Remote Greek island? Family already threw a welcome party 🤣😅
Prague had been... an experience. A loud, beer-fueled, surprisingly heartwarming experience, but decidedly not the tranquil, romantic interlude Patricia had once envisioned for her honeymoon. Back in the slightly less chaotic (but still Corr-adjacent) sanctuary of their Prague apartment, Patricia and Cathal held a council of war.
"Okay," Cathal had said, pacing their living room while Patricia studied a map of Europe with the intensity of a general planning a final, desperate offensive. "One last try. Operation: Utter Isolation. We need a place so remote, so devoid of 'artistic inspiration,' 'ancient luthiers,' or 'surprisingly good acoustics for Gaelic chant,' that not even the most determined Corr could accidentally stumble upon us."
Patricia, tracing a finger over the Aegean Sea, had nodded grimly. "No Wi-Fi would be a bonus. Limited ferry service. One tiny taverna, preferably run by a grumpy hermit who actively dislikes large, musical families."
And so, after hours of deep-dive internet research, cross-referencing ferry schedules, and scrutinizing satellite images for any signs of "excessive charm" that might attract an Andrea, Cathal found it: the tiny, almost unheard-of Greek island of Antikypseli. Its sole claims to fame were a few hardy olive trees, a population of approximately seventeen very quiet shepherds, and, crucially, only one ferry a week from a slightly larger, but still obscure, neighboring island. They booked a tiny, whitewashed cottage under the highly inconspicuous name of "Mr. and Mrs. Papadopoulos," packed their lightest bags, and informed the family they were embarking on a "very boring, very intensive digital detox and silent meditation retreat" in an undisclosed, signal-free zone to "fully recover from all the wonderful, stimulating excitement." They emphasized "boring" and "silent" repeatedly.
The journey to Antikypseli was an odyssey in itself. A flight to Athens, a connecting puddle-jumper to the larger, obscure island, and then a three-hour ferry ride on a vessel that looked like it had personally witnessed the Trojan War. But with every nautical mile that separated them from mainland Europe and, more importantly, their beloved, omnipresent family, Patricia felt a lightness she hadn't experienced since those first few blissful hours in Tuscany.
"This is it, Pat," Cathal said, his arm around her as Antikypseli finally appeared on the horizon – a rugged, sun-bleached jewel in an impossibly blue sea. "Our fortress of solitude. The final frontier of privacy."
The island was, if anything, even more secluded than advertised. The "port" was a simple stone jetty. A handful of whitewashed houses clung to a hillside overlooking a pebble beach. The air was thick with the scent of wild thyme, oregano, and the salty tang of the sea. The only sounds were the gentle lapping of waves, the distant bleating of goats, and the chirping of crickets. It was, in a word, perfect.
Their cottage, rented from the island's sole taverna owner, a taciturn but not unfriendly man named Stavros, was simple, clean, and blessedly quiet. It had a small terrace overlooking the sea, a slightly lumpy bed, and, most wonderfully, absolutely no phone signal.
For the first few hours, they simply existed. They walked along the deserted beach, the only footprints theirs. They swam in the cool, crystal-clear water. They shared a lunch of bread, olives, and feta cheese, bought from Stavros's tiny, all-purpose shop, sitting on their terrace and saying very little, content just to be in each other's silent, uninterrupted presence. Patricia felt the last vestiges of travel stress and "family management" fatigue melt away. Cathal looked ten years younger, his face relaxed, his eyes clear and full of a peaceful joy. They even managed a long, passionate kiss under the shade of an ancient olive tree, a kiss unmarred by the possibility of a relative appearing with "a brilliant idea."
As evening approached, casting long shadows across the silver-green olive groves, they decided to wander down to Stavros's taverna for dinner. They envisioned fresh grilled fish, a carafe of local retsina, and a quiet meal under a canopy of stars, the gentle sounds of the Aegean their only soundtrack.
Hand in hand, they strolled along the dusty path that led from their cottage to the taverna. The sky was a blaze of orange and purple. The air was still and warm.
"You know," Patricia said softly, leaning her head on Cathal’s shoulder, "I think we might have actually done it. I think we might finally be alone."
Cathal chuckled, a low, happy sound. "Don't jinx it, Mrs. Bonnar. But yes, it certainly feels that way."