SOCRATES gives us a stunning view. In the 40 minutes it takes to fly from Athens, our philosophically named plane skims so low over the jigsaw of Aegean islands that we can see their scribbled goat tracks and ragged coastlines.
In the distance, beyond the tracery of cruise ships, the island of Mykonos, known as Greece's party isle, glistens like a mirror ball. It isn't long before we descend towards the hilly outpost of Samos, uniquely shaped like a kangaroo.
We land on the island's southern side, at Pythagorio, named after Samos's favourite son and the Father of Numbers, Pythagoras. My seven friends and I are here to explore the eighth-largest Hellenic island; it's so close to Turkey we hear the goat bells tinkling across the water.
After a white-knuckled taxi ride up and over the island's mountainous spine we arrive at our hotel on the waterfront of the north coast, with its backdrop of scrubby hills and whitewashed houses. As well as three moored Coast Guard boats, a ferry flying a Turkish flag is offloading daytrippers returning from the ancient ruins of Ephesus, which is 1km across the strait.
One room alone houses the Giant Kouros (male youth), chiselled from marble and a staggering 5m tall. I try to imagine it in 580BC standing alongside the other 2000 statues lining the Sacred Road to the temple of Hera. The torso of the statue was discovered in 1980; the head was found four years later. Resourcefully, a thigh had become part of a house wall and the left forearm was being used as a step.Setting off to explore on foot, we soon discover one of the finest archeological museums outside Athens. As Samos is not too touristy, we enjoy the exhibits without being cheek by jowl with other history hogs.
The two floors of the museum are filled with sarcophagi, grave relics, statuettes and everyday utensils. Ancient pottery jugs could have been fired in a Bendigo kiln. A bronze grater looks like one in my grandmother's kitchen drawer and a scent bottle in the shape of a warrior's head would have found companions among my perfume collection.
As there are eight of us, we hire a minibus and head west along the coast road to the pebbly beach of Kokkari, making off-road detours to rocky coves where pirate ships hid in the 15th century. Today, thatch-roofed tavernas lure us with their dewy glasses of beer.
Battered utes laden with glistening grapes progress to the coast from the hill town perched above us while another ute chugs uphill carrying its booty of fresh fish. The driver spruiks his wares through a megaphone stuck out the window. We follow the fishmonger zigzagging uphill through shrine-littered glades until we come to the village of Manolates.
After a hot hike to the top of the village, we settle for lunch along the cooling terrace of the stone and terracotta Loukas Taverna. We rest beneath a canopy of grapes and sup on the views down the Valley of Nightingales to the iridescent sea beyond. Sharing mezze platters, we toast our glasses of local, sweet Muscat.
Backtracking to the village of Vourliotes, we go in search of Panagia Vrontiani, the oldest monastery in Samos. Built in 1566, it was partially destroyed in the bushfires of 2000. It is well worth exploring, even if you have to walk the goat tracks and crash through the undergrowth, Indiana Jones style, to find it.
Continuing our drive past terraces of cabbages and grapevines, the road peters out near a family of road-hogging goats. We finish the trail on foot and find ourselves in the village square of Hydroussa. Wizened lookalikes of Aristotle, Socrates and Plato sit on rush chairs in the dappled shade of a plane tree. Their tin table holds small coffee cups, a plate of silver sardines and broken, rustic bread. The clack of worry beads breaks the silence.
It isn't long before news of our arrival sweeps through the open doors of the tiny stone houses. While the black-clad yia-yias (grandmothers) mill around, a woman with wild red hair greets us with a handful of walnuts plucked from a nearby tree. She crushes their soft shells with her bare feet and shares the gritty treat. She ushers us downhill and through a curtain that is the door into her Lilliputian home in a wall.
We are eight Gullivers in a room so small we have to turn sideways to fit. The wild woman produces a clutch of odd glasses and begins filling them from an old Fanta bottle with the firewater she brews in her still in the hills. The local moonshine roars down our throats. As we leave, our fiery hostess decorates our hats and hair with flowering basil sprigs plucked from a fetta tin.
Many of history's greats were either born or lived on Samos. The pretty port town of Pythagorio is today an artwork of tavernas and cobbled promenades that frame the marina of brightly painted fishing and sailboats. In its heyday, Herodotus, Epicurus and Aesop held court with the locals. At the end of the pier, a bronze statue of Pythagoras, philosopher, musician and mathematician, reaches upwards to complete the triangle of his theorem.
Heraion, the sanctuary of the divine goddess, Hera, is 10 minutes from Pythagorio. On our way there we stop at the Tunnel of Eupalinos, often regarded as the Eighth Wonder of the Ancient World. Constructed in 524BC by slaves chiselling through the mountain unaided by surveying instruments, the aqueduct channelled spring water to the ancient capital. In the Middle Ages it became a hideaway during pirate raids. Today, it's a claustrophobic sidle 10m above the grill-covered water channel.
Every goddess needs a temple. The sanctuary at Heraion, built in 6BC for Zeus's wife, Hera, was four times the size of the Parthenon. As I wander along the marble-paved Sacred Road, I visualise it flanked by 7km of statues, like the Giant Kouros in the archeological museum. A dry wind is blowing, and I am surrounded by the same pocked hills that the pilgrims of antiquity would have wandered.
Geometric remnants border the Sacred Road like gravestones from another era. Tourists speak in reverent tones.
Of the original 155 temple columns, only one half of one remains and it is still the height of an industrial chimney. Anthony and Cleopatra are said to have used the Roman baths, of which there are now only scattered remains. Such was the wealth and power of Samos.
After three days, we are ready to board the ferry for Mykonos. At the dock, a Coast Guard boat has just landed. Three women and a group of men are herded to the footpath in front of the Port Authority building. They are given masks to cover their mouths and are interrogated as they huddle together. This island has become a favourite for those seeking refuge. And I can understand why.
Samos is unassuming, unexpected and, in its own right, unbelievably beautiful.
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