Why I can’t stop dreaming about Kefalonia

I have recently spent an unproportional amount of time researching a Greek island called Kefalonia. What started as a casual Google search to escape a rainy afternoon has somehow snowballed into hours of scrolling through travel blogs, YouTube vlogs, and oddly specific TripAdvisor forums. I can’t really explain why this particular island got stuck in my head, but the more I looked into it, the more I felt like it was calling to me. There’s something about the mix of lush green mountains, dramatic coastlines, and quiet beaches that seems like the antidote to the noise and routine of everyday life.

Kefalonia isn’t the kind of place that screams for attention like Santorini or Mykonos. It’s quieter, a bit rougher around the edges, and feels less interested in impressing tourists. And maybe that’s exactly why I’m drawn to it. The pictures of Myrtos Beach look almost too perfect, like nature’s version of a Photoshopped image, but I’ve read enough traveler reviews to know it really is that stunning. The idea of driving along narrow cliffside roads just to find a secluded cove or taverna seems weirdly appealing, even though I normally hate driving on vacation. I’ve even started checking rental car prices and trying to figure out if I can actually drive a manual transmission, because apparently automatics are rare and overpriced on the island.

Then there’s the food. Every article I read talks about how Kefalonia has this rustic, slow-food culture that’s still tied to local traditions. Not in a curated, performative way, but in a real, everyday sense. Villagers still make their own wine and olive oil. Families still pass down recipes for things like meat pie, which I didn’t even know was a thing in Greece. And the idea of sitting under a vine-covered pergola somewhere in a village I can’t pronounce, drinking house wine out of a mismatched glass while a cat rubs against my leg, sounds oddly perfect.

What complicates things is that I don’t even know when or if I’ll go. This might all just stay in the realm of fantasy, something I fixate on for a few weeks and then forget about once life picks up speed again. But it’s hard not to imagine myself waking up to that bright Aegean light, with a day ahead that involves nothing more than swimming, reading, and slowly discovering little corners of the island. I’ve even looked up hiking trails and ferry schedules, as if that makes it more real. There's one trail that leads to an abandoned monastery with a panoramic view over the sea—I've pictured myself there, standing quietly, breathing in that pine-scented air while the sun burns low in the sky.

It’s funny how a place you’ve never been to can feel so specific in your mind. I don’t know what Kefalonia smells like or sounds like, but I can almost feel it. And maybe that’s enough of a reason to keep thinking about it. For now.