A maze of white, pale yellow and grey narrow roads and terraces crowded with travellers, hosts and guests. From the distance, they look like tiny little ants. In the morning, the sound of copper green bells wakes up this island that looks like a living nativity. You’re in Santorini. If you arrive from the sea, you enter a harbour in the shape of a half-moon and disembark in front of a tall wall of red rocks so dark they look almost black. Looking up, it feels impossible to reach the top. Yet, the villages of Thira, Firostefani, Imerovigli and Oia are there, clinging to the mountain. They resemble white and beige little men staying close to each other in a queue along a street that on the left side drops down into the deep sea. From far away, Santorini looks like Varanasi, where the water has been sucked in a deep gorge leaving just dry and dark rocks. It’s the big Volcano’s Caldera, a magic expanse. On the right side of the island the coast goes down like a slide to become a big level ground covered in emerald green vineyards and cultivated with tomatoes, fava beans and capers. Despite the shortage of water on the island, the humidity of the volcanic soil allows the plantations to survive even if they’re not irrigated and makes the flavour of the local produces unique.