Atokos is a tiny island near Lefkada in the Ionian Sea, off the coast of Acarnania. It is one of the most westerly and remotest of the Echinades Islands, home to no one but a colony of pigs
No one lives on Atokos, except the pigs(Image: AFP via Getty Images)
Pig Beach is an irresistible place. It’s a place where a family of adorable hogs, as pink as a Brit at the end of a long summer holiday, trot around on the sand, run through the shallows and piggy-paddle in the waves.
It’s not clear exactly how the colony of oinkers made it to their Bahaman paradise home. Some say the pigs were dropped off by a group of sailors who wanted to come back and cook them, only to get diverted, leaving the pigs to survive on excess food dumped from passing ships. Another tale suggests the pigs were survivors of a shipwreck, while a third argues that they were placed there as a cynical ploy to attract tourists.
If the final explanation is true, then fair play to the inspired swine herder responsible. The Bahamas’ swimming pigs are one of the most popular tourist attractions in the whole region, attracting thousands of porcine enthusiasts into the shallows each year. Pig Beach has about 20 individual piggies and a cast of piglets that varies in size each year, but other islands, including Eleuthera, Rose, Abaco, and Ship Channel Cay, have also gotten in on the action in recent years.
Charmed by the idea of splashing around in the warm waves with a lovely little swine, when I heard that Europe has its very own version of Pig Island, and that it was a short sail away from where I’d be exploring, I couldn’t resist.
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Atokos is a tiny island near Lefkada in the Ionian Sea, off the coast of Acarnania. It is one of the most westerly and remotest of the Echinades Islands. No one lives on Atokos, not even its shipping magnate owner, Panayiotis Tsako. But it attracts a handful of brave yachtspeople who are allowed to anchor in the shallows.
My friends and I found ourselves in their number on a hot May day, jumping into the water and swimming onto the beach, wetsuit shoes providing crucial protection against the burning-hot pebbles. We’d expected to be met by a group of friendly pigs splashing around in the shallows, but the beach was empty. Of both pigs and people.
Assuming that the hogs were sheltering in the woods at the top of the beach, we walked in, finding them ringing with loud cicadas as we wandered down a path. At the bottom was a single two-storey house, which appeared habitable enough despite its doors being locked and its windows boarded up. Not a pig in sight.
We wandered back towards the beach down winding paths thick with pinecones and sticks, swiping away the thick spider webs that stretched between the trees. Despite the intense Greek sunshine and glistening blue water, the place had a spooky atmosphere, intensified by the empty chapel rising above the sand. I’d read it was well looked after by a visiting janitor, but it looked dusty and unloved. I flicked a large spider off my shoulder.
And then the pigs arrived.
Just as we’d resigned ourselves to returning to the boat light of a soul-cleansing frolick with the promised porsine inhabitants, guess who came snuffling out of the woods? Not a sweet piggy, but a hog. A big, hairy, grunting hog. I’m not an expert, but I’d put a 50/50 wager on it being a wild boar.
The pig wandered towards us, stopping about a metre away. He looked at us, and we looked back. Then out of the woods came three more pigs, seemingly a mum and two piglets. They joined the bigger, dad-looking pig.
There was something about the biggest pig’s tusks and the way it was looking at our now shivering, unprotected but for swimming trunks bodies, that made us feel nervous. These piggies didn’t look amenable to a quick pic.
Suddenly, the big pig roared and lurched forward towards us. I don’t know whether we’d strayed too close to his family, looked at him the wrong way, or stayed too long on the creepy island, but the noise was far from an Instagram-reel-friendly oink. To our shame, we ran. We ran all the way into the sea, powering through the shallows before launching ourselves into a swim. It was only once back to our boat that we risked a look back towards the Atokos and its inhospitable pig masters. There they stood, looking out across the water, unfriendly stares boring into us.
