A Day in Agiasos: Exploring Lesvos by Bus, Tradition, and Warm Village Encounters

Despite the exhaustion from the early morning start the previous day, I was up with the larks. I was really looking forward to the inclusive breakfast that Hotel Lesvion offered – the first of the trip.

Firstly, I have to say that the mattress at Hotel Lesvion got a 9 out of 10. It was two twin beds pushed together, but with a memory foam topper over the top, it became one perfectly comfortable bed. Who’d have thought that the quality of a mattress could make the whole experience feel so luxurious?

The bright, modern breakfast room was one floor down. There was a narrow terrace where you could eat overlooking the harbour and today, I absolutely wanted to be out there. There was an overwhelming choice of breakfast items on offer. As I tried to fathom what was what, a lady introduced herself as Chara. She talked me through the selection, much of it homemade on the premises – including the cakes – and everything else locally produced, such as jams, marmalades and of course honey.

I’d forgotten to mention that when I checked in I was given a small jar of honey – a gift for all guests. Anyway, back to breakfast. Chara recommended the mushroom pie and a vegetable frittata, along with some of the other homemade goodies. I was well and truly spoilt for choice!

During breakfast, Chara came back to chat, asking how long I’d be staying and what plans I had. I told her I’d be in Mytilene for four days to begin with, but hadn’t yet decided where to go next. I also said that I’d be travelling everywhere by bus and had already picked up a timetable. Chara had a list of suggestions but said I absolutely must visit the village of Agiasos. It was, she said, a really pretty village, and if I went I had to visit the bakery and ask for the traditional cake of Lesvos called Vasilopita. It’s only made in Agiasos and traditionally baked at Christmas. I’d find the bakery just beyond the church in the centre of the village. That was it – decision made. That was where I’d go today.

Most of the buses to the villages seemed to depart around 11am, and the bus to Agiasos was no exception. As with the bus service on Chios, there the green intercity service went further agields than the urban service which served more local routes. Also similarly, the green service practically ground to a halt at weekends. As it was Friday, it made sense to visit a village today and explore Mytilene town further on Saturday and Sunday.

Once at the bus station, the process was very straightforward. I was given the choice to buy a single or return ticket, and was then told the number of the bus. The buses weren’t parked in any particular order – more of a higgledy-piggledy scattering – so I checked out which one it was before departure.

When it was time to board I headed straight for a window seat. A good idea in principle, except the windows were the dirtiest I’d ever seen. It looked as though layers of sea salt had been baked on over time. They were virtually opaque. Still, it was the destination that mattered.

Once out of town, the bus climbed past acre upon acre of olive groves. Literally, there were olive trees as far as the eye could see. Sheer cliff faces were draped in cloaks of dark green pines and I began to get the sense that Lesvos was a rich, verdant island. We briefly skirted the edge of Kolpos Geras, the Bay of Geras – a smaller version of the deep bay at Kalloni, with a narrow channel that makes it look almost like a lake. I thumbed the name into Google translate which told me that as well as “bay”, the word kolpos also translated to “sinus” and “vagina”. I could see the logic.

The bus stopped at a number of villages along the way. Several locals had been into Mytilene for their weekend shopping. Eventually we arrived at Agiasos where we were deposited on the edge of the village. A white marble statue, “Glory for the Heroes”, stood proudly in the small square. The next things that caught my eye was a cluster of shops selling the brightly coloured pottery that Agiasos is known for, next to shops with stalls piled high with autumnal produce.

Three people sat by the roadside shelling walnuts. The man cracked the shells while the two women picked out the nuts. It immediately made me think of Christmas and reminded me that we were very close to November, even though the weather still had me firmly convinced it was June.

As I began walking into the village, the first thing that caught my eye was the bell tower of the Church of Zoodochos Pigi. The church itself was closed and the gate locked, but it was worth the short detour. The church was flanked by traditional stone houses, many with gardens overflowing with pumpkins, cabbages and all manner of fruit trees. Beyond that, the hillside was covered in trees just beginning to take on their autumn colours.

Back on the main street, the road climbed gradually until it split around a house built right in the middle, directing you to pass either left or right. Either route would do.

At the end of the row of houses, a doorway invited me enter and soon after I found myself in the courtyard of a church – the main church of the village, Panagia Agiasos. A sign had indicated there was a museum close by but I got distracted and followed the courtyard around to another doorway. Stepping through it felt like walking through the back of the wardrobe into Narnia. I emerged into a beautiful cobbled street, shaded by vines slowly turning from green to gold to red. Outside the shops, was more of the villages famous brightly coloured pottery – some traditional, some edging towards the contemporary.

Following the lane further, I reached a small square where a cluster of cafés with brightly coloured chairs shared space with shops selling more local produce. Instead of stopping, I felt compelled to keep going uphill – just to see what I could see.

I was immediately taken by Agiasos. The brightly painted houses, draped in vines and potted plants, gave the village enormous charm. I’m sure some of that charm had been curated for visitors, but it still felt like a working village where life continued regardless of who turned up.

Eventually, a crossroads where the street began to plateau. In its midst stood a large plane tree decorated with pottery and surrounded by handwritten signs. Google Translate struggled with the phrases, only half-translating them or missing the point entirely, some with comical results.

I carried on climbing. Once beyond the shelter of the houses the windier it became. Now at the end of October, there was a distincet chill in the air. I hadn’t come with a jacket or extra layers so my thin short-sleeved top would have to do. It wasn’t unbearable, so I pressed on until I reached a bend in the road where the view opened up spectacularly across the valley. Perched on the slopes of Mount Olympus, Agiasos looked out over dense olive plantations and thick woodland. I imagined that if I continued along this road it would eventually bring me to other mountain villages, but this is far as I would go today.

If ever there was a view on the island showing the density of the olive groves and how rich and fertile the Lesvos was – this was it. Apart from a quarry scar on a distant hillside, it was green in every direction.

On my way back down towards the village, an elderly lady stopped me and pointed, speaking rapidly in Greek. From the way she rubbed her hands over her arms, I knew she was asking if I was cold. I wanted to tell her I was from the north of England, where we’re tough and barely feel the cold. In English that would have meant nothing, so I cobbled together “mikro kryo” while pointing at myself – I’m only a little bit cold. She looked horrified and proceeded to show me every layer she was wearing. I counted at least six.

We stood chatting for a while – her in Greek, me in English – helped along by hand gestures. Picking out the odd word and reading each other’s body language, we somehow met in the middle and understood each other. This, to me, is the epitome of travel. These interactions may be fleeting, but the chance to connect with people, however imperfectly, is what it’s all about.

We waved goodbye and I continued down towards the centre. Just as I reached the small square with the brightly coloured chairs, a loud explosion rang out. I instinctively shouted something along the lines of “Jesus Christ” – a gut reaction to the shock. Other people rushed out into the street to see what had happened. I couldn’t understand what anyone was saying, but whatever it was, it caused enough concern for the locals to investigate. Slowly, everyone drifted back to what they were doing. It clearly wasn’t anything to worry about. Maybe.

I needed to warm my hands around a hot cup of tea, so headed back towards the vine-covered alleyway where I’d spotted a café called Theophilos. After a little refreshment, I did my favourite thing: wandering the side streets with no particular plan. Some streets took me up, others took me down, and around almost every corner there was something to catch the eye – old doors, elaborate door knockers, tiny details that give a place its character. The door knockers alone deserved their own photo gallery.

Eventually, I decided it was time to eat. I had in mind a taverna where I could sit down with a proper traditional Greek meal. Not many places were open, and the ones that were – like an interesting-looking kafenion – were full of men. As good as the food looked, I couldn’t quite muster the courage to go in. As I hovered by the doorway, heads turned one by one to look at me, as if to ask what I wanted. Sometimes this happens. Sometimes I’m just not prepared to brave it out. Sometimes it doesn’t feel right; I just don’t feel as though I fit. And that’s fine. It’s not them – it’s me.

While I was still dithering over food, I remembered Chara’s instructions about the Vasilopita. I’d find it in the bakery just beyond the main church. As luck would have it, I was already nearby.

I came to a small bakery on the corner of the square. I poked my head inside and asked the elderly lady behind the counter if she sold the traditional cake of Lesvos. She didn’t understand, so I typed it into Google Translate and played the audio. She replied with a stream of Greek, from which I picked out “megalo fourno” – big oven. I guessed there was another bakery with a larger oven that made it.

Just a stone’s throw away was the one with the big oven – Sousamli of Agiasos. As soon as I stepped through the door I could see a large working kitchen at the back, trays of baked goods in various stages of preparation, and the most incredible smell. I asked about the traditional cake and she pointed to a basket on the counter with pre-cut, pre-packed slices of Vasilopita. I bought one slice. In hindsight, I wish I’d bought more.

I planned to take it home to share with my husband. As an Egyptian, he’s always talking about the similarities between Greek and Egyptian food – that whole Mediterranean thing. Vasilopita felt quite unique, but I knew he’d love it. I wasn’t entirely sure I’d be able to resist eating it before I got home.

(Their website later told me it even contained dried goat’s milk (trahanas)– something I’d never have guessed:

https://www.sousamli.gr/en/popular-product/vasilopita-agiasos

Back on the square, I resumed my hunt for somewhere to eat. A place selling loukoumades looked enticing though that wasn’t the meal I had in mind, and the wasps buzzing around the plates put me off anyway. I ended up in the large café called Kafentaria on the square with the brightly coloured tables and chairs. Inside, it was gorgeous – big windows flooding the room with light, and décor in keeping with the architecture of the village perfectly.

The lady there spoke English well. She couldn’t provide the traditional Greek feast I’d been imagining, but she rustled up something simple and satisfying, along with a glass of sour cherry juice.

I took the opportunity to ask if she knew what the loud explosion earlier had been. She said she hadn’t heard anything. Then, deadpan, “Oh well. At least the Turkish haven’t come to kill us.” “Cheers to that,” I replied, toasting her with my cherry juice.

She asked if I’d been to the museum yet. I told her I’d tried to find it but it must be closed. “It’s open – it never closes,” she said emphatically. When I’d finished eating she directed me around the corner.

Sure enough, there it was – a place I’d already walked past several times without registering it. A set of large metal gate led me into a courtyard with the back of the church of Panagia Agiasos on one side. The Museum of Traditional Professions was housed in what used to be the church guesthouse. Each small cell was arranged as a display representing a traditional village craft, viewable through the windows at any time of day or night. I loved it. It was wonderfully quirky.

It was part of a project called “Talking Tiles” which invited visitors to scan QR codes to get more information about each exhibit and about the village. My favourite room was the haberdashery. As someone who has sewn for most of her life, the piles of fabric and trimmings instantly stirred a sense of nostalgia. I loved the woman’s platform clogs in the display.

The aim of the exhibition was to show visitors – and especially local schoolchildren – that these trades and handcrafts were disappearing. Whilst walking around the village, there were visible signs of artisans and traditional crafts still in operation; a woodworking shop, potteries, and old-fashioned stores that looked like living museum pieces. I was particularly taken with an old tailors and a shop selling electrical components all piled high in the shop window. I would have loved to go inside to explore.

There was still a bit more time before I needed to make my way back to the bus stop. I took random alleyways that led to the outer limits of the village all full of quaint, traditional houses. If I get the chance to visit Lesvos again, I’d love to spend a couple of days in Agiasos. I’d like to see it at night and again in autumn. This time of harvest, with such abundance everywhere, feels both heart-warming and quietly satisfying.

Eventually it was time to make my way to the bus stop. The same small group who’d arrived with me were already waiting: an English couple, a Greek woman and a group of four young people I assumed were students – they looked like an international mix and were speaking English as a common language.

The students were distracted by a stray dog. The poor thing was terrified and shivered whilst keeping its distance. It didn’t help with the local youths racing up and down the street on motorbikes, scaring it even more. It had a heavy metal chain around its neck, clearly broken. My first thought was that someone had freed it from a neglectful owner.

About ten minutes later, a woman arrived in a car and parked nearby. She was clearly here for the dog. She tipped a pile of dried dog food onto the ground. The dog edged forward cautiously and then inhaled every last piece as though it hadn’t eaten in days. She took photos of the dog and we took comfort in the fact that she’d come to care for it. However, she didn’t stay. After leaving food for the dog, she got back into her car and drove away.

Once she’d gone, the dog started sniffing around for any stray crumbs. The poor thing was starving. The group at the bus stop didn’t have anything to offer. All I had was the Vasilopita I’d bought for my husband. I wasn’t sure how good it would be for dogs but, apparently, it’s highly nutritious. I broke off a piece and placed it on the ground, stepping away to give the dog space. The dog darted forward and hoovered it up. I poured the last of my water onto the cobbles, hoping the ridges would hold a little. The dog lapped that up too.

We’d done what we could and hoped the dog would eventually be rescued by caring people. The bus was late, but eventually we saw it trundling down the lane. One of the students commented that it was a different bus from the one we’d arrived on. “Yes,” I said, “you can actually see through the windows on this one.” I told them I’d considered coming back at the weekend with a bucket and sponge to tackle the other bus. “You’d need a high-powered pressure washer for those windows!” one of them laughed.

Back in Mytilene, the first thing I did was head straight to the hotel to put on warmer clothes. No matter how unaffected by cold weather I thought I was, the mountain air had chilled me to the bone. It had also exhausted me so I decided to go for fast food this evening. Meating was close to the hotel so I took an outside table and ordered a small bottle of retsina and Mexican fajitas. Not exactly the traditional Greek meal I’d been searching for all day, but it would do.

While I was waiting, a young Roma boy of about fifteen came to my table begging for money. I told him “no” several times but he was persistent. I don’t usually carry much cash, but managed to scrape together 90 cents, just short of a euro, and gave it to him. He looked at me with clear disgust and complained about the amount. Exhaustion and irritation got the better of me. I took the money back out of his hand and put it in my bag and told him to go away. Not my finest decision of the day.

This only ramped things up. The pleading, the word “baby” on repeat – it was relentless. The other diners outside looked on, probably relieved that I was the one in the firing line. I was determined to stand my ground and now just ignored him. Shortly after, he disappeared inside the restaurant. The waitress came out and asked if I’d agreed to buy him a meal. I told her I hadn’t. Full marks to him for initiative, but I wasn’t going to give in. He eventually moved on to try his luck elsewhere.

I didn’t particularly enjoy my meal. At the end of it, an older man came to the outside tables and quietly took any leftover food from the plates. I’d seen him before, either sitting or walking along the harbour front, carrying two bags that looked like they contained all his worldly possessions. The waitress came out to clear the table and waited patiently until he’d taken what he wanted. A small kindness, but one I’m sure he appreciated.

It made me stop and reflect on my differing reactions to the Roma boy and the old man. I think it’s always worth a bit of self-reflection to check that our actions and reactions aren’t rooted in prejudice. I replayed the scenario in my head: the boy with his relentless begging and the old man quietly waiting to take the scraps. If the tables had been turned who would I have had more compassion for then? I came to the conclusion that it wasn’t the people in question but their approaches. The boy had clocked me as a lone female tourist, not destitute, eating in a restaurant – a good target. Part of his training, perhaps. There was also a frustration that Roma children are brought up to beg, that their obvious resourcefulness wasn’t channelled into something more constructive. God knows I spend more time than is healthy being angry at the injustices of the world but also a solo traveller, you have to be on your guard sometimes.

Later that evening, back at the hotel, I asked the man on reception about the older man I’d seen taking food from the table. He told me he was a solitary and very independent person. He would never take money, and in fact wouldn’t accept anything – even food – if offered directly. The locals looked after him by leaving food where he could find it, discreetly, and in that way he was OK.

That was the final thought I went to sleep on.