Between the Vines and the Wind: what a Mykonos Vineyard taught me about Time

I went to Mykonos expecting beaches, cocktails, and whitewashed postcard alleys. What I didn’t expect was to spend a quiet afternoon in the hills of Marathi, standing between olive trees and vines, listening to the wind move through leaves older than most cities. I also didn’t expect that a glass of wine could hold the memory of an entire civilization—or that such a simple moment would change how I look at time itself.

The winery wasn’t flashy. No polished marble or overdone displays. Just honest earth, sunlight, and an old wine press that looked like it had stories to tell. Our guide—calm, kind, and with the dry humour of someone who has seen enough to laugh gently at everything—welcomed us like we were visiting cousins, not tourists.

The tour started with a slow walk through the olive groves. There’s something quietly humbling about olive trees. They’re twisted, gnarled, almost sculptural—like each one has wrestled with the wind and the years and survived. We stopped to touch the bark, to smell the leaves. The guide explained that some of the trees here are well over a century old. You could feel it. Their silence wasn’t empty—it was full of endurance.

We moved to the vineyard, which lay tucked into the dry hills, vines climbing patiently in rows shaped by generations of hands. He spoke about the ancient wine traditions of Greece, how Mykonos’ dry soil and salty air give the grapes their character, how the islanders used terracing to tame the landscape and coax life from it. No machines humming, no industrial pace. Just the rhythm of nature, followed not resisted.

Then came the wine. And the food. Not in a sterile tasting room, but outside, under shade, with the breeze in our faces and a plate of kopanisti cheese, olives, cured meats, and crusty local bread in front of us. The wine—clear, light, yet deeply rooted in flavour—tasted like the landscape itself: sun, stone, sea. I had the white and the red, and then I had another white because it paired so beautifully with the cheese, and also with the quiet.

Music drifted in. Not piped in from speakers, but played live—fiddle, bouzouki, and voices carrying old songs about sea journeys, love, and laughter under the moon. No one said much. There was no need. It was that kind of silence that doesn’t ask for conversation.

And in that moment, I got it.

Greeks, I realised, don’t rush what matters. They don’t bottle things before they’re ready. They let the land and time do their part. They don’t interrupt silence because it feels awkward. They share food not just for nourishment, but as an offering. A gesture of togetherness. There’s a philosophy here that’s deeper than ancient ruins or sun-soaked clichés. It’s about patience. Balance. Harmony with nature and with each other.

Since I came back home, I’ve tried to keep a little of that with me.

I don’t gulp my wine anymore. I taste it. I wait for it. I cook a little slower. I’ve started tending a small herb garden on my balcony—rosemary, thyme, and oregano, just like the ones that grew wild around the vineyard. Sometimes I put on Greek music while I cook and just let the day be what it is, instead of pushing it around with productivity apps and stress.

My days feel… less brittle. I’ve started saying “no” to unnecessary rush, and “yes” to moments that feel grounded. I don’t always succeed. But I try. Because I remember those vines. How they grew slowly, steadily, up toward the sun.

If you ever find yourself in Mykonos, escape the dazzle for a couple of hours. Go inland, to Marathi. Find the winery that doesn’t brag. Taste their wine. Touch the bark of an old olive tree. And listen—not just to the music, but to the stillness underneath it. That’s where the Greece I fell in love with lives.

Take-away tips:

• Let the vineyard show you the beauty of slowness—don’t rush the experience

• Ask your guide about the terraced farming traditions—they’re a lesson in harmony with the land

• Sample the local kopanisti cheese with white wine for a unique taste of Mykonos

• Listen to traditional Greek music not as background noise, but as a carrier of memory

• Bring the rhythm home: cook slower, share more, and make space for silence