A Secret Wrapped in an Enigma by Richard Waters

As the twin prop plane negotiates its abrupt descent onto Paros' 800m runway, navy Aegean and steel-blue sky wheeling by, I snatch a glimpse of nearby Antiparos and breathe a sigh of relief. Approached from the water, the island looks unremarkable, but then you set foot on its whitewashed quayside…

A fishermen looks up from his tangle of nets and cracks a sun-blasted smile, a dog yawns in the middle of the street and the scent of fresh coffee and bouzouki on the radio float over from a kafenion. You're home, although you've never been here before.

A quick taxi across Paros and we're at Pounta dock, I can almost swim to Antiparos' low-slung harbour on the other side. Instead, my partner, Ali, and our kids, Finn (5 years) and Aggie (5 months), wait for the ferry that runs like a metronome until midnight. Writing and researching “Cool Camping Europe” last summer, I happened upon this rugged island, and something struck me as I climbed off the ferry; another harbour of blue-domed orthodox churches and grizzled fishermen with Charles Bronson faces? Maybe, but Antiparos had something else too.

As we dock, I feel the crow's feet fleeing my face and my shoulders relaxing as if I can smell my mother's bacon sandwiches. We walked to our nearby apartment, circumnavigating the local geese.

Not thirty years ago, this Cycladic idyll was a winter ghost town, its undeveloped harbour looking longingly over the turquoise bay at sibling, Paros, wondering when it would get a bite of the tourist cherry. The island men, desperate to feed their families, worked half the year on cargo ships while their wives, like premature widows, eked out lonely existences. Then, in the eighties, the hippies arrived from nearby Ios as if drawn to the island's satyr-like spirit and gas-blue coves; bringing with them sex, drugs and impromptu music festivals.

The early “noughties” saw the arrival of international uber bankers and Athenian surgeons building infinity-pooled, Hockneyesque villas so achingly contemporary they could set a Hoxton art dealer foaming. Now the Tinseltown deities -- with a golden statuette or two -- are making their homes here, not to mention a recently single superstar of whom there are whispers may have bought real estate.

Why -- what's so special about the place? Well therein lies a secret to be unwrapped.

Many arrive by accident, having climbed on the wrong boat. But there's nothing slapdash about your second and third visit -- you're drawn here. Indeed if I notice any guardedness on the island, it's in some of its foreign visitors, who quietly reveal they've been returning constantly for the last thirty years.

Let the islanders of Paros deride the little island, as if it were the old days of premature widows and absent husbands; let them tell you to take sandwiches when you visit, for there's “nowhere to get lunch”. Because these days, it's more than the water that turns a coral green with envy -- Antiparos seems blessed with gold, and Paros knows it.

Beneath a cobalt blue sky, villagers were repainting all the cracks between the paving stones. Young and old chatted to one another, paintbrushes in hand, painstakingly administering the white gloss. Looking down Agora -- the lengthy pedestrian street that necklaces through town -- it looked to be a labour of Heracles.

Santorini's Thira is breathtakingly dramatic, Athens' Plaka district enchanting, but this milk-fresh Antiparian gauntlet of homemade ice cream shops (head to Vicky's), stylish bars, clothing boutiques, bespoke jewellers and traditional lace shops is something from a dream -- especially by night.

There's only a smattering of bucket and spade peddlers, but a good job too, for there are at least 22 sleepy coves and sandy beaches (including the deserted islands of Despotiko, Patelida and Agios Spiridonas) for you to explore.

Our first day, we do little but wander the labyrinth of the old town and meet a friend, Theo, who knows the island as well as the eagles he used to raise here as a boy.  In a few weeks time (June) the little town's population of 1,037 would swell almost beyond measure, the streets thronged with well-heeled fashionistas and Athenian relatives worshipping Dionysian-style. But for the moment, all was quiet.
   
On day two, we headed to Captain Pipino's Fish Tavern on Agios Georgios (12kms away). It was a composite of everything Greek; the blue bay, our table glistening with a mezze of fresh calimari, Greek salad, whitebait, zucchini and the succulent, purplish tentacles of octopus. The Japanese have discovered the latter to be a bringer of good mood, an aquatic silo of Seratonin.

Maybe that's the secret of Antiparians' welcoming disposition; that and the fact many will never have to worry about money again, having sold their land to international realtors for astonishing sums. You may just as easily be sharing a table with a global banker or a fisherman who's nipped into town for a quick coffee and a chat with his cousin. Everybody knows everybody else's business. And somehow, the two extremes live symbiotically beside one another.   

Across the bay, less than a nautical mile from Captain Pipino's, lies the unspoilt island of Despotiko. But for the ghosts of a Neolithic (4,000 BC) community and the odd erstwhile archaeologist, the island is uninhabited. Treasures keep turning up like lost Easter eggs -- ancient offerings left here on route to the sacred oracle island of Delos.

Another curiosity is what's thought to be Greece's oldest stalactite cave (8kms from town). Back in the 4th century, Macedonian generals took refuge in it after a failed conspiracy against Alexander the Great. And that about wraps up the 'must see' sights, which in the best tradition of relaxation, enforces afternoons sipping iced latte's in Yasili's cafe, beachcombing, swimming and sun basking.

Alternatively, you can explore Antiparos' hidden treasures by boat, which in true Alexandrian spirit, is what we did on our third day. Dressed in windcheaters and unnecessary hats -- for the spring weather had begun to slide into the first hint of summer -- my son and I headed out into the Aegean in a little boat provided by Sail Away -- a brilliant do-it-yourself nautical adventure without a hired captain.

Armed with detailed maps of the island, life jackets and a list of where not to sail, we puttered off in a sturdy five metre, 40-horsepower boat. Unlike Odysseus, any problems with Poseidon, sirens or whirlpools and all you have to do is call Christos (Sail Away's owner), and he'll appear in his Zodiac quicker than you can say Hermes.
   
Having passed the giant cedar tree at Camping Antiparos, we sail on past sugar-fine beaches, back-dropped by meadows of wild daisies, luminous green with rainfall; it looked more like Cornwall. Far off in the distance, the misty form of Serifos, fabled haunt of snake-coiffed Medusa, crouched. We imagined Perseus galloping overhead on Pegasus as the little skiff cut through the navy water.

The great virtue of sailing this way is your liberty to find the best beaches and have them all to yourself. If that doesn't suit, there are three outfits in town (among them the Alexandros Tours) with experienced Captains who'll take you further afield in traditional wooden schooners, dishing up a barbequed lunch while you snorkel among scorpion fish and moray eels.
   
We moor up against the jagged island of Agios Spiridonas, carpeted in bracken so vivid its Aegean reflection is the purple of octopus. A little chapel sits at the top, and we peek our heads in; a fallen silver candle stick on an altar veiled in dust, a faded coloured glass window -- nothing in here has changed since the Second World War when Antiparians risked their hides for the Allied Forces. We returned to shore via the diminutive islands of Diplo and Kavouras, like seasoned Argonauts with salty lips and wind in our hair.
   
That night we head for the Cyclades Tavern, a backstreet secret and the most authentic restaurant in town. Delightfully unpretentious, the minimal decor is animated by the odour of sizzling seafood; with calimari so fresh I fancy I can taste the salt blue it was swimming in that morning. And wasn't that waiter with wispy hair and aquiline nose in a rock band back in the seventies? I wouldn't ask him and break the benign Circean spell that everybody is complicit with. For this is an island where people value their privacy and where strangely, it's granted.

Let's face it -- they know how to keep schtum these Antiparians: back in the 15th century, the island was plagued by the infamous pirate, Barbarossa. With that same collective spirit, the community set to work building a near impregnable wall, high enough to keep him out and thick enough to build their houses inside. Walking through the portico that once served as the town's only entrance is magical; one-room chapels flicker with candlelight, and pensioners shuffling by bid you calispera (good evening), for this is a town where eyes like to meet -- even in dark corners.

Livadia beach on the western coast is book-ended by blonde rocks and twisting cedars. On our final day, we wander across its seaweed-strewn shore searching for cuttlefish shells. Theo finds one, plants a stick in its middle and sets it to sea to make an odyssey of its own. Finn's face is aglow with childish possibility, and perhaps, I wonder, this might be the true enigma of the island itself -- its rugged simplicity. 
   
As we board the ferry, an early whisper of the meltemi ruffles the hair of pensioners sat crow-like in doorways. The cracks have all been painted on Agora and fishermen cupping Lucky Strikes are communing by the quayside, searching the sky for hints of ruby. I still haven't figured out what it is that brings people back here. I suppose I've got the next thirty years to do that.