A Slow Day at Eftalou: Hot Springs, Quiet Beaches & Unexpected Moments

I’d skipped a day in the diary. The day before, I’d done practically nothing apart from wandering down to the marina and then spending the rest of the day on the beach — again taking the route through the pistachio orchard. These long walks were definitely offsetting the bougatsa-eating and I could feel a noticeable weight shift in the fit of my clothes. Holidays are good for your health!

I’d also bumped into my host Christos on his way from his home to Eleni Studios. We ended up having a long chat about olives — how to grow them, how stubborn the weather had been, and what the harvesting involved. I found it fascinating, and Christos was generous with his knowledge. He told me there was an olive press on the road to Eftalou that I should try to visit. I wouldn’t get a tour, he said — it was a working press used by local growers — but they would let me in to watch the process.

I mentioned I’d planned to walk to the hot springs at Eftalou and he gave me directions. I’d already read that the springs were maintained by volunteers and weren’t an officially organised hammam, but he assured me they were still accessible, with visitors entering at their own risk. Fair enough.

It was about a 4km walk, beginning along the road to the left of the school. The road climbed steeply and, after levelling out near a small pine wood, began to drop again. It led past smallholdings, larger homes guarded by enthusiastic dogs, and — inevitably — clusters of olive groves. One grove in particular caught my eye: the entire ground beneath the trees was carpeted with golden autumn crocuses, glowing as the sunlight filtered through their petals. It felt strangely uplifting, as if the landscape itself was quietly celebrating the change of season.

Acorns crunched under my feet along the roadside gutters — another reminder that autumn had arrived, even though the warmth of the day still felt like spring.

Eventually I reached a point where the road split around a small mound topped with a building of some sort. I took the right fork. The road dipped gently towards Eftalou, the sea revealing itself around the bend. From Mythimna, the marina almost obscured the Turkish mainland, but here it was suddenly startlingly close — almost within touching distance. I’d seen Turkey at a similar distance from Oinousses, but it still amazed me.

The coastal road was utterly empty. Not a single car passed. Everything looked closed for the season. A spa hotel sat abandoned, its modernist structure slowly surrendering to time. So many of Greece’s old spa towns have been left to decay once the fashion for “taking the waters” faded — Methana in the eastern Peloponnese being a prime example. In the early 1900s it had been a wellness pilgrimage site. Now, its buildings — like this one — stand semi-derelict, waiting for a revival that may or may not come. Personally, I love thermal springs and have lost count of the ones I’ve visited over the years. I hope there will always be people who value these natural gifts.

I passed a small farm full of chickens scratching in the dust. The moment they spotted me they sprinted to the fence in hopeful expectation, making me feel mildly guilty. I don’t usually carry chicken feed in my bag, so they were disappointed.

As I got closer to the springs, distinctive rock formations appeared along the shoreline. The road began to climb again, but Google Maps assured me I was almost there. A friendly cat appeared out of nowhere and decided to accompany me. Halfway up the slope I spotted the spa — a modern building that looked like a treatment centre, and beside it the traditional hammam with its oval domed roof and whitewashed walls.

Outside the springs, a municipal notice made it clear that the facility was not officially open and visitors entered at their own risk. Inside the doorway was a sort of changing area with handwritten notes — presumably from the volunteers who keep the place going.

My first instinct was to see if anyone else was there. The building was silent. A metal bench and a rush chair provided makeshift seating, where I left my bag and towel. A metal rail guided me down a couple of steps and through a low archway into the hammam itself. Tealights flickered in the wall recesses — someone had been here recently. A cat lay fast asleep at one end of the room, the heated stones having lulled it into a blissful stupor. The friendly cat who had accompanied me stayed outside; clearly this was Hammam Cat’s turf.

The building had seen better days. The whitewash was patchy in places, with splashes of lime scattered across the stones — the sort of job that probably needs doing frequently. The spa itself was small, with a narrow walkway around the perimeter, just wide enough for one person. Despite its forlorn look, the water was crystal clear. Stone blocks of varying heights were arranged beneath the surface as seats.

Back in the changing area, I noticed leaves blowing around the floor. If a broom had been available, I’d happily have given the place a sweep — the handwritten signs encouraged visitors to help with maintenance, but there was no equipment in sight. I stepped through the doorway that opened onto the beach, where people traditionally alternate between the boiling-hot waters of the spring and the freezing sea. The jury was still out on whether I’d go for the full experience.

I took a few quick photos while I had the place to myself. Just as I was about to undress, a young, hippy-looking man appeared at the entrance. I wished him good morning while silently hoping he wouldn’t stay. It was selfish, but his presence immediately made me feel awkward and self-conscious. After a brief look around, he left.

That was my cue. I slipped into my bikini and approached the water. “Getting in quickly” was not an option. One toe in and I yelped — the water was hot. Slowly, very slowly, I eased myself in until I finally reached the first submerged stone. Gradually I moved to a lower one and then, after I’d acclimatised, found I could lie back quite comfortably.

I’d read that the minerals in these springs help with musculoskeletal problems and digestive issues, including gallstones. Having recently been diagnosed with two large ones, I was all in. I submerged myself completely, keeping only my head above water. I had no idea what the recommended bathing time was, but the thought of someone waiting outside made me feel compelled to share the space. After about ten minutes, I decided to call it a day. I didn’t brave the cold sea — one step at a time.

Back in the changing room, I dressed and stepped outside. There was still no one around. I could’ve stayed longer after all. Typical.

It was still barely midday and I hadn’t decided how to spend the rest of the day. I retraced my steps along the coastal road. Molyvos Kastro looked deceptively close, though I knew the snaking road was anything but direct. I sat on the beach for a while, mesmerised by the view of Turkey across the water. The shoreline here was covered in dried seaweed, but further along there were clusters of large pebbles in shades of green, yellow and grey. Once wet, intricate veining appeared — I suspect they were sea-washed marble.

Out in the strait, a Blue Star ferry slid across the water. I couldn’t quite read the name, but guessed it was the Blue Star Myconos on its route from Limnos, then Lesvos, then onward to Ikaria. A quick check on Marine Traffic confirmed this. Ferry nerd validated.

I wandered along the beach inspecting a couple of peculiar concrete structures whose purpose I couldn’t quite determine — both faced Turkey, which may or may not have been a clue.

On a whim, I decided to spend the afternoon in Petra, on the opposite side of Molyvos. I’d passed a small sign advertising the services of Thanassis the taxi driver near the springs and had made a mental note. I called him and told him I was at Eftalou and wanted to go to Petra. I was fairly sure he understood. Fingers crossed.

As I waited for Thanassis, the previously calm sea suddenly picked up. Waves charged over what little beach remained, and you can probably tell from the video that I was quite impressed. The Blue Star Myconos’s parting words: Eat my waves, lady.