A Visit to the Monastery of the Assumption of the Virgin Mary – Psara

I was thrilled when Diana told me she’d managed to arrange some trips for me. Google Translate, however, had given its own interpretation of the plan and somehow suggested I’d be escorted to the monastery and the Archaeological Park by a child. I wasn’t entirely convinced this was impossible on Psara.

The “child” messaged to say he’d meet me at Café Tsari on the harbour front at 11am on Sunday. I arrived early, ordered a tea, and told the café owner I was waiting for George. I knew full well there were probably dozens of Georges on Psara, but I was certain he’d know exactly which one I meant.

A motorbike pulled up a few minutes later. A surge of panic hit me. Surely I wasn’t about to be whisked over the hills on the back of some teenager’s motorbike? Or worse—was I about to be given a “croggy” on a pushbike? Thankfully, no. The rider took off his helmet, gave me a nod, and strolled past.

Right on time, a dusty 4×4 rolled to a stop, and the café owner pointed subtly in its direction. This was my George. A fully grown adult. Google Translate had failed me again. After a warm introduction, I climbed aboard and we set off.

Conversation flowed easily. George apologised for his English, though it was far better than he gave himself credit for. He asked what I thought of Psara so far, so I told him about my climb up Mavri Rachi the previous evening. The view had been spectacular.

He nodded knowingly. Every year, he said, they hold a remembrance for the massacre. When it rains, bones sometimes wash down the steps from the mountain—the very place people jumped to avoid capture. I felt the air shift. These weren’t distant, mythologised stories. This had happened here, within touching distance of living memory.

A cluster of beehives appeared on the hillside, and I shared my mission to buy some local honey. George explained why Psara’s thyme honey was so special—its thyme concentration far higher than elsewhere. Production was tiny, often just enough for families and a handful of village shops. This year had been particularly poor. His cousin kept bees, though. He’d ask if any could be spared. I was absurdly delighted.

Before reaching the monastery, we stopped at Ftelio Beach, a beautiful crescent of sand that belied its brutal history. George told me this had been one of the key battlegrounds leading up to the island’s destruction.

Psara, along with Spetses and Hydra, had contributed its entire fleet to form the formidable three-island navy that repeatedly humiliated the Ottomans. When the Sultan asked where this troublesome Psara was, he examined the map, saw a tiny speck off the coast of Chios, and exploded with fury. As George put it, “He said he could scratch it off the map with his fingernail.” I much preferred George’s version to the sanitised plaques.

The Ottomans attacked soon after. On the east coast at Erios, only 18 Psarians guarded a steep cliff at Cape Merkaki, believing no one could climb it. They were wrong. The Ottomans scaled the rock, killed the defenders, and poured onto the island. Ftelio became the final line of defence. When defeat was inevitable, the islanders chose their motto—Freedom or Death—and ignited the gunpowder store, killing themselves and many of the enemy. Out of around 20,000 people, only 3,000 escaped.

Standing on that serene beach, with the water lapping gently at the shore, it was hard to reconcile the peace of today with the horror of what had taken place.

We continued on to the Monastery of the Assumption of Mary, perched at the northernmost tip of Psara, exposed to every wind that passed through the Aegean. No monks or nuns lived here now; the monastery was kept alive by volunteers from the community.

A cluster of goats was milling about the courtyard. Occasionally they were sold for meat, the proceeds returning to the church. George spoke fondly of the abbess he remembered from his childhood, long gone now.

No one really knew when the monastery was first built. An English traveller recorded a small church with three monks in 1740, so the estimated construction date of around 1780 seemed reasonable. During the destruction of Psara, all but one monk had been massacred. George showed me a bullet hole in one of the stone columns—so small, yet so devastatingly human.

Inside the chapel, George lit a candle and crossed himself. I didn’t take photos; it didn’t feel right. He pointed out a copy of an icon of the Virgin Mary. The original had been smuggled to Syros to save it from the Ottomans and was still brought back for certain festivals, a much-loved symbol of survival.

In the refectory we met one of the volunteers who had opened the monastery specially for us. The old kitchen was used for festivals, where traditional pistachio soup was prepared. The former monastic cells were now simple rooms available for spiritual retreats. Even as an atheist, I could appreciate the serenity of the place; it seeped into the bones.

The journey back offered a clear view of Antipsara and its shimmering beach. I pointed out the little cuboid churches scattered across the landscape; George told me they were far older than they looked, simply well maintained.

I asked about the Psara Museum. He explained that all the artefacts had been sent to Chios where they would be better preserved; the small building here lacked the climate controls necessary for conservation.

We spoke too of Konstantinos Kanaris, the island’s great hero. His house no longer stood, but a garden marked the site. George promised to take me there.

As we approached the village, George took a detour and suddenly the whole scene unfolded beneath us—Mavri Rachi to the left, Agios Nikolaos on the opposite hill, and the maze of whitewashed lanes between them. The port lay tucked in just beyond. “Woooah!” was all I could manage. It was breathtaking.

We passed the army base—thankfully out of sight. George told me the soldiers did 20-day rotations. Being posted here, he said, was easy. He knew: he’d done his own service on Psara. A bit of exercise each day, then free time. There were worse places apparently.

Back in the village, we stopped at a metal gate, the entrance to the remains of Kanaris’ house. Only fragments of the walls remained, but the garden was tended with obvious care. It was a quietly dignified place.

George dropped me back at the port, and we arranged to meet the next morning for the trip to the Archaeological Park. He said he’d also message me about the honey.

Because it was Sunday, the Psara Glory was resting in port. I remembered first seeing her months earlier in Chios, moored alongside the Oinoussai III. I’d thought her an odd-looking little ship. She was built in Denmark in 1980—42 years old, practically elderly for a passenger vessel. Now that I knew something of her namesake’s history, I felt a new respect for her..

Later that afternoon, George messaged. Did I want one kilo of honey or two? I tried to imagine the weight of a kilo of honey (heavier than you think!) and settled on one. After all, I’d be carrying it around for the rest of my trip.

For the first time since arriving, I felt genuinely connected—to the place, to its stories, to its people. Amazing what a bit of honey and a good guide can do.

Tomorrow: the Archaeological Park.