It is morning and the walls seem to be washed white.
Aegean survival.

Houses crammed onto each other, lined up as warriors, with an overwhelming boldness gaze out  into the sea.

Bravery, obstinacy, ancient heritage, all together.
The  sea and the dense pines have traced the same history, the same destiny for  thousands of years.

Dazzling whitewashed paths with  staircases.

Small stone-paved yards.

A mosaic of roofs. Houses  with tiled roofs and houses with terraces.
The wind builds  chapels.

Scopelos stands proud as she reigns.

360 churches and monasteries.

Wooden-carved iconostases.

Popular craftsmen of wood.

Woods, lots of woods.

Bays, ports, pebbled shores, and endless spectacle. A fisherman is lifting the anchor. << Blow wind, we must set  sail >>

The breeze gets loose from the rigging and the may bug gets  hoarse from greetings On the rocky stones octopuses are drying up in the sun