A WEDDING
A WINDOW
AND THE MOUNTAINS OF ZAGORI
Adrian had wanted me to see the mountains of Epirus ever since he started running treks through them in the 2000 and teens. But I never seemed to have the time nor the inclination. I was busy myself in some of the most beautiful mountains on the planet, the Dolomites.
As good friends do, he invited me to his wedding and of course I was going to go. But his ace up his sleeve was that the wedding was going to be in Papingo, Zagori. So I was going to see these mountains after all.
Greece had never topped my list. Too many people. Too many islands choking on selfie sticks. I’d heard the stories: crowded, chaotic, overcooked. Greece, to me, was all blue domes and overcrowded beaches. But when a good friend invites you to his wedding, you go.
And so I found myself in a rental car winding up dark mountain roads late one night, wondering what exactly I had signed up for. It was pitch black when we arrived in Papingo. No streetlights, no welcome sign. Just the faint smell of pine and woodsmoke, the sound of gravel under tired boots, and a cold mountain silence. I collapsed into bed without much ceremony, the stone walls of the guesthouse holding the cool of the night.
The next morning, everything had changed!
I opened the wooden shutters and stood frozen. Before me rose the ochre-and-red cliffs of the Astraka Range, jagged and towering, glowing in the morning light like a cathedral sculpted by time. A village of slate rooftops and stone alleys clung to the hillside below. A clowder of cats mingled on one roof, basking in the early morning rays, one scurried after another to take top position.
No cruise ships here. No plastic beach bars. Just silence, sky, and stone.
Papingo was real. Zagori was real. And I had no idea a place like this even existed in Greece.
The wedding was a blur of joy and tsipouro. Adrian, whose family hailed from Greece, had always dreamed of getting married here. And now I understood why. The ceremony took place in a courtyard of a small villa, wrapped in mountains, under a canopy of beeches. The guest list was mostly Australians like me, flown in and now looking equally stunned by where we’d landed. There was dancing into the night. Laughter around long tables. Plates of lamb and foraged greens, honey-drenched pastries, and wine from local vineyards that made you rethink your loyalties to Tuscany.
Then the real journey began.
We stayed on at the Aristi Mountain Lodge, a stone-built hideaway perched above the village with views that stopped conversation mid-sentence. From the balcony, the cliffs of Astraka loomed so close they felt touchable. Breakfasts were feasts: fresh pies, village eggs, thick yogurt with mountain honey, Spanakopita and hortopita (a specialty of the Epirus region)
And then we hiked.
The trail to Dragon Lake begins in Mikro Papingo and snakes up through forest and stone, past goat bells and wind-bent pines. It’s not an easy walk—the path steepens quickly—but every bend brings a new view, a new silence.
Above the tree line, the land opens to alpine pastures where wild horses roam, tails flicking in the wind. And then the lake itself: small, still, perched on a plateau with a sheer drop spilling out behind it into the great basin of Epirus.
Standing there, wind in my face, clouds curled over the peaks, I thought: this could be the Alps. This could be the Dolomites. But it wasn’t. It was something older, wilder.
And it kept getting better.
Next came the Vikos Gorge, a deep scar through the mountains that claims to be the deepest canyon in the world relative to its width. We hiked it from the village of Vikos to Monodendri, descending past tiny cliff-side chapels and stone-built springs, through a forest so green it felt almost tropical. Crystal-clear water trickled beside us for much of the route. At times, the cliffs above narrowed to a breath, Thermopylesque, the sky vanishing between limestone walls.
Here, history hides in plain sight. Tiny churches clung to the cliffs. Monks once took refuge in caves above the river. Somewhere near here, Pyrrhus, King of Epirus—the man who gave us the term “Pyrrhic victory”—once ruled a mountainous kingdom at the edge of the known world.
Back in Aristi that night, legs aching, we sat with glasses of local wine and plates of moussaka and stewed goat. Every meal was a revelation: savoury pites filled with herbs, grilled trout from mountain streams, slow-roasted meats cooked with wild oregano, and cheese so sharp and fresh it felt alive. One evening we had kontosouvli, pork roasted slowly on the spit, served with lemon potatoes and mountain greens. Another night, hilopites pasta with local mushrooms. Every village had its own recipe. Every dish felt personal.
The last walk we did was the stone bridges trail, a gentle day walk that connects several villages through forests and rivers, past moss-covered arched bridges that look lifted from a fairy tale. These structures, some over 200 years old, were once the lifelines of Zagori, linking communities across the ravines when the Ottomans ruled this land. Today they stand as reminders of a time when craftsmanship wasn’t a luxury—it was survival.
And there was no one else around.
This, perhaps, was the greatest surprise. In a country that welcomes tens of millions of visitors a year, Zagori remains quietly untouched. No souvenir stands. No tour buses. Just the rustle of leaves, the bark of a dog echoing down a stone lane, and the rhythm of your boots on cobble.
As the week drew to a close, I sat one last morning on the terrace of the lodge, coffee in hand, watching the sunlight creep across the Astraka cliffs.
I’d come to Greece expecting little.
And I was leaving filled with something I hadn’t felt in a long time: awe.
This wasn’t the Greece of sunburn and souvenirs. This was ancient and quiet, wild and generous. This was a Greece of mountains and memory.
And I can’t wait to return.
