Why Symi could become Greece's newest hiking destination

“Ela!” says Valantis Makrakis with a huff, mid-step, one hand clutching his side, the other lifted in greeting. A young man nods back as he trots down the sloping street, followed by a litter of cats. “Kalimera!” Valantis says again to a woman, who answers with a pat on his back before overtaking us on the uphill climb. He turns to me and smiles broadly, his eyebrows, which are dark like his eyes, forming little beads of sweat. “I know everyone here.”  

Valantis is showing me around the pint-sized island of Symi. Raised on these shores, he works in the management office at Nireus, a hotel in the only town, also called Symi. Neoclassical houses hug its theatre-like bay, painted ochre and russet with splashes of blue. This architecture is Symi’s calling card — the first thing visitors notice on inbound ferries, and the image they’ll likely take away on postcards. But I’m here to hike and, as it turns out, opportunities start right in the centre of town. 

In the island’s north, Symi town is split into seafront Gialos, the harbour, with all the restaurants and shops to welcome day-trippers from nearby Rhodes, and hillside Chorio — older and residential. Connecting the two is the Kali Strata, the street of some 400 steps we’re navigating. 

Valantis pauses to catch his breath, and I take in my surroundings. The details of the houses, lining the street on both sides, come into focus: the window cases painted white, the skylights on the gables. And, in between these manicured facades, ruins. The town was bombed to near-destruction in the Second World War, and the population never quite recovered from the exodus that ensued: of the 22,000 residents who lived here, some 3,000 remain.

“I like having friends everywhere, helping them,” says Valantis of the tight-knit community that emerged from the dust. “We have one doctor, there are only two passenger ferries a week in winter. It can be a difficult island.” Locals have learned to rely on themselves, adds Valantis, who is also trained in first aid and the leader of the young scouts.

This pride in one’s mettle must come in handy, I think as we emerge from the Kali Strata into Chorio, then continue higher still along its quiet alleys. The town’s restoration since the war is being handled house by house, by private owners, and the damage is more evident in these backstreets. We reach the Kastro, the remnants of a 14th-century fortress — now little more than a viewpoint. From here, Symi’s broad bay spreads wider far below. The warm breeze washes over the shrubland; the soil, tinted by red clay, is reflected in the turquoise of the Aegean. 

Valantis suggests a shortcut back to Gialos: a centuries-old path a few streets down from the Kastro, levelled by the passage of heels — and hooves. “Donkeys used to carry loads up this road,” he says, “but now we have bikes, cars.” I picture the pack train, clip-clopping slow and sure over uneven stones. Today, we’re alone on the way down. 

Donkey trails like this have fallen into disuse all around Symi. That afternoon, we drive to the west shore to find another one next to the 18th-century monastery of Megalos Sotiris. Once abandoned, it’s being brought back to life by Manolis Petridis, a former waiter who took on the repairs as a project. He shows us around in a paint-stained workman’s suit as tinny Greek pop plays from his radio, hung on a nail on the wall. “He had no idea how to do this,” says Valantis, gesturing to beautifully restored pebble mosaics and stone arches. “But if you want to do it, you’ll find a way.”

That seems to be true of many things on Symi. We leave the monastery and join the path outside — a dirt road through the forested interior. There are no signposts other than marks on stones, and with no trail maps available, travellers may never even know these paths exist. A hiking enthusiast, Valantis has been tracing them with his smart watch, hoping to one day help create better access. 

“I like following these ways like the old Symians,” he says. This was once the link between Symi town and the monastery in Panormitis, to the south. Donkeys walked it carrying materials, the faithful to strain themselves in the manner often associated with devotion. When a road the length of the island was paved in the 1960s, it shortened the pilgrimage from four hours to 30 minutes. “I still hike sometimes,” says Valantis. “If I have a vow — a big one.” 

We reach Panormitis driving along that paved road. The settlement — essentially one seaside street — centres around the Holy Monastery of the Archangel Michael, whose white facade takes pride of place on the coast. Crowds swell with the arrival of day-tripper ferries, which stop right by the complex. We’re alone as we enter the frescoed, single-aisle church, but the quiet doesn’t last. 

A ferry must have moored. A queue of visitors arrives, walking in hushed procession. They take turns to kiss a silver-plated figure of the Archangel Michael, based on an icon that — according to local tradition — miraculously appeared on the spot where the complex now stands, centuries ago. It’s still housed inside, making this one of the most revered places in the Dodecanese. 

The devotees aren’t the sole testament to the monastery’s might. At the far end of the complex, a small museum of religious artefacts displays wooden boxes, messages in bottles, reproductions of mighty vessels and humbler single-mast ships, one crusted in seashells — offerings, Valantis says, that washed up on the island. 

We discuss the finds at Panormitis’s only cafe, whose owner, Mihalis Tsauselis, doubles as Symi’s deputy mayor. “I found one, too — a message in a bottle, asking whoever came upon it to light three candles,” says Valantis, sipping his coffee. “There have been many miracles here.” He opens his eyes wide, nodding vigorously, as if I wouldn’t believe him. No matter, I think. On this tough little island of rubble and resurrection, it seems the community can make its own miracles.