Want to come to a farm with me?
It’s a running joke between my friend and planner colleague Anton and me: “Want to come to a farm with me?” or “Been to any farms lately?” Anton and I have different approaches to travel and trip planning. He has the ultimate travel itch, travelling and planning trips all over the world. He’s forever on the move, bag by the door, passport within reach. I, on the other hand, avoid airports when I can. Give me a ferry, a half ripped Greek road map, and I am off. It’s this urge to dig as deep as possible, deep into Greek mud, wearing my metaphorical rubber boots and all.
In a small gap between two of his research trips, Anton joins one of mine, and we spend a few fun days island-hopping in the Cyclades. On Naxos, he gamely bounces along as I crisscross bumpy dirt roads, chasing the whispers I’ve collected about hyper-local places: farms. Small farms. Tiny farms. A potato-olive-veg-fruit-and-chickens kind of farm where the harvest (eggs included) ends up in the outdoor wood-fired oven. An olive farm where our tour ends with a tasting in the shade of, yes, olive trees. A donkey farm not far away. And hill-top family farm, far away from everything, where cooking classes unfold in the old kitchen. With every new find I grow more excited; too excited to notice the ever-so-patient Anton slowly losing patience… with me.
Maybe I overdid it. A swim, sunset cocktails, and a waterside dinner in the port made up for our muddy day; even I’ll admit there are only so many farms one can absorb in a single outing. But in small doses, what better way to feel local life and culture, and the roots of Greece’s foodie wonderland?
And it’s not just Naxos. I’ve got plenty more up my sleeve. There’s the Mediterranean dry farm on Paros where capers (and much more) thrive; the mountaintop shepherd’s place on Crete; the organic wine farm in the Peloponnese. On Sifnos, where I am now, trying a wonderful new hotel (another story), there’s even a little animal farm where you can learn to milk goats and turn the milk into cheese.
As I’m writing, my favorite home-cooking teacher on the island calls. “Oh! I forgot to tell you,” she says. “There’s this family farm where you can see how they work, make friends with their animals, and taste what they produce.”
Wait, what, another farm?
Fetch the imaginary rubber boots. I’m on my way.
