket pitch in the world, to my knowledge, nestled within a UNESCO World Heritage site. To take guard there is to be enveloped by history; one looks up to the imposing solidity of the Old Fortress on one side and to the refined elegance and flair of the Palace of St Michael and St George on the other, a remarkable tableau where sport, history, and architectural grandeur converge.

Corfu’s strategic location at the crossroads of maritime trade routes and geopolitical power struggles made it a coveted prize for centuries. Unlike many other Greek islands, it never fell under Ottoman rule. Instead, it experienced extended periods of Venetian, French, and British occupation, each leaving an indelible mark. The Venetians, ruling for over four centuries (1386-1797), imbued Corfu Town with its distinctive architectural style – narrow, winding alleys (cantounia), multi-storied buildings with arcades, and a pervasive Italianate aesthetic that echoes their homeland. They fortified the island heavily, building the Old and New Fortresses that still dominate the skyline. The French, though brief occupiers, introduced administrative reforms and fostered a nascent sense of national identity. It was the British Protectorate (1815-1864), however, that brought the most curious cultural legacy: cricket. They established the game as a means of leisure and discipline, and it flourished, becoming so deeply ingrained that the Greek national cricket team today is drawn almost entirely from Corfiot players. This layered history, a mosaic of influences, created a culture that is simultaneously undeniably Greek, distinctly Venetian in its urban fabric, and surprisingly British in its sporting passions.

My introduction to this unique Corfiot world was through a cricket match with the Lord’s Taverners, a UK sports charity renowned for bringing together former professional cricketers, actors, entertainers, and writers for charitable games. Our motley crew included cricketing legends like Andy Caddick and Chris Cowdrey, alongside a smattering of theatrical personalities and literary figures, myself included. The Corfiots, it quickly became apparent, were not merely enthusiasts; they were formidable players. The Greek national team’s almost exclusive Corfiot composition speaks volumes about the island’s cricketing prowess. We were soundly beaten, a defeat softened considerably by the overwhelming warmth and generosity of our hosts, culminating in a series of exceptional dinners in the atmospheric Old Town.

It was during one of these memorable dinners, at the charming Pergola restaurant, a place known for its authentic Corfiot hospitality and delectable lamb dishes, that I had the privilege of meeting Nikos Louvros and his wife, Annabelle. They were our hosts for the evening, the driving force behind Cricket Corfu, and soon to become dear friends. Nikos was a force of nature – rambunctiously Greek, brimming with an almost untamed, wild energy that was infectious. Annabelle, his English wife, embodied that particular type of expatriate who falls deeply and irrevocably in love with Greece, choosing to build an entire life around its rhythm and charm. I recognized that impulse within myself; it was a yearning for a place that felt like home, yet offered the liberating allure of the foreign. By the end of that evening, fueled by succulent lamb, the potent clarity of ouzo, and excellent local wine, a grand plan had taken root: we would launch a literary festival on the island. The audacious idea, born from conviviality and shared passion, seemed not just plausible, but inevitable, with Nikos’s boundless enthusiasm leading the charge.

Over the subsequent years, that ambitious vision blossomed into a glorious reality. The Corfu Literary Festival began modestly, a testament to the power of a dream. At our inaugural event in 2017, the stage often held as many speakers as there were audience members, a charmingly intimate gathering. I vividly recall Nikos’s expressions throughout those early days: a flicker of hope, moments of good-natured irritation when an invited guest failed to appear, and finally, his characteristic, booming laughter, a sound that dispelled any frustration. But there was never, for a single moment, any doubt that the festival would persevere. With Nikos by your side, his unwavering belief and irrepressible spirit, everything seemed not just possible, but destined.

Slowly, organically, buoyed by the unwavering support of the local community and the growing enthusiasm of literary figures, the festival expanded, evolving into something far grander than our initial imaginings. We’ve had the immense privilege of welcoming a constellation of literary stars and public intellectuals: Stephen Fry, Sebastian Faulks, Bettany Hughes, Natalie Haynes, Matt Haig, and Tom Holland, among many others. They came to share their insights and stories, and in doing so, they experienced the unique magic of Corfu. Many stayed at the heavenly Kontokali Bay hotel, its elegant grounds overlooking the shimmering Ionian, or in the exquisite villas and apartments offered by Ionian Estates, each offering a taste of authentic Corfiot luxury. And, just as I had, they inevitably fell in love with the island. This deep affection for Corfu often led them to return, many speaking at the festival several times, drawn back by its unique blend of intellectual stimulation and unparalleled beauty.

Nikos lived for this, for the profound joy of introducing others to the breathtaking beauty and dramatic landscapes of the island where he was born, from which he ventured forth, and to which he ultimately returned. He is gone now, a profound absence felt keenly by all who knew him, but his spirit, his passion, and his vision continue to animate the festival. This September, the Corfu Literary Festival will return, larger and more magical than ever, with Homer’s epic Odyssey at its very heart. It is a fitting subject for an island like Corfu, a place where the mythic and the everyday still fold into each other with an effortless grace, where ancient tales resonate amidst contemporary life, and where every cove and olive grove seems to whisper stories of gods and heroes.

This is what I learned from Nikos, and from Corfu itself, over the years: embrace the water at every opportunity. Swim early, before the day fully awakens, when the sea still holds a faint, invigorating bite, sharpening the senses. Swim after lunch, when the sun has warmed the surface, and the sea feels like liquid silk against the skin, a soothing balm. And, perhaps most enchantingly, swim at dusk, when the water still retains the day’s absorbed heat, and the light transforms, becoming thick and slow, painting the sky with hues of gold and rose. Corfu is vast enough and wonderfully varied enough that one could construct an entire itinerary centered around its diverse waterscapes and never once feel a sense of repetition.

On the rugged west coast, Myrtiotissa remains a beach that feels like a private miracle. Tucked away in a steep, verdant cradle of green cliffs, reaching it is an initiation, a journey down winding paths that heightens the anticipation. Not unreasonably, the celebrated author Lawrence Durrell, who himself was captivated by Corfu, famously declared it "perhaps the most beautiful beach in the world." Its secluded beauty, with its golden sands and turquoise waters, feels like a hidden sanctuary. Paleokastritsa, further north on the west coast, possesses a different, more dramatic kind of beauty. The ancient monastery, perched majestically above the bay, gazes down upon a scatter of exquisite coves where the water achieves an astonishing clarity. One can see the intricate patterns of the rocks far below, like a second, submerged landscape suspended in a shimmering blue, inviting exploration.

Then there is the enchanting north-east coast, a gentler counterpoint to the west’s wild grandeur. Here, the waters are calmer, protected by the island’s embrace, creating a series of intimate coves and a more sheltered coastline. Agni Bay, with its gentle curve of shoreline, is a place made for languid, extended lunches. Agni Taverna, one of several excellent establishments along the bay, sits so close to the water’s edge that you can effortlessly leave your table, indulge in a refreshing swim, and return, still tasting the salt on your lips, to continue your meal. The advice here is simple: eat fresh fish, prepared with elegant simplicity, and allow time to loosen its relentless grip. If possible, arrive by boat; the north-east coast maintains a charming tradition of water taxis ferrying visitors between its idyllic bays. There is something quintessentially Corfiot about stepping directly from the deck of a small boat onto the shore, ready for a leisurely lunch.

A constant source of surprise for many visitors, particularly those whose mental image of Greek islands is defined by the stark, whitewashed sparseness of the Cyclades, is just how incredibly green Corfu is. The island’s interior rises and folds with the complexity of a small, mountainous country. Ancient olive groves, some centuries old, stretch for miles, their gnarled trunks and silvery leaves creating a timeless landscape. Cypresses, tall and dark, pierce the cerulean skyline like sentinels. Drive up into the charming villages nestled above Paleokastritsa, and you reach places like Lakones, perched high enough to make the entire island feel suddenly vast, offering breathtaking panoramic vistas. At Boulis, a local taverna, the food is hearty and authentic, but it is undoubtedly the terrace view that draws people, the almost dizzying sensation of stepping straight into the boundless blue horizon.

Corfu’s cuisine, too, offers a delightful departure from what one might typically associate with Greek food. It is a gastronomy profoundly shaped by its Venetian heritage, by centuries of intimate contact with Italy, and by the abundant produce harvested from the island’s fertile land and bountiful sea. Pastitsada is a rich and comforting beef stew, slow-cooked with aromatic spices and served with thick pasta, a testament to Venetian influence. Sofrito features tender slices of beef or veal, braised in a fragrant sauce of white wine, vinegar, garlic, and fresh parsley, creating a dish that is both delicate and deeply flavorful. Bourdeto is a robust fish stew, typically made with scorpionfish, cooked in a spicy, tomato-based sauce, reflecting the island’s strong maritime traditions and its historical ties to the wider Mediterranean.

In Corfu Town, ensure you allocate time for a memorable evening at Salto. This contemporary yet deeply grounded establishment prides itself on excellent ingredients, often locally sourced, and boasts a superb wine list that perfectly complements its innovative dishes. Afterwards, indulge in the timeless pleasure of ice cream from Papagiorgios, a beloved local institution. To walk through the ancient, labyrinthine streets of the Old Town with a cone in hand, the warm stone beneath your feet still radiating the day’s heat, is to feel a tangible connection to a long and cherished tradition of summer nights, a simple joy that has spanned generations.

In 2020, amidst a brief, almost improbable lull between the relentless Covid lockdowns, we made the audacious decision to hold the literary festival. It felt like an act of defiance, a quiet rebellion against the capricious gods of the pandemic. The world was half-closed, plans shifted by the hour, and uncertainty hung heavy in the air. Yet, for a few precious days, the island of Corfu, with its inherent grace and resilience, opened its arms and welcomed us in. Chairs were carefully spaced, masks slipped on and off with a mix of caution and casualness, and hand sanitisers were strategically perched on every table. Despite the pervasive anxiety, there was laughter, the vibrant exchange of ideas, and an overwhelming sense of beauty. These were the intangible, vital elements that made us feel human again, reminding us of the enduring power of connection and culture.

One particular morning stands out, etched in my memory with a poignant clarity. Nikos appeared, as if from nowhere, with a boat. He had a singular gift for these impromptu, joyful interventions, always halfway into the next brilliant idea before the current one had even fully unfolded. "Come," he said, his eyes sparkling with characteristic enthusiasm. A dozen of us climbed aboard, leaving behind the relentless, anxious news cycle and the low-level fear that had become the unwelcome soundtrack of that year. We sped along the north-east coast, Nikos expertly navigating, cutting the engine in secluded inlets that one would never discover from land: slivers of shingle, smooth limestone shelves, tiny beaches no bigger than living room sofas. Each time we stopped, we dove into the cool, clear water, swimming with an almost desperate abandon, as if trying to slough the oppressive weight of the year off our very skin. It felt like pure freedom, something precious and exhilarating, snatched from the encroaching darkness.

That indelible boat trip marked the last festival Nikos attended. He died of Covid the following January – on my birthday, a date now imbued with a bittersweet resonance.

When I think of Nikos now, my mind invariably returns to that day on the water: an image of unbridled joy under immense pressure, a powerful testament to how precious such moments become. When he died, the island itself felt subtly altered – not less beautiful, but more charged, as if the very light carried grief in its shimmering waves. Yet, Corfu, in its enduring wisdom, also imparts another profound lesson: that love for a place, a deep, abiding connection to its spirit, can not only outlive the person who first introduced you to it, but can also transform into a powerful way of honouring their memory.

I have striven to do that in my own way, to weave my grief and gratitude into something enduring. My novel, A Stranger in Corfu, is dedicated to Nikos, a tribute to his memory and to the island he so loved. It grew organically from the rich soil of this captivating island – its layered past, where ancient histories and modern lives intertwine; its unique atmosphere of both secrecy and profound hospitality; and the pervasive sense that stories, like the ancient olive trees, cling tenaciously to the land. The novel is, at its heart, a heartfelt love letter: an earnest attempt to pay proper attention to a place that has, in countless ways, given me more than I can easily articulate.

So, when you go to Corfu, heed this advice: do not hurry. Embrace the island’s leisurely rhythm. Swim often, at all times of day, letting the sea cleanse and renew you. Drive into the verdant, olive-clad hills, discovering hidden villages and panoramic vistas. Eat as if time itself were a precious gift, savoring every flavor, every moment. Let the island reveal itself to you at its own unhurried pace – slowly, intimately, and then, all at once, in a breathtaking revelation.

And if, one day, someone appears, seemingly from nowhere, with a boat and an idea that stirs your soul, say yes. Say yes, for Nikos, and for the enduring magic of Corfu.

A Stranger in Corfu by Alex Preston is published by Canongate (£18.99). To support the Guardian buy a copy at guardianbookshop.com. Delivery charges may apply. The 2026 Corfu literary festival runs from 21-27 September.