Corfu was a bit of a rash last minute decision. Once we realised that you could get a boat from Corfu to Saranda, Albania and that our ferry going to Igoumenitsa stopped at Corfu we were determined to make it happen. But ferry officials couldn’t change our ticket either at the terminal or onboard the ferry. Also we had no idea at all what to expect of Corfu- one big expensive tourist trap? 

No internet to try and suss things out or book something whilst we were on the ferry - we decided to just go for it.

As the ferry navigated it’s way through the narrow and spectacular strait between Corfu island and the Albanian coast we were filled with anticipation. 

When the ferry pulled into port we rumbled down to the deck amongst dozens of Italian party revellers. We started to question our decision. 

We walked breezily off the ferry, bikes in tow, expecting at any moment for someone to stop us - they didn’t.

So here we were on a sunny Greek island in the late afternoon, not a clue where to go or where to stay. All we knew was that we were keen for a proper rest after our 3 hefty cycling days in the alps followed by the train and a not so comfortable night on the ferry. We were dreaming of a little Greek villa and chilling on the beach whilst also preparing our route through Albania.

First stop, Corfu town for refreshment and to find wifi. I was delighted to find ginger beer - legacy from the British occupation. 

We immediately fell in love with the shambolic surroundings: ferrel cats sunning themselves amongst beautiful historic buildings that were slowly crumbling away. 

We quickly realised that island life was expensive. We choked at the price of a coffee and a quick search for accommodation turned up no results apart from villas at - I kid you not, 13,000 euros for two nights. The villa dream quickly went out the window! We decided to opt for camping instead.

On the way to the campsite we stopped at a small roadside taverna and ate probably the most delicious fish I’ve ever tasted. Now, it felt like the holidays.

The campsite was nice in a grove of olive trees, but our hopes of finally having a restful night were dashed when music from a nearby resort started blaring. It was also uncomfortably hot in our little tent. 

A day off from the bikes is always pretty busy in its own way. Clothes washing (by hand takes a while!), planning routes, gathering supplies, journaling, visiting, recuperating. Our first day in Corfu was pretty much that. 

We started the day with a morning dip - it sounds a bit more idyllic than it actually was. We hadn’t gone far from Corfu town and that whole section of coast line is heavily developed. What we thought might be a nice quiet spot was just a less glitzier version of the rest with lots of wasps. We ate breakfast in a roadside mini market/cafe/someone’s home savouring the sickly sweet and sticky baclawa.

We went looking for a bike shop and met Costas. Costas was a character. Loud, gruff, charming, kindhearted, wary of neighbouring Albania and labelling Italians as 

‘those motherf*ckers’ three times in every sentence. He refused payment for the tubeless puncture liquid we needed and was invaluable in helping us plan out a route to see more of the island. His favourite piece of advice was to ‘see the jewels from above and avoid the italians’.

In the afternoon after some organising and a good siesta we took the bus back into Corfu town and revelled in the holiday atmosphere of the historic city. We visited the impressive castle and wandered the winding bazaar streets. The architecture is an inspirational mix of Greek, Venetian, French and British reflecting the varied history.

The following day we packed up from the campsite and set off to explore the island on our bikes. We immediately hit tracks that seemed almost vertical in gradient; but the higher we climbed, the more spectacular the views of the bright blue bays, inlets and micro islands were. We could see the whole mountainous spine of Corfu island. Everything covered in a luscious green of olive trees, cypresses and fig trees. 

We arrived in the tiny village of Sokraki, following the sound of a cheerful commotion of men. We arrived at a small square taking in the scene of a group of old men sitting drinking coffee and watching (or loudly commenting on) the handiwork of another man painting a villa opposite. We ventured into a small and charming shop opportunistically labeled “olive oil museum” and were given a heartfelt explanation/demonstration of how olive oil was traditionally pressed with the old stone equipment. We stocked up on soap, fig pie and a small olive oil for cooking. 

We explored the other side of the island: shouted with awe and delight at the sparkling cove beneath us only to arrive disappointed that it was packed with sunbathing tourists, cigarette buts, and general noisy consumerism. Like Costas had said- you appreciate it more from above. We headed north and cycled through more unwelcoming resorts until we found a rugged stretch and a hidden track leading to a deserted beach. Perfect spot for the night.

As the mosquitos devoured our every exposed limb we hastily set up the tent, started cooking and jumped in the sea. 

We finally slept well to the calming sound of the waves and with a view over our next destination : Albania.