Corfu: A Tapestry of History, Literature, and the Enduring Spirit of Friendship

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 phase of the pandemic when we are masked, newly aware of our bodies and the space around them. We are here to bury Nikos, a man who for me, for many, was the incarnation of Corfu. This somber scene, far removed from the sun-drenched shores and sapphire waters of the Ionian Sea, serves as a poignant reminder that the deepest connections to a place are often forged through the people who embody its very essence. The grey London sky offered a stark contrast to the vibrant hues of the island he loved, highlighting the profound sense of loss felt not just for a friend, but for a living bridge to Corfu’s unique spirit.

My 20s were a nomadic quest, a persistent yearning to find the perfect Greek island, a place that resonated with a vision I had meticulously dreamed into being since childhood. I hopped from the well-trodden paths of Mykonos, Santorini, and Cephalonia, to the more obscure charms of Kythira, Symi, and Meganisi. Each offered its own beauty, its own slice of Hellenic charm, but none quite matched the deeply ingrained ideal shaped by years of literary immersion. My journey through the pages of Robert Graves, Mary Renault, Lawrence Durrell, and John Fowles had created a Greece that was more an idea than a mere geographical location—a constellation of freedom, deep thought, the raw scent of sand, salt, and thyme, a landscape where myth and reality blurred. This literary odyssey had set an impossibly high bar, leaving me to wonder if such a place could ever truly exist beyond the realm of imagination.

Then, on a whim, an unexpected invitation arrived: to play cricket in Corfu. At the time, my knowledge of the island was rudimentary at best. I was oblivious to its rich strategic history, a pivotal position in the Mediterranean that had sculpted a culture at once fiercely Greek, elegantly Venetian, and surprisingly British. This unique tripartite heritage, unlike any other Greek island, was a revelation waiting to unfold. Corfu’s history as the "Gateway to the Adriatic" meant it was constantly coveted and fiercely defended. Its formidable fortifications, particularly the Old Fortress and New Fortress in Corfu Town, bear testament to centuries of naval and military significance, making it a critical stronghold for various powers throughout history.

I hadn’t yet experienced the Liston, the elegant colonnaded arcade that graces the heart of Corfu Town. Its architectural grandeur, reminiscent of Venice, Trieste, Bologna, or Perugia, hints at the island’s long entanglement with the Venetian Republic. For nearly 400 years (1386-1797), Venice held sway, leaving an indelible mark on Corfu’s urban planning, art, language, and, notably, its culinary traditions. The Liston, a masterpiece of neoclassical design, was built during the French occupation in the early 19th century, inspired by the Rue de Rivoli in Paris, further adding to the island’s cosmopolitan flair. Yet, what truly sets it apart, in front of this grand European promenade, is the vibrant green expanse of a cricket pitch. This field, surrounded by parked cars and constantly battling the elements—heat, salt spray, playful children, and stray dogs—remains the only cricket pitch in the world known to be set within a UNESCO World Heritage site. Standing at the crease, bat in hand, one looks up to the ancient solidity of the Old Fortress and the majestic elegance of the Palace of St Michael and St George, a former British High Commissioner’s residence, built during the era of the British Protectorate (1815-1864). The presence of cricket itself is a direct legacy of this British period, a curious yet cherished import that has become deeply woven into the Corfiot identity, fostering a unique sporting culture.

My introduction to Corfiot cricket came with the Lord’s Taverners, a UK sports charity team. We were, to put it mildly, a motley bunch: a couple of former international cricketers like Andy Caddick and Chris Cowdrey, alongside actors, entertainers, and a handful of writers, myself included. It quickly became apparent that the Corfiots were not just good at cricket; they were exceptionally skilled. The Greek national cricket team is, in fact, drawn almost entirely from this island, a testament to the sport’s deep roots and local passion. We were soundly beaten, a humbling experience, but one immediately softened by the overwhelming warmth, generosity, and a string of excellent dinners in the atmospheric Old Town, where the glow of ancient lanterns illuminated our laughter.

It was over one of those memorable dinners—at the charming Pergola restaurant, a place known for its authentic Corfiot hospitality—that I first met Nikos Louvros and his wife, Annabelle, our gracious hosts and the driving force behind Cricket Corfu. Nikos was exuberantly Greek, a whirlwind of wild energy, infectious enthusiasm, and an indomitable spirit. Annabelle, on the other hand, was English, but in that particular way that falls deeply, irrevocably in love with Greece, building a life and an identity around its sun-drenched embrace. I recognised that impulse, that profound pull towards the Hellenic. By the end of a meal overflowing with succulent lamb, potent ouzo, and exquisite local wine, a future together had been spontaneously sketched: we would launch a literary festival. The idea, born of shared passion and the heady atmosphere of a Corfiot evening, felt less like a plan and more like an inevitable unfolding.

Over the subsequent years, that vision, initially a whispered dream, took glorious and tangible shape. The Corfu Literary Festival began modestly in 2017. I recall our first event, where the number of speakers on stage almost equalled the audience. Nikos, ever the optimist, would oscillate between hope, a flash of characteristic irritation when invited guests failed to appear, and finally, his booming, infectious laughter. There was, however, never any doubt in his mind that it would continue, that it would grow. With Nikos by your side, his boundless energy and belief, everything genuinely seemed possible. His vision was not merely to host authors, but to create a vibrant intellectual and cultural hub that would celebrate Corfu’s unique blend of influences and bring global literary discourse to its ancient shores.

Slowly, buoyed by unwavering local support from businesses, cultural organisations, and the Corfiot community, the festival blossomed into something far larger and more impactful than we had initially imagined. We have since welcomed a constellation of renowned literary figures and thinkers: Stephen Fry, Sebastian Faulks, Bettany Hughes, Natalie Haynes, Matt Haig, and Tom Holland, among many others. They came to speak, to share their insights, and they stayed at the heavenly Kontokali Bay hotel or in the luxurious villas and apartments managed by Ionian Estates, falling deeply in love with Corfu, just as I had. Many, captivated by the island’s charm and the festival’s unique spirit, have returned to speak multiple times, becoming unofficial ambassadors for this Ionian gem. The festival became a testament to Nikos’s belief in the power of ideas and community, and Annabelle’s meticulous organisational skills that brought his grand visions to life.

Nikos lived for this—for the opportunity to share and showcase the unparalleled beauty, the dramatic landscapes, and the profound cultural tapestry of the island where he was born, which he left, and to which he ultimately returned. He is gone now, a void that can never truly be filled, but the festival, his enduring legacy, continues to thrive. This September, it will return, larger and more magical than ever, with Homer’s Odyssey at its very heart. It is a fitting subject for an island where the mythic and the everyday still fold into each other with effortless grace. Corfu, after all, is intrinsically linked to Odysseus’s journey, believed by some to be the mythical land of the Phaeacians, where he found refuge before his return to Ithaca.

This is what I learned from Nikos, and from Corfu, over the years: swim early, before the day fully warms and when the water still holds a faint, invigorating bite. Swim after lunch, when the sea feels silky against the skin, warmed by the midday sun. Swim at dusk, when the surface captures the day’s residual heat and the light becomes thick, slow, and golden, painting the sky with hues of amber and rose. Corfu is large enough and wonderfully varied enough that you can meticulously craft an entire itinerary centered around its myriad waters, from hidden coves to expansive sandy beaches, and never once feel a sense of repetition.

On the west coast, Myrtiotissa remains the beach that feels closest to a private miracle. Nestled in a steep, verdant cradle of pine trees and olive groves, its secluded nature means that reaching it is an initiation, often involving a winding, narrow road and a final descent on foot. But the effort is richly rewarded. Its emerald waters, fine golden sand, and dramatic cliffs prompted Lawrence Durrell, who famously lived on the island, to call it “perhaps the most beautiful beach in the world.” It is a place of profound tranquility, often favored by naturists for its sense of uninhibited freedom.

Just a short distance north, Paleokastritsa possesses a different kind of striking beauty. Here, the historic Paleokastritsa Monastery, dedicated to the Panagia Theotokos, perches majestically above the bay, offering breathtaking panoramic views of a scatter of pristine coves below. The water here is so impossibly clear, so crystalline, that you can discern the intricate rocky seabed far beneath, creating a mesmerizing second landscape suspended in azure blue. Boat trips from Paleokastritsa are highly recommended, taking visitors to explore hidden sea caves, including the famous Blue Caves, where the light plays magical tricks on the water.

Then there is the north-east coast, an area characterized by its calmer, more sheltered waters, a collection of intimate coves, and a more understated, sophisticated coastline. Agni Bay, a gentle curve of shoreline, is practically made for long, leisurely lunches. Agni Taverna, one of several excellent family-run establishments, sits so close to the water’s edge that you can literally leave your table, take a refreshing dip in the Ionian Sea, and return still tasting the salt on your lips. Here, the culinary philosophy is simple: fresh fish, local ingredients, and a relaxed pace that encourages time to loosen its grip. If possible, arrive by boat; the north-east coast has a cherished tradition of water taxis ferrying guests between bays and tavernas, and there is something unmistakably Corfiot about stepping directly from the deck of a boat onto the sun-warmed jetty, straight to your awaiting lunch.

A delightful surprise for many visitors—especially if their mental image of Greek islands is one of Cycladic sparseness—is how incredibly green Corfu is. The island’s interior rises and folds like a miniature, self-contained country. Vast olive groves, a legacy of Venetian incentives for olive oil production, stretch for miles, their silvery leaves shimmering in the sun, punctuated by the dark, vertical spikes of cypress trees that pierce the skyline. Driving up into the charming villages nestled above Paleokastritsa, one reaches Lakones, a village perched high enough to make the island feel suddenly vast and expansive. At Boulis, a traditional taverna, the food is good, hearty Corfiot fare, but it is undoubtedly the terrace view that draws the crowds—a breathtaking panorama that makes you feel as though you could step straight into the boundless blue horizon, where the sea meets the sky.

Corfu’s cuisine is distinct and diverges significantly from what one typically associates with traditional Greek food. It is a gastronomic narrative shaped profoundly by centuries of Venetian influence, continuous contact with Italy, and the abundant produce yielded by the island’s fertile land and rich sea. Pastitsada, a robust beef stew, slow-cooked with a rich tomato sauce infused with spices like cinnamon and cloves, served over thick pasta, is a quintessential Corfiot comfort food. Sofrito features tender slices of beef or veal, braised meticulously in a delicate sauce of white wine, vinegar, garlic, and parsley, a dish that melts in the mouth. Bourdeto is a fiery fish stew, typically made with scorpionfish or other local catches, simmered in a spicy red pepper and tomato sauce, showcasing the island’s deep connection to the sea. Beyond these savory delights, don’t miss local specialties like kumquat liqueurs and sweets, a legacy of French cultivation, or sykomaida, a sweet fig pie, often flavored with ouzo and spices.

In Corfu Town, make time for a sophisticated evening at Salto, a contemporary wine bar that, while modern in its approach, remains deeply grounded in local ingredients and traditions, boasting an excellent wine list featuring both Greek and international selections. Afterwards, no evening is complete without a stop for artisanal ice-cream at Papagiorgios, a local institution. Walk the narrow, winding streets of the Old Town with a cone in hand, the ancient Venetian stone still radiating the day’s warmth, and you will feel effortlessly woven into a long, cherished tradition of summer nights, filled with dolce vita and the echoes of history.

In 2020, during a brief, almost improbable lull between the relentless waves of Covid lockdowns, we courageously held the festival as if it were an act of pure defiance against the very gods themselves. 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 opened its arms, its generous spirit providing a much-needed sanctuary. Chairs were meticulously spaced, masks slipped on and off as conversations flowed, and hand sanitisers were perched on every table like tiny sentinels—and still, miraculously, there was laughter, the vibrant exchange of ideas, and moments of profound beauty. These were the things that reminded us of our shared humanity, in a year that threatened to strip it away.

One glorious morning during that extraordinary festival, Nikos appeared, as if from nowhere, with a boat. He possessed a unique gift for such serendipitous arrivals, always halfway into the next grand idea before the current one had fully materialized. “Come,” he beckoned, his eyes sparkling with mischief and enthusiasm. A dozen of us, eager for escape, climbed aboard, pulling away from the anxious news cycle and the pervasive, low-level fear that defined that strange year. We cruised along the stunning north-east coast, cutting the engine in secluded inlets that would be impossible to find from land: slivers of shingle, dramatic limestone shelves, and tiny beaches no larger than sofas. Each time we stopped, we dove into the cool, clear water, swimming as if trying to slough the burdens of the year from our very skin. It felt like freedom, pure and unadulterated, snatched from the encroaching darkness.

That indelible day on the water was the last festival Nikos attended. He tragically died of Covid the following January—on my birthday, adding a layer of poignant coincidence to the already immense grief.

When I think of Nikos now, my mind invariably returns to that day on the water: a vivid tableau of joy under immense pressure, of how incredibly precious such moments become when juxtaposed against the fragility of life. When he passed, the island felt altered to me—not less beautiful, for its inherent splendor is eternal, but more charged, as if the very light carried waves of collective grief. Yet, Corfu also imparts a profound lesson: that love for a place, a connection forged through shared experiences and mutual admiration, can, and indeed must, outlive the person who initially brought you there. It becomes a powerful, enduring way of honoring their memory and continuing their legacy.

I have tried to do that in my own way, too. My novel, A Stranger in Corfu, is dedicated to Nikos. It grew organically from the fertile soil of this island—its layered past, its palpable atmosphere of both secrecy and generous hospitality, the deep sense that stories cling to the ancient stones and verdant landscapes. The novel is, at its heart, a love letter: an earnest attempt to pay proper attention, to truly see and celebrate a place that has given me more than I can easily articulate or name.

So, go to Corfu, and do not hurry. Resist the urge to rush from one sight to the next. Swim often, letting the Ionian Sea cleanse and rejuvenate your spirit. Drive deliberately into the cypress-spiked hills, exploring the timeless villages and breathtaking vistas. Eat as if time itself were a precious gift, savoring every nuanced flavor of the island’s unique cuisine. Let Corfu reveal itself at its own unhurried pace—slowly, subtly, then all at once, in a dazzling burst of recognition and connection.

And if, one day, someone appears, seemingly from nowhere, with a boat and an improbable idea, say yes. Embrace the spontaneity, the adventure, and the potential for a connection that might just change your life, just as Nikos and Corfu changed mine.

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.