A ninety-minute boat ride to the east of Santoríni, ANÁFI is the last stop for ferries and is something of a travellers’ dead end. It was so for the Argonauts who prayed to Apollo for some land to rest; he let the island emerge from the sea for their repose. If rest is what you crave, you’ll have it here in abundance. Not that this is likely to bother most of the visitors, who come here for weeks in midsummer to enjoy exactly that: its seclusion. Although idyllic geographically, Anáfi is a harsh place, its mixed granite and limestone core overlaid by volcanic rock spewed out by Santoríni’s eruptions. Apart from the few olive trees and vines grown in the valleys, the only plants that seem to thrive are prickly pears. The quiet, unassuming capital, Hóra, provides a daring dash of white in a treeless, shrub-strewn hillock, its narrow, winding streets offering protection from the occasionally squally gharbís wind that comes unencumbered from the southwest.
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