Back in September 2013 I took my first ever holiday without a partner. This is what happened.
You Will See This
An old friend of mine had a thing about Kos.
Years ago, he’d post photos online; boats with sails billowing in sparkling water, clear blue skies, and ancient ruins scattered across the grass beside a bustling modern town. Old and new worlds sharing the same space.
At the time I was completely obsessed with history. (Still am, if I’m honest.) Recognising this, he framed one of his photos, handed it to me and wrote on the back: “You will see this.”
No pressure then.
A year or so later, I was working in a pub and made a new gym friend, Gemma, fellow Gemini. After our workouts we’d grab a coffee and somewhere in those conversations we started talking about going on holiday together.
We knew we wanted Kos. We just needed to find the best deal. Thus ensued the post workout holiday planning.
Gemma did the admin. I just tagged along.
The trip fell in a small quiet space between leaving the pub and starting a new chapter in a call centre. Looking back thirteen years later it feels more significant than it did at the time. Both our lives have changed beyond recognition. But the joy and laughter we shared in those moments? That part hasn’t faded at all.
The build up was everything. New holiday clothes, sandals, a giraffe print sarong that could apparently be worn several different ways. The planning and prepping is always half the fun of travel for me. (The list maker. Obviously.)
It couldn’t come quickly enough.
Lessons in Pronunciation
The flight was about four hours. Gemma had a book while I took the window seat, tracking an ever-changing patchwork of fields and cloudscapes. True to form. (You’ll notice this becomes a theme.) I avoided the aeroplane toilets. Getting up mid-flight somehow feels like it might destabilise the whole thing. Completely irrational, I know. Everyone else manages it just fine. But thirty thousand feet up is not the time to test my anxiety.
Eventually we landed into the warm Greek night and made our way through the airport to find our coach transfer. We confidently announced our hotel name to the driver.
“Iris!” we said. Like the flower. Obviously.
“Ear-is,” he corrected. Without hesitation.
First lesson of the trip.
The coach wound its way through Kos, stopping at hotel after hotel. Each time we slowed down we’d glance at each other. Is this us? Not yet. Until finally, it was.
We had arrived at the Hotel Iris in Psalidi, a quieter coastal pocket just outside the main hub of Kos Town. The foyer was silent. An elderly gentleman appeared, took our paperwork without much fuss, handed us a key and showed us to our room.
A balcony. Two beds. A brilliant high pressure shower and a crystal clear pool.
Home from home for the week.
The Heart of the Hotel
The Gavrellis family who run the Iris Hotel gave it a warmth that went far beyond the Mediterranean weather. Mama at the breakfast buffet every morning. Papa on check-ins, quietly dependable, never flustered. Kostas and his brother Minas running the bar, helping their parents with maintenance and welcoming guests like old friends.
They didn’t treat us like passing tourists. They treated us like we belonged there. Every morning a kalimera, every evening a kalispera, and always a smile.
Every day the cleaners would straighten our beds and fashion our pyjamas into little shapes. A small thing. A lovely thing.
Papa Gavrellis passed away last year. I only found that out while writing this. But the Iris is still there, still run by the family he built it with, and from what I can see, full of returning guests and loyal regulars. I think they know exactly the impact they make.
Evenings settled into a beautiful rhythm; The bar, young Kostas, and his extraordinary talent for colourful cocktails, watching everything slow down. We even used our evenings at the bar to practice our Greek on him. He was very patient with us.
It was during these quiet nights that Gemma first brought it to my attention officially. Apparently I snored. Loudly. I doubted her at the time, in the end though, history has proven her entirely right. The truth is out, though not to anyone who has ever shared a room with me. They knew long before I did.
I snore like a rhino.
Mornings were a different kind of magic entirely.
The breakfast buffet. Real Greek yogurt with local honey. Toast with preserves. Meats and cheeses. Unlimited coffee and fresh orange juice. I was in my absolute hobbit breakfast element, and I made absolutely no apologies for it.
Pam
We met Pam through our mutual friend, a connection I’ll always be grateful for.
Pam had left the UK to build a life in Kos. Jamaican roots, deeply spiritual, a masseuse and a seer. The kind of person who knew things about you before you’d even said a word.
I went first for the massage. Gemma waited.
During our session Pam gave me a piece of advice. Find something orange to wear. The colour would bring confidence. I was about to start a new job and I needed every bit of it.
Afterwards, floating on a cloud of relaxation while Gemma took her turn, I wandered to a nearby spot for a drink and a snack. I decided on a Greek salad.
I don’t like tomatoes or olives.
So that went well.
Every single year after that trip I sent Pam an angel calendar for Christmas. Every single year the postal service between the UK and Greece operated on its own relaxed timeline, meaning she usually received it well into the New Year. It became our running joke. In return she once crocheted a blanket for my granddaughter, infused it with essential oils and posted it all the way to the UK.
That was just who she was.
Sadly, Pam passed away earlier this year. I couldn’t write about Kos without writing about her.
Rest well Pam. 💛
Island Life
The days had a lovely unstructured rhythm. We’d plan over breakfast and decide on the day; no itinerary, no pressure, just whatever felt right.
Between adventures I went on a very specific mission. Remembering Pam’s advice I hunted down something orange, an orange bracelet and a silk scarf. I couldn’t resist some silver either. And gift shopping; with a large family waiting at home, fridge magnets were the obvious solution.
When we reached Kos Town we’d chain the bikes up and wander in on foot. Everyone else did the same, bikes sitting completely untouched.
The ruins were fenced off but completely open to the public, like an oversized open air playground, except the climbing frames were ancient stone columns. History you could just walk into. No glass cases, no velvet ropes, just you and two thousand years of it.
Another day we cycled in the opposite direction to find the thermal springs. Uphill. Hot. Past roadside fruit stalls and the occasional curious goat who seemed entirely unbothered by everything.
Eventually the road dropped toward the sea. The thermal spring was a single round pool, steaming like a fresh bath. Hot. Gloriously, unexpectedly hot. We hired beach beds with umbrellas nearby, Greek music drifted across the beach and we stayed far longer than planned.
The cycle back was a different story entirely; all downhill, which would have been perfect had we not both been slightly sunburned and significantly more tired than when we set off.
Eat Everything
Kos Town was full of places to eat; outdoor restaurants, tavernas, little spots tucked down side streets. We were never short of options.
One evening we found an outdoor restaurant, the kind where stray cats snake through the chair legs hoping for scraps. The other diners were far more generous than me. I ordered bruschetta; fresh tomatoes, basil and balsamic on crispy toasted bread. Which will surprise anyone who read the Greek salad incident earlier. (Some tomatoes, it turns out, are situationally acceptable.) And a moussaka. Rich, layered, deeply Greek.
One afternoon we settled into a cool busy restaurant full of greenery for an early dinner. I ordered the kleftico. Slow cooked lamb, falling apart at the touch of a fork. Perfect.
And then there was the tiramisu. I couldn’t tell you which day or which restaurant. What matters is that it arrived enormous. Completely, unnecessarily enormous. I looked at Gemma. Gemma was too full to help.
So I handled it. Alone. Every last spoonful.
No judgement.
Ancient Kos
Kos Castle was extraordinary. Scorching hot to walk around but completely worth it. From the outside it looks impressive enough, but step inside and it’s like the TARDIS. The history spans so many periods and layers that you lose track of time entirely. Which felt entirely appropriate.
In the centre of Kos Town stands the plane tree of Hippocrates, one of the oldest trees in Europe and according to legend the very spot where Hippocrates taught his students medicine. The current tree is thought to be around 500 years old, likely a descendant of the original. Its branches are supported by metal scaffolding. Ancient, mangled and vast, and somehow still standing.
We caught the ‘Noddy train’ to the Asklepion; the kind of cheerful little open topped tourist train you’d find trundling along a British seaside town. Fresh orange juice stalls lined the way and cats were everywhere, as they seemed to be across the whole island.
The Asklepion itself was vast. Far bigger than I expected. A sanctuary dedicated to the god of healing, part Greek, part Roman, history layered upon history on a hillside with views stretching toward Turkey. I would have happily stayed up there with a trowel for a week.
The amphitheatre we found entirely by accident; wandering in the wrong direction and suddenly there it was. Ancient stone seating carved into a hillside, sitting quietly as if waiting to be rediscovered.
Which I suppose it was.
Until Next Time
Leaving was hard. I was genuinely sad to go, the kind of sad that tells you a place has gotten under your skin.
I loved it so much that I went on about it until Darren agreed to come back with me. He understood immediately why I hadn’t been able to stop talking about it.
Kos has its own uniqueness. I can’t compare it to the rest of Greece yet. But that’s rather the point isn’t it. One island down. Many more to go.
It has a pull that’s entirely its own. History and warmth and simplicity all existing in the same space.
If you’re thinking about going; go. Hire the bikes. Order the kleftico. Find the thermal springs. Catch the ‘Noddy’ train to the Asklepion. Stand in front of Hippocrates’ tree and let it make you feel small in the best possible way.
And if the tiramisu arrives and it’s enormous; you know what to do.
No judgement.
