Manchester to Antiparos via Athens and Paros – Just Making it by the Skin of our Teeth

This was the start of our journey from Manchester to Antiparos, travelling via Athens and Paros. On paper it looked simple. In reality, it turned into a long day of missed ferries, second chances and a very late arrival.

The alarm went off at 4.00am and we were up. We had less than an hour to get ready, close the suitcases and get to the airport. I had been looking forward to this trip for such a long time, and the early wake-up call didn’t phase us.

I thought ahead to the itinerary and the connections we had to make to get to Antiparos later that night. I quickly checked if the flight was on time. Yes, so far so good. We should land in Athens shortly after midday and then travel to the port of Piraeus by bus. It ran hourly and took about 60 minutes. A ferry was scheduled to leave Piraeus at 17.30, arriving in Paros at 22.30. Once on Paros we hoped to catch the bus from the port at Paroikia to the small port of Pounda and from there the last little car ferry over to Antiparos.

Simple.

Manchester Airport was busy. Even Speedy Boarding didn’t seem to be moving very fast. The queues were long, but we looked forward to checking in with EasyJet using the smartphone app that was being trialled. It worked fine, although we still had to print out paper tickets for the flight home – Greece still had to catch up on the technology front. More long queues, but once we were through passport control we had time for a quick mooch. A bottle of blackberry and elderflower Pimms caught my eye. The perfect travel companion.

The flight over to Athens was fine, although tiredness was beginning to creep up on us both. Eventually, we were flying over Greece and caught our first sight of the stunning turquoise sea.

We flew over the coast and inland, past a deeply riven quarry cut out of the hillside and over a busy motorway. I could see large expanses of olive groves around the town settlements. A thick haze rising from the land indicated the full force of the midday heat.

As we approached Athens Airport the captain announced that there would be a little turbulence, nothing too unsettling. The plane began its rather wobbly descent towards the runway. It looked as though we were going to touch down, but before we knew it, the engine was on full throttle and we headed back into the sky rapidly. So close and yet so far! The captain told us that he didn’t like the look of the landing and would attempt it again, hoping the wind would have dropped by the time we completed the circuit.

Around we went, skirting a low range of mountains and fifteen minutes later, we were on the approach again. This time we landed without any wobbles.

After exiting the plane, we had a rather long walk through the terminal building. At least we had landed more or less on time and still had plenty of time to get over to Piraeus.

The bus was very busy, and we ended up standing all the way. It wasn’t a particularly comfortable journey as a number of people had left their luggage by the doorway unattended. Every time the bus swerved around a corner, the luggage slid across the floor towards us and pinned us up against the doors, which opened periodically when we arrived at a bus stop.

An Italian tourist, also being swept along by the deluge of luggage, looked at me and said, “Molto difficile.”

Yes. Molto difficile.

Not so much, apparently, for the two families responsible for the luggage, who had sprawled themselves across several seats to sleep rather than offering them up to others.

I reminded myself that once on Greek soil, it pays to get into the right frame of mind and leave the stress and anxiety at the door.

Once disembarked from the bus, we headed past the statue of General Karaiskakis, a hero of the Greek Revolution of 1821, towards the ticket offices.

At the Blue Star Ferries office, there was a little bit of a queue, and after about ten minutes, we asked for tickets for the 17.30 ferry to Paros.

“Not available.”

I was a bit stunned. The Blue Star Paros is a huge ship, and it wasn’t yet high season. We explained that we needed to be in Antiparos that night as we had a room booked, hoping for a bit of sympathy.

“Absolutely full. I don’t even have cancellations for the 21.00 boat.”

I still couldn’t quite believe it. We decided to ask at other ticket offices around the port, even though I knew the systems were all connected.

As far as I knew, there wasn’t a national holiday about to take place, and yet every Athenian seemed to be escaping to the islands. I just didn’t get it. However, we’re a resilient pair, so we knew that we’d get there one way or another.

We killed some time mooching about the port, stopping periodically for refreshments and occasionally checking at the ticket office for cancellations. It was as hot as hell, and we were tired and hungry. It soon became clear that we didn’t stand a chance of getting on the Blue Star Paros. Later that afternoon, to add insult to injury, we watched said ferry arrive majestically into the port and depart with a full quota of passengers. Come on! Two more wouldn’t make a difference! 😍

We had one more chance – a cancellation on the 21.00 ferry. The staff in the ticket office were surely sick of the sight of us by now, but at last a bit of progress. We were told that there had been some cancellations for the Blue Star Ithaki, but there were only first-class tickets left. They were at least double the price of economy. We hedged our bets, explaining that it was too expensive but that we really needed to get to Paros that night. After a bit of tapping on the keyboard, she suddenly found a couple of cancellations in the economy class.

I didn’t blame her for trying!

Thinking about the logistics of our newly updated itinerary, I realised that the ferry wouldn’t arrive on Paros until around 1.00am in the morning. I knew that the ferry to Antiparos only ran until midnight. It looked as though we might be stuck on Paros for the night, although better there than Piraeus.

With our 32.5 euro tickets in hand, we now had five hours to spend in Piraeus. We were told we could board from 20.00, which helped slightly. Peter suggested going into Piraeus itself, but it was far too hot for me. Not so much for the Egyptian.

We found an outside table at one of the port tavernas and ordered gemista and chicken souvlaki.

After a bit of sustenance, we found a small office where we could leave our luggage for 6 euros, well worth it. The port is huge. When ferries arrived or departed, there was a frenzy of movement. In between, everything felt strangely quiet.

Killing time was torturous. We ended up spending seven hours in Piraeus. Even receiving promotional samples of toothpaste and a strange snack called Fonzies counted as entertainment. We drifted between cafés, trying to fill the time, until eventually, much to our relief, we saw the Blue Star Ithaki enter the harbour.

Thank God.

We boarded as soon as we could, joining an already busy queue of travellers. After placing our luggage in the storage racks on the car deck, we made our way up to the middle deck, where we found a table near the back of the ferry with a perfect view of the activity below.

There seemed to be a very intricate system for loading and unloading lorries, cars and motorbikes. Amidst shouting and animated arm waving, everything somehow slotted into place at the last moment. It felt like a kind of juggernaut ballet. The continuous flow of vehicles seemed to go on for over an hour, with supplies of all kinds being transported to the islands. Even the foot passengers were carrying boxes, bundles and bags bursting at the seams. It was a reminder that these ferries are not just for tourists, but a vital lifeline.

We left exactly on time at 21.00.

We headed out onto the deck as the ferry slowly pulled away from Piraeus. The sun was beginning to set, and the light softened across the water, eventually giving way to dusk. We could see the lights of the port for a long time, along with the outlines of other ships that had departed around the same time, each gradually diverging onto its own route. I have always preferred being out on deck rather than inside the enclosed salon.

There were two groups of young men nearby, one of whom had a loud, shrill laugh that carried across the deck at regular intervals. We were joined by a couple of middle-aged men who occasionally exchanged a few words but mostly just looked out to sea, slowly turning their komboloi in their hands. Worry beads never quite feel like the right description. Contemplation beads seem more fitting.

Children edged tentatively towards the railings, watched closely by their parents, which set me on edge as it brought back childhood nightmares that had stayed with me for years. As a child, we travelled frequently from Dover to Calais on our way to visit friends in Italy. In the dream, I would see my sister slip through the bars of the railings and, no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t reach her. It always ended at that moment. I don’t think we ever actually stood out on deck as children, but I’m sure there’s a subliminal message in there somewhere.

The sea darkened as we moved further away from the mainland. The rhythm of the engine settled into something steady and reassuring, vibrating gently through the ship. The smell of diesel hung in the air, oddly comforting and familiar. I thought back to a journey years before, lying on the floor of a ferry corridor with nothing but a towel for a pillow, too tired to care, the hum of the engine almost lulling me to sleep.

We passed other ferries along the way, their lights appearing briefly before disappearing again into the darkness. People came and went from the deck, some stopping for a cigarette, the ash swirling in the air until it landed nearby.

I checked our progress and saw that we had passed Kythnos and Serifos and were heading steadily towards Paros. It suddenly dawned on me that I needed to let our host Giorgos know that we might not make it over to Antiparos that night. We still hadn’t really decided on a plan for what to do when we arrived on Paros.

I sent Giorgos a message explaining the situation. Within ten minutes he replied to say that an extra boat had been laid on from Pounda at 1.30am. All we needed to do was get a taxi there as soon as we arrived.

Relief.

An announcement came over the tannoy that we were approaching Paros. We made our way down through the salon, which felt more like a youth club than a ferry, with groups of young people playing games and talking loudly, seemingly oblivious to the long day behind them.

We waited on the car deck as the ferry reversed slowly towards the harbour wall. As the ramp began to lower, that familiar sense of anticipation kicked in, the feeling that comes with arriving somewhere new, even if you’ve been there before.

We were off the ferry quickly and headed straight for the taxis. There were about fifteen lined up, but it soon became clear that every single one had already been booked.

Of course they had.

We tried appealing to a few drivers anyway, but were met mostly with shrugs. I could feel my stress levels rising again. It was already 1.30am and we still needed to get to Pounda, about a 15-minute journey away. The chances of making the ferry were slipping away.

I sent another message to Giorgos to say it looked as though we wouldn’t make it after all.

Almost immediately, my phone rang.

There was a bus.

He told us to turn right at the windmill and walk about 100 yards to the bus station. He would let the ferry know we were coming.

We found the bus with its engine running and ready to leave. It barely looked like a bus station at all, just a small office and a space to park, but we didn’t question it. We bought our tickets, 2 euros each, and took our seats. I don’t think I have ever felt such relief.

The Gods are on our side!

The bus wound its way along unlit roads, and within fifteen minutes, we arrived at the small port of Pounda. The small ferry was waiting.

Before I had even got my bearings, a blonde-haired man approached me, said my name and shook my hand. Giorgos.

The crossing to Antiparos took no more than eight minutes. As we approached, I could already see the windmill and the little blue-domed church by the harbour. It had been about twelve years since my last visit, my third time in total, and yet it looked exactly as I remembered it.

Some places just don’t change.

We walked up from the harbour into the village. The bars had mostly closed, though a few people were still lingering, making their way home. Giorgos stopped briefly to grab us a large bottle of water from a bar owner before leading us through quiet streets lined with whitewashed houses until we reached Villa Harmonia.

It was past 2.00am.

It had been almost 24 hours since our alarm clock went off that morning.

What a day!

And somehow, we had made it to Antiparos.