February 1980: a change of life, a whole new chapter. I was twenty five years old. A relationship had finished. And a chance meeting with a friend planted a seed. “Why don’t you go to Greece? It’s easy to find casual work.” So off I went.

After a three day overland trip on the Magic Bus, London to Athens, we were there. Now which ferry to take? After a quick trip to Santorini, Paros was the final choice. A good friend had come with me for the first two weeks, but when she went back to England, I was desperately lonely. Now it was just me. And I didn’t know a soul. 

But that soon changed.

I rented a room for a few days, then started to meet many people who had made a similar journey. They were helpful and informative, and the local people welcomed me with open arms. My first contact was Peter from Dublin, a musician who had come to Greece on retreat. He helped me to find a long term let. It was a donkey shed!

The shed was owned by small time farmers Dimitri and Georgia, who welcomed me into their family with open arms. They became the backbone to my stay, and I spent many evenings with them on their open terrace, eating, drinking homemade retsina, dancing and communicating, in whatever way we could. At the end of the evening, I would pick my way down the hill, back to the donkey shed – where I mainly slept on the roof, under the stars. Once I got there, a comforting shout from the family would boom down the hillside in the darkness, some minutes later: “Kalinychta Katarina!” 

The work I did included nude modelling for an American Art School, renovating a bar for the summer season, hotel work, and making and serving food at the Port Cafe: the sole gateway to the island. 

I spent hours watching the world go by, and soaking up the sounds of the ferries and the chatter of voices. One particular night had a profound effect on me. It was a moonlit evening – sunset was always 6.30 to 7 o’clock – on a sheltered, open space overlooking the sea. There was an organised gathering of friends, with visitors from around the globe and locals – all speaking many different languages, and with no language in common. Except MUSIC. We sang, danced and drummed for hours, communicating in this universal language: listening and sharing each other’s joy of music and the rhythm and beat of being human.

Leaving my Greek island paradise after eight months was painful. There were tears. The simplicity of life there had given me time to appreciate the beauty of life and of nature, and to give space to quiet reflection.

Arriving back in the city, in Athens, was difficult. After months enjoying the gentle noises of the countryside, with just the ferries, the mopeds and the donkeys, bustling urban life was quite overwhelming.

To this day I remember my time on the island: its rugged beauty, the slow pace of life, and the generous spirit of its people. It taught me so much, for which I will ever be grateful. Paros has – and will always have – a big and special place in my heart.