Oxi Day in Molyvos: A Village Parade, Local Rituals and Greek Filoxenia

Oxi Day in Molyvos wasn’t a big spectacle — it was far more meaningful. Wartime music drifting across the square, children marching proudly past the monument, and a small act of filoxenia that made this solo traveller feel unexpectedly included. A gentle, heartfelt morning in the heart of Lesvos.

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Today was the 28th of October — Oxi Day — when Greece commemorates the moment the country stood up to the tyranny of the Axis powers. In 1940, in the thick of the Second World War, the Italian army was positioned on the Albanian border, ready to push through into Greece. With Greece strategically placed for their operations, Mussolini sent an ultimatum to Prime Minister Ioannis Metaxas: allow the Italian army safe passage, or face war. Metaxas didn’t actually say the word “Oxi”, but replied, in French, “Alors, c’est la guerre.” — “Then it is war.”

And so it was. The next morning, Greek newspapers carried a single bold headline: ΟΧΙ. Greece had said no — and entered World War II. At the Albanian border in the Pindus mountains, a brutal six-month battle began between the Italian forces and the poorly equipped Greek army. More than 14,000 Greek soldiers were killed. Yet through sheer determination and courage, the Greeks pushed the Italians back — a rare and powerful early victory against the Axis.

It was this moment that later prompted Churchill to say: “Hence we will not say that Greeks fight like heroes, but that heroes fight like Greeks.”

I didn’t know how Molyvos commemorated Oxi Day, but I suspected something would be happening. The night before I had practically blinded myself scrolling through social media in search of clues. There seemed to be a parade at 11am in Petra, but before heading around the coast, I decided to scout for activity closer to home. But first — breakfast.

There’s a lovely little place called Sunset, tucked behind the beach, where I’d been before for a drink. Friendly, relaxed, very local — the perfect start to the day. As I walked from Eleni’s Studios towards the main road, I noticed the school frontage decorated with flags and bunches of laurel leaves. A good sign.

From the main road, I took the narrow path between the small church of Agia Paraskevi and Pergola Café. Bearing right brought me into a small circular square draped in Greek flags. In its centre stood a tall white monument topped with a spread-winged bird, probably an eagle. The inscription translated — somewhat clunkily via Google — to: “Municipality of Mythymnis for the fallen of the fatherland and their children.” What gave the game away, however, was the speaker close by playing wartime songs.

Adjacent to the square, next to the children’s playground, was a small amphitheatre — clearly a community gathering spot. From there, I could see people beginning to assemble on the main road. I sat on the amphitheatre steps, listening to the crackling music and trying to imagine how things might unfold. It didn’t take a Miss Marple brain to figure out: the parade would start above and finish with a service at the monument.

With time to spare, I headed to Sunset for breakfast. The ladies who run it are warm and welcoming; it’s clearly a place where local families gather. There’s even access to the tiny stretch of beach below the terrace. I didn’t linger long — I didn’t want to miss the parade.

Back at the main road, I could see I’d timed it perfectly. The handful of early arrivals had now become a crowd. People were dressed in their Sunday best, especially the older generation — a sign of respect for the day. There was a palpable sense of anticipation, a little frisson of collective pride.

After about ten minutes, the sound of drums carried over the hill. Then the children appeared, marching in class groups, increasing in age — and height — as they came. The littlest ones at the front almost broke me; tiny determined steps, marching like miniature soldiers while a teacher blew a whistle to keep them in time. Parents and grandparents lined the streets, offering encouragement, pride radiating from every smile. Behind the schoolchildren came the Scouts and the priest.

They turned down the side street towards the square, and I followed with the last of the stragglers.

I was conscious throughout that this wasn’t my history or custom. As much as I wanted to see it, I didn’t want to intrude, so I kept to the edges when taking photos.

Down at the monument, the parade came to a stop and children dispersed to their families. Speeches were given, children read poems and passages — each finishing to rounds of applause and heartfelt “Bravo!” Then the priest led a short service, the crowd falling into attentive silence. Within half an hour it was over, and people slowly drifted back up to the main road.

As I moved away, a woman approached me and handed me a piece of loukoumi wrapped in tissue. I was genuinely touched — such a small gesture, but it meant the world. Being a solo traveller, and a mother and grandmother, events like this can tug at the heart, leaving you feeling a little untethered. That small act of inclusion lifted me instantly. Filoxenia at its finest.

With no firm plans for the day, I decided to walk up to the olive press Christos had mentioned. It was unlikely to be open on a national holiday, but curiosity won. I took the steep Eftalou road, and just before it dipped down again I spotted it — a simple building beyond the pine wood.

The press was closed, but outside were stacked sacks on a pallet, waiting their turn. A tall hopper stood on one side — presumably where the olives were emptied — and on the other was a sunken pit filled with the by-product of the oil process. I wondered whether it was reused as fertiliser. Something else to ask Christos.

It was still early afternoon and with my time in Molyvos running out, I wanted one more wander around the village. I didn’t climb back up to the Kastro but cut across midway down the hill, letting myself drift aimlessly through the cobbled streets. This kind of wandering is my favourite way to explore — relaxing, gentle, and, judging by my ever-loosening clothes, good for the waistline.

Near the bakery I bumped into a woman with a strapped ankle. Her name was Sylvia, from Germany, travelling alone. Not her first time on Lesvos, but this time she’d taken a tumble on the cobbles. It wasn’t stopping her from exploring though. We chatted for twenty minutes before parting ways. I continued down towards the marina before circling back to the main road.

I spent the rest of the afternoon pottering at the apartment — washing clothes, reading on the balcony. Later, I’d decided to eat in the village. Earlier I’d noticed a small cluster of tavernas built along a balcony overlooking the bay. When I arrived at the tavrna called Martin’s, I’d half-expected it to be run by an English expat with a backstory involving London burnout and a life-changing move to Molyvos. But the host was very much Greek and offered a warm welcome.

He handed me a menu, but before I had the chance to read it, he announced that I should have “the vegetables” to start. I hesitated, unsure what exactly “vegetables” meant in this context, but agreed. He followed it with a recommendation of meatballs in tomato sauce and a glass of wine.

The vegetables were, quite literally, vegetables — a plate of cold seasonal produce drizzled in olive oil — but they were delicious. The meal ended with a complimentary dessert of halva.

It was still a touch too early to call it a day but I knew exactly where to go. Sunset — by name and by nature — is the best spot to soak in the last golden light of Oxi Day.