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Greece’s sun-soaked coastline is a canvas of geology and light, where the aroma of saltwater mingles with pine-scented breezes and ancient myths linger on the breeze. Over time, a curious thread has woven through this landscape – a relaxed relationship with nudity that feels at home in the luminous Mediterranean air. In practice, Greeks enjoy a “live and let live” ethos on the beach, and by the sea’s edge clothing becomes optional in many places. As one guide notes, “Greece is known for its clothing-optional bathing areas,” though almost all are unofficial rather than designated. Toplessness is broadly tolerated everywhere, and unwritten rules smooth the way for naturists and traditional swimmers to share the sand.
Greece’s naturist beaches offer more than sun and sea; they offer a lesson in balance. Each shoreline asks: do you crave company or quiet? Comfort or freedom? A nod to tradition or the flash of the future? A narrow road into olive groves or a bus ride through town? And each answer brings reward. On Red Beach, one might meditate in the shade of cliffs. On Paradise, one surrenders to a sunrise DJ set. On Plaka, one wanders until the day calls for a casual beachside meal. On Elia, one luxuriates in ease, watching the horizon. On Mirtiotissa, one contemplates life’s simplicity under a monastery’s watch.
Importantly, all these beaches coexist under Greek skies without shame. Public nudity in Greece is tolerated at approved beaches, and here that trust holds. Visitors (dressed or not) are reminded gently to respect the local customs: no intrusive photos, no boisterous behavior. In practice, fellow beachgoers set the tone. At Mirtiotissa, people quietly nod to newcomers; at Elia and Paradise, a shared wink and smile may suffice. The variety of choices – from the wildly social to the profoundly solitary – ensures that every kind of naturist (and even non-naturist) feels at home somewhere along Greece’s coasts.
These beaches are chapters of one sprawling coastal epic. They reflect not only the geography of Greece but its philosophy: to live with balance, to honor the land, and to enjoy the body under the sun. The dichotomies we see – solitude and community, rough trails and paved roads, barefoot living and lavish amenities, ancient traditions and modern revelry, untouched beauty and human artifice – are not contradictions but conversations. Standing on any of these sands, one can sense them all, washed by the same waves of the Aegean and Ionian Sea.
Each beach tells its story, yet together they form a mosaic of the naturist experience. Whether you seek a silent sanctuary, a festive escape, or something in between, Greece’s nude beaches await with open arms. And as you tread their shores – with toes in the unique sand, under endless sky – you become part of that story, walking at the intersection of nature’s majesty and human spirit.
In describing them, we draw on the light in the water, the shape of the coastline, and even memories of past visitors to paint a sensory portrait of each cove. Each of these beaches has its own personality – from hippie-era nostalgia to modern party culture, from private meditation to gentle family outings – yet all share the same Hellenic spirit of freedom and acceptance. Join us as we wander these coves: padding over warm sand and cool pebbles, listening for the murmur of waves, and soaking in the openness of sky and sea that only Greece can offer.
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From the hillside trail above, Red Beach reveals itself as a half-moon of rust-colored sand hugged by honey-hued limestone cliffs. The narrow inlet of Kokkíni Ámmos (Greek for “red sand”) feels almost enchanted; its ochre hue comes from the crumbling claystone bluffs flanking it. A visitor’s footsteps sink slightly into the warm sand, which contrasts vividly with the translucent, teal Mediterranean lapping its edge.
Temperatures climb with the sun, and by afternoon the rocks glow as if lit from within. A quiet hush reigns here – clipped only by seabirds and the distant swoosh of a boat engine – that makes even the simple act of sunbathing feel like a private ritual.
At Red Beach, naturism dates back decades. In the 1960s and ’70s, Matala’s hippie enclave made the area famous, and to this day the northern half of the beach is widely recognized as naturist-friendly. The sense of history is palpable. High on the limestone face behind the sand are carved reliefs – a reclining hippo (“Anubis”) and other figures – hewn by a Belgian sculptor named Gerard in the latter 20th century.
These whimsical carvings sit alongside ancient Minoan caves and 20th-century graffiti, layering human presence through time. Peering upward from your towel to see the grainy rock art and weathered sandstone, you remember that Greeks have long celebrated sun and sea.
Access keeps Red Beach feeling remote. There is no vehicle road to this cove; one typically follows a footpath north from the village of Matala. A rugged thirty-minute hike threads over low ridges and stones. By the time you descend the final stair-like steps to the sand, the remoteness has already stripped away city grime and self-consciousness alike. Because it is isolated, the beach remains largely unspoiled – the craggy backdrop is protected Natura 2000 habitat.
There are no lifeguards or parking lots, only a tiny stone-built kiosk at the northern cliff foot that opens seasonally. One guide emphasizes that Red Beach is “not well organized,” with just “a few umbrellas” for cover. Visitors typically camp their own mats in the shade of tamarisk trees or set up small windbreaks and umbrellas they carry in.
With few crowds, the atmosphere is contemplative. Listening to the bleat of wind and the surf, it’s easy to forget conformity; the Cretans’ unofficial motto might well be philoxenia (“friendship to strangers”) in reverse – here, strangers need no table linen.
By late afternoon, the sun lowers behind the western promontory, and the sky turns pink over the cliffs. The golden light on the rust-red sand and green-blue sea is one of those moments travelers frame in memory. As the beach’s caretakers often note, there is no “official nude” sign or rule – just a tacit understanding and a tradition carried on by generations of sun-worshippers.
In this walled cove of Crete, the body and the elements are one, and the simple joy of a silent sunset feels profound.
Along the western shore of Naxos, Plaka Beach stretches for kilometers in a wide, unbroken arc of pale cream sand, kissed by gentle emerald waves. The first sight of Plaka is almost vertiginous: a broad swath of dunes rolling into the sea, framed by low dunes and scrub. In morning light the sand smells warm and clean, and the only break in the horizon is where Agios Prokopios and Agia Anna beaches begin. The expanse feels generous – it accommodates sunbathers as far as the eye can see.
By high summer, the beach is dotted with cafes and straw umbrellas clustered toward the center, while families lounge on soft towels near the waterline. But head for the far southern end of this 4-kilometer shore, and you reach pockets of true naturist peace.
Local guides note that Plaka “used to be just a nudists’ beach,” though in recent years it has become very popular with all kinds of travelers. Still, if you walk toward Agios Prokopios or wander well past the last lifeguard, you will encounter the faithful naturists: often sun-seekers who come in late spring and early fall when the weather is fine but crowds are thinner. On those quieter days, fully nude sunbathing is common in the dunes toward the south.
In peak summer, nudists congregate discreetly on that end of Plaka, politely out of the mainstream flow of families with children. Umbrellas and loungers do not cover the entire shore, so there is always sand left unclaimed for those who prefer it au naturel.
Geographically, Plaka is accessible by a rough dirt road from Naxos Town (with buses running in season). Despite the easy reach, the dune ecosystem feels windswept and wild. In fact, the beach is known for occasional strong northwest breezes. On a gusty day, the warm air picks up sediment and curves around your arms and legs – a tactile reminder of the Cycladic elements.
Off-season, even a gentle afternoon breeze can carry the scent of sea grapes and wild thyme from the hinterland. The southern horizon often simmers with a heat-haze over Paros, which adds a lunar mirage to the far edges of the water, until a cool dip reveals the true jade color of the Aegean.
Amenities on Plaka are a mix of local and tourist styles. Beach tavernas with striped umbrellas and bougainvillea decks serve moussaka and fresh kalamari to both clothed and unclothed diners. Small cafes set up beach bars at midday, offering chilled Mythos beers and ice-cold water – often delivered on trays to your lounge chair on the sand.
A handful of simple pensions and villas nestle amidst the hills, so naturist travelers can stay nearby. Yet despite facilities, Plaka never feels pretentious: fisherman’s nets hang under pergolas, and a stray dog may sun himself by the shallows.
At sunset, the panorama is mirror-like: Paros’s silhouette to the west, the sky lifting in pastels, and the silhouette of Naxians strolling along with sandals in hand. In short, Plaka combines the ease of a well-known beach with the freedom of a quiet cove. Its length means one person’s party can coexist with another’s solitude.
The result is a uniquely inclusive atmosphere – one where a family lunching on grilled feta and someone quietly reading in the sun may share a name for the sand, just as they share the light.
Mykonos’s southern coast is dotted with idyllic beaches, but none match Elia’s scale and tranquility. Whitewashed villas cling to the hillside above, and the bay unfolds in a gentle crescent below. Bright blue waves lap the wide strip of pale golden sand, which slopes slowly into shallow, clear water – warm and calm enough for children to paddle safely.
The scene is polished but not clinical: thatched sunshades in neat rows hint at comfort, yet the untouched bit of sand to the right is left bare for traditionalists. In the afternoon sun, the warmth on the skin feels like a slow embrace; in the morning shade, the first sip of ouzo in sand-softened silence reminds you of Greek small pleasures.
Perhaps because of its vastness, Elia has become known as Mykonos’s “gay beach,” favored by LGBTQ+ travelers. Discreet rainbow flags flutter in the gentlest breeze, and sympathetic smiles are as common as the whisper of waves. On that sandy strip, the mood is relaxed and quietly jubilant: men in board shorts chat under umbrellas, couples in bright swimwear share a picnic, and a few families stroll by.
The character of Elia is shaped by geography and etiquette alike. The beach is bookended by rocky headlands, providing natural windbreak on all but the strongest meltemi days. The shallow depth of the water lets the turquoise glow beneath your skin spread like a slow sunrise.
From any spot on the sand, you see rolling hills dotted with tidy Cycladic houses climbing away from the sea. Shaded tamarisk trees on the flanks offer a little respite for picnickers. Despite development, the soundscape remains serene: waves make a continuous, low hum, and only the soft roar of distant engines marks passing boats.
Getting to Elia is straightforward: a public bus winds down from Mykonos Town in about 25 minutes, and a good paved road leads from the Chora into the sands. On-site, the services are high-quality: Elia Beach Resort and Cova Mykonos lie just steps from the water, and a scattering of beachfront bars supply loukoumades and fresh salads until sunset.
Yet these conveniences never feel overbearing. Part of Elia’s charm is that no one seems to mind being in the buff if that’s one’s preference. Conversations in Greek, English, and other tongues glide over the clink of ice in cocktail glasses, punctuated by warm laughter – whether someone is in a swimsuit or not.
In all, Elia carries the easy confidence of Mykonians: pride in their beautiful bay, and a de facto acceptance that others will enjoy it as they like. Here, amid turquoise calm and gentle hillside air, any notion of exposure feels as natural as the sunshine above.
By contrast, barely two kilometers south lies a very different scene. Paradise Beach is a name inextricably linked to parties – the neon glow of beach clubs, dense crowds, and high-energy music. Its sand is warm and wide but often stepping onto it feels like entering a festival.
The main shoreline is backed by palms and bars, with reggae or house music pulsing from 11am till dark. In midday heat, foam cannons and dancing crowds can rise five or six rows deep. By night, lanterns and strobes paint the sky.
Yet even here naturism has a storied place: Paradise Beach Club itself boasts a heritage as once a low-key nudist beach, now famed as a global party venue. Despite the bass and backpacks, a visitor will notice that a vestige of the old relaxation-oriented Paradise beach lies off to the edges. Walk far east (past the parking area and over a little promontory), and the noise fades until only the lapping sea remains.
There, on the far side, clusters of early-arrival sunbathers light up cigars and recline with minimal attire. It’s not advertised – indeed, much of Paradise’s official marketing is about VIP tables and DJs – but the silent understanding is that privacy just means moving beyond the main scene.
The beach itself is striking: fine, pale sand backed by low stone cliffs, overlooking deep blue water to the south. Off-peak hours bring a quiet splendor: the sea takes on glassy clarity at dawn, and stray cats forage near the dunes while the first light gilds the hills.
A cooling meltemi breeze blows gently from the northwest, keeping the temperature bearable even under the peak sun. At the cliff-top footpath, a scent of pine and fennel drifts down. All around, the terrain is rugged – adding a hint of wildness to the scene, even amid the chairs and cocktail menus.
Paradise Beach Club provides basic amenities right on the sand – umbrellas, charging music, even ferry pick-up – but far from the center the vibe is bohemian rather than resort-luxe. Bring your own snacks and swim gear; there are no hidden towel checkers.
Locals are used to the mix of tourists and vacationers: sometimes they sally forth in swimsuits to party, and sometimes in breeze-kissed freedom to admire the long view of the Aegean.
By late afternoon, when the club revs up for evening revelry, a curtain of violet dusk falls over those on the fringe. And as a restless moon rises, its shimmering ribbon in the water seems to promise that here, on Greece’s southern edge, there is both hedonism and sanctuary—depending entirely on which way you walk along the sand.
Beyond the Cyclades, on the Ionian island of Corfu, Mirtiotissa Beach offers the opposite end of the spectrum: utter seclusion. There are no beach bars or sunbeds here – only a tiny pocket of sand guarded by towering rock walls. This emerald-bathed cove, between the villages of Pelekas and Vatos, is reachable by a narrow goat-path threading through olive groves. Descending the final steep switchbacks, the first glimpse is striking: a small yellow ribbon of sand crowned by waving pine trees, with the open sea on the far side glowing in transparent jade. The sense of isolation is immediate. Even at midday in summer, you might count the bathing suits (or lack thereof) on one hand.
In fact, Mirtiotissa holds a special place in Greek naturist lore: it has been a haven for nudism since the 1960s. That history of acceptance predates most others in Greece. Naturalist Gerald Durrell even described it as “the most beautiful beach on Earth,” a high praise borne out by a silence as absolute as the beauty that surrounds you. Today, the beach still feels like a well-kept secret, as if the dense cypress-scented thickets and out-of-view valley ruses have kept it hidden by design. Unlike the famous Ionian resorts, there are no bus tours, no loudspeakers. Just a handful of daring souls and the sound of a single, curved wave meeting the stones.
Physically, Mirtiotissa is all soft edges and texture. The sand and pebbles underfoot are fine and yielding, colored a mellow buff. Enormous limestone pillars flank the arms of the beach, fading from pale cream at the top to golden ochre by the waterline. Between the rocks, little pools form where the sea slips in; if you stir up a bit of silt, the water reveals a hidden family of tiny fishes darting away. Looking north, the sky opens to the mainland of Albania far on the horizon, its mountains a violet shadow. On clear days one can imagine ancient mariners rowing in the same bay.
Up close, a visitor might notice thoughtful human touches: a few carefully stacked cairns of beach stones placed by previous naturists, or a mesh backpack of clothes hung from a pine limb while its owner swims. These unspoken acts speak of trust and communal respect. There is nothing explicitly marking Mirtiotissa as nudist – no sign, no fence – yet everyone understands that clothing is surrendered here.
One recent report laments that the sand has been slowly washing away every year, so now perhaps a dozen people can fit where once it held four times as many. This slow drift of time underscores the beach’s fragility and, ironically, its rarity as a true free beach. Even so, on the day we visited, only a few sunbathers dotted the slope. Each found a private niche: someone beneath the sole pine tree; another on a flat slab that caught the afternoon sun; two lovers treading carefully in the clear shallows.
The light in Corfu is gentler than in Mykonos – warm and honeyed rather than fiery – and this translates to the mood. Here one moves unhurriedly. Toward evening, the western cliffs glow rose gold, and voices lower to a whisper so as not to disturb the gulls. Visitors leave carrying with them a kind of reverent calm, as though the sea has shared a quiet confidence.
Agios Ioannis (Saint John) lies on Gavdos, the tiny island 79 km south of Crete that is Europe’s southernmost inhabited point. The beach sits about 4 km west of Sarakiniko (the island’s main harbor bay). In summer, daily ferries from Chora Sfakion (Crete) land at the port of Karave on Gavdos; in the off-season, service is infrequent. From Karave one takes the local “pasokaki” minibus toward Sarakiniko, disembarking at a junction for Agios Ioannis.
It’s also possible to hike from Sarakiniko along dirt tracks (about one hour’s walk). The road is rough, so travel by 4×4 is common. In spring and autumn, a few supply boats run to Gavdos but travelers must check schedules carefully. Gavdos is “largely unspoiled” and has only a handful of shops and one ATM, so visitors are advised to carry cash and supplies when venturing to its beaches (the bus and many tavernas still take only cash).
Agios Ioannis Beach is a sweeping, dune-backed cove. An unbroken belt of sand extends from hillside to sea, flanked by low rocky outcrops and a dense thicket of juniper trees. Early explorers likened the landscape to an “African-looking” desert (Discovery Channel even ranked Agios Ioannis world’s second-best beach). The sand is fine and pale, forming a wide gently sloping strand. In late afternoon light the beach’s long curves and bleached dunes take on a warm glow.
The sea here is very clear and shallow out from shore. Unlike Gavdos’s pebbly beaches, the bottom is mostly sand, so swimmers can wade out easily – though the sun heats it quickly in summer. Behind the sand rise rolling dunes dotted with short pines and the rounded Juniperus macrocarpa (“kedrodasos” or cedarwood) for which the area is ecologically famous. Vegetation is otherwise sparse, with wild thyme and sage-scrub. In short, Agios Ioannis feels wild and elemental: just sand, sky, and sparse greenery stretching to sea.
Culturally, Agios Ioannis continues Gavdos’s free-spirited tradition. Beyond Sarakiniko (where nude sunbathing was formally banned recently), “nudity is allowed everywhere else” on Gavdos. In practice most beachgoers on Gavdos expect to undress in privacy. One traveler reports that outside the peak weeks of August, 80–90% of visitors on remote Gavdos beaches are nude. Even in high summer, many still strip down once past the first fold of sand. Agios Ioannis sees a more mixed crowd in August (families and textiles come from nearer resorts), but even then naturists “camp in tents under the trees” behind the beach. The overall vibe is “post-hippie” and inclusive – a diverse mix of young Greeks, alternate lifestyles, LGBT visitors, and adventurous tourists.
A few hillside shacks and canvas tents dot the back dunes, where people gather at dusk to cook, share music, and enjoy the big western sunset over the Libyan Sea. (Indeed, from Agios Ioannis one can hike west up to Trypiti and witness spectacular sunsets atop the famed “Chair of Gavdos” rocks.) Local legend holds that Gavdos’s mayor has long defended the island’s naturist reputation, famously ruling in 1992 that nudism and free camping were allowed on Gavdos in spite of mainland laws. In short, Agios Ioannis feels like a place set aside for personal freedom, where Caribbean-blue waters and prayerful silence evoke an “almost sacred” quality.
Seasonally, Agios Ioannis is best visited late spring through early autumn. The season typically opens around Easter – by mid-April the first tavernas (e.g. the Livykon taverna at the beach) reopen. April–June and late September offer warm sun with few crowds. By July and August the local hotels and camps fill, but even at peak the crowds here are modest compared to mainland beaches.
In summer months the morning is tranquil, the sun intense by noon, and often a cooling northerly (“meltemi”) breeze freshens the afternoon. Evenings are warm and long: people stay to dine at sunset on the sand or gather around campfires as the horizon turns pink. By October, rain becomes frequent and bars close; the island quiets to a few hardy souls. Water temperatures peak around 25–26°C in August and remain warm well into September.
Facilities at Agios Ioannis are minimal. The beach is entirely unorganized, with only one small tavern/mini-market (Livykon) set on the dunes just behind the sand. Livykon offers shade, cold drinks and simple Greek fare (grilled fish, salads, mezedes) and rents sunbeds and umbrellas. Beyond the tavern there are no facilities on the sand – no showers, toilets, or lifeguards – so visitors should arrive prepared (pack drinking water, snacks, sun protection). The local bus stops near Livykon but typically only takes cash (there are no ticket machines on board).
The nearest groceries and more restaurants are back in Sarakiniko or in Kastri (north of the island); there is no petrol station on Gavdos, so drivers must fill up on Crete first. As elsewhere on Gavdos, free beach camping is officially permitted, so many naturists pitch light tents behind the dunes or under the cedars. (Caution: with very few trash bins, it’s essential to pack out all rubbish to preserve the fragile ecology.)
For lodging, most visitors stay in Gavdos’s small villages (Kastri, Vatsiana, Korfos) or camp. Kastri (5 km north) has a year-round family-run “Princess” hotel and a cluster of rooms and studios. Vatsiana and Korfos each have a few apartments. There is no hotel at Agios Ioannis itself, though several wooden cabins and bungalow tents are hidden in the juniper grove. Princess Hotel Kastri and Sarakiniko’s guesthouses usually fill by mid-summer, so naturists often reserve early or plan to camp. In recent years Gavdos’s reputation has drawn younger travelers especially, and Skaramagas (a left-bank resort complex) has opened some seasonal rooms catering to eco-tourists. However, the truly adventurous still prefer to sleep under the stars – Gavdos is one of the few Greek islands known for legally tolerant free camping.
Beyond relaxation, Agios Ioannis also offers minor historical interest: it is named for a small hilltop chapel of St. John, and ancient cisterns and Roman ruins lie scattered among the dunes. Naturalists note that above the beach lies the protected Kedrodasos juniper grove. In short, Agios Ioannis delivers a barefoot sensory experience – warm sand, pine resin aroma, and the emotional ease of being unencumbered – set in a landscape of quiet grandeur.
The approach to Chalikiada Beach (Agistri) is as rugged as the cove itself. On the east side of Agistri island, near the village of Skala, an overgrown dirt track winds through a pine forest and red-ochre cliffs. After about 3 km by car or ATV (turn off at Megalochori toward Skliri), one reaches the Skliri settlement. From there the road ends, and a 500-meter footpath through shady pines leads down to Chalikiada’s bay. To reach it, you need to climb down a steep cliff, so make sure you wear the right shoes. Indeed the final descent is rugged – loose stones, carved steps, or even rope handholds – but once on the pebbly beach the effort feels rewarded by the seclusion.
Chalikiada’s physical setting is dramatic. The beach itself is narrow and curved, made of smooth white pebbles and a few patches of coarse sand at the shallows. Cliffs of orange-pink limestone rise steeply on the southern end, their rock faces streaked with pine roots. Across the cove, slopes of green pine and maquis descend to the water. The sea here is astonishingly clear, with hues of emerald and cerulean glass at the shallows. In calm weather the water is mirror-flat; in stronger winds a gentle chop breaks quietly on the stones. Entry is via sand and small pebbles, gradually deepening – waters at the beginning are shallow and after 5 meters they become deep. Beneath the surface lie larger rocks and outcrops, so swimmers should watch their feet on the way out.
Culturally, Chalikiada is Agistri’s only recognized naturist beach. Locals have long accepted it as a free zone: the beach offers a “relaxed, free, kind of hippy environment,” frequented by sunbathers both “with and without swimwear.” In practice you will find young and old enjoying topless and nude bathing, and indeed tents pitched for overnighters on summer nights. The informal vibe is relaxed: people describe the atmosphere as communal and unpretentious. By day Chalikiada attracts Greek naturist groups, foreign backpackers, and bohemians who relish its hidden character. There is no on-site lifeguard or patrol, but the cove’s remote nature (and the presence of other sunbathers) tends to keep everyone respectful.
In season (June–September), Chalikiada has a quiet daily rhythm. The beach usually empties by late morning and refills in early afternoon; late afternoon light makes the turquoise water glow against the red cliffs. Within minutes after the last sunbather departs, a pure silence falls on the cove until the next day’s return. Crowds never build here as they do on Agistri’s organized shores. The only notable summer visitors are a few hillside hikers or boaters who stray from neighboring Skala. Outside July and August even these daytrippers are scarce; in spring and autumn the place may see only footprints on the sand, and picnic tables remain undisturbed.
Importantly, Chalikiada has no facilities of its own. There are no sunbeds or umbrellas, and certainly no shops or toilets. A few low, rudimentary caravan kiosks may sell cold water or ice cream, but for all practical purposes the beach is “unorganized.” Visitors are advised to bring everything they need – including food, drink, shade, and walking shoes. A handy trick: after filling coolers or buckets at the cove, keep them half-buried in sand to stay chilled. At sunset, some naturists sometimes enjoy al fresco dinners on the rocks; others trek back to Skala for meals.
Nearby, limited amenities can be found. The forested hamlet of Skliri (a few minutes uphill) has a cluster of private rooms and one small tavern (the “Hook Club”) built on a rocky islet. Skliri’s café-bar serves lunch and drinks with ocean views, though it closes by late afternoon. Back in Skala village (3 km north), dozens of tavernas, mini-markets, and pension-style rooms cater to all budgets. Most naturists at Chalikiada stay in Skala (or rustic Megalochori village) and make a day of the beach. Note that officially camping on Agistri is not permitted (a 2014 law banished it), so overnight stays are in inland accommodations rather than beach tents.
A typical day at Chalikiada might begin with breakfast in Skala, followed by the mountain drive to the trailhead. After scrambling down into the cove, one spends the day swimming off a rocky ledge, sunning on a smooth boulder, and gazing up at wild flowers on the cliff top. The only sound is the surf and birdsong. In late afternoon, the return uphill is rewarded by a golden sunset over Saronic bay. Those staying the night might dine on grilled fish or pistachio-laced mezze in Skala, then sleep to the lullaby of cicadas.
On Lesbos’s southwestern shore lies the coastal village of Skala Eressos – famed as the birthplace of poet Sappho. Its long shorefront is widely regarded as the island’s premier naturist beach. Skala Eressos sits roughly 60 km west of Mytilene (the island capital). The easiest access is by road: from Mytilene airport or port one drives along serpentine mountain roads through forests, a journey of about 2 hours.
The island’s KTEL bus also serves Eressos several times a day, though schedules vary by season. (Ferries connect Athens with Mytilene; small local ports also receive boats from Kavala or Samothrace.) The name “Skala” means the lower landing by the sea, distinguishing it from the inland mountain village of Eressos above.
Skala Eressos Beach is a broad, gently curving bay over 2–3 km long. The sand is coarse and greyish in places, interspersed with smoother golden grains. Backed by a low pine-clad dune on one side and a pedestrian promenade lined with cafes on the other, the beach transitions from organized resort at its east end to a wilder naturist zone farther west. The water here is remarkably clean – a testament to limited development – and especially clear in the morning.
A freshwater runoff (almost a dried riverbed) intersects the middle of the beach, creating a brackish lagoon in which striped terrapin turtles often bask. This little streambed is a well-known local feature: naturists typically head past it to the far west section if they wish to bathe nude. Both ends have easy sloping entry, but it’s the riverbank end where the naturist flag flies.
The social character of Skala Eressos is as notable as its beach. The resort is legendary for its LGBT-friendly, women-centered ambiance. Since the 1980s it has been a magnet for lesbian and feminist travelers. Today one may see every variety of sunbathing preference. The beach is especially “popular with lesbian visitors” partly because of the Sappho legacy. Indeed, every September the International Eressos Women’s Festival fills the village with thousands of participants. Beyond that, the beach attracts cruisers of all sorts – “hippies, LGBTQ couples, alternative families, and many international naturists” – drawn by a general ethos of acceptance.
In practice, nude sunbathing is completely commonplace: one guide says it’s the norm west of the stream, and that beachgoers “leave the boardwalk and walk north along the beach until… you enter naturist country.” There is no security or policing of clothing, but long-time visitors note a culture of consent and respect. Parents with young children do sometimes stroll in the dress-optional zone, but even families report that the sparse bustle rarely causes tension here (for example, staging of private Sappho playlets or performances has become part of the campy local color).
Practically, Skala Eressos offers quite a bit in amenities. The western two-thirds of the beach are sparsely furnished: sundowners may find a few umbrella-shaded loungers for rent near the promenade, but many naturists simply lay towels on the sand. There is a small beach snack bar and a watersports shack near the river outfall. To the east, the beach turns into the Aeolian Village Beach Resort area, with full-service cafes, sunbed lines, showers, and beachfront dining.
The wide boardwalk here hosts dozens of tavernas and bars, so no traveler goes hungry: offerings range from Greek meze and seafood to frozen yogurt and vegan wraps. Notably, one may rent sunbeds and umbrellas from private crews or eat at beach kiosks without moving far. However, to maintain a naturist-friendly aura, many visitors simply pick a quiet spot with ample space and recline on towels. The sea easily meets EU standards of cleanliness, and lifeguards patrol during peak summer.
Daily rhythm on Skala Eressos feels easygoing. On a typical summer day, the beach awakens around 9 am as cafés stir and gentle heat returns; by noon the sand is warm. Thermals and sea breezes vary, but the town is generally less windy than northern Lesbos due to sheltering hills. In mid-afternoon the light softens – this is a good time for a long dip or a seaside nap.
The western end often empties as visitors wander the promenade for ice cream or small shopping. Sunset is glorious over the hills to the west (opposite famed sunset at Molyvos on the north coast) – the western end of the beach slopes to a panoramic viewpoint atop small dunes. Every evening locals and foreigners alike gather for communal music jam sessions or spontaneous dance beside the port.
In terms of seasons, Skala Eressos mirrors much of the Aegean. The high season is July and August, when Lesbos sees an influx of Europeans and Greeks. During these months the beach is lively but never extremely crowded – the resort area provides organized space, and the naturist zone remains spacious. Outside midsummer, visitor numbers drop sharply.
By September and early October, the Women’s Festival swells attendance briefly, but then activity slows. Spring (May–June) is delightful: wildflowers carpet the dunes, and the first tavernas reopen with fresh salads and ouzo. Winter (Nov–Mar) sees most businesses closed and no one on the beach, save perhaps hardy locals. The sea stays swimmable (18–22°C) through late October before cooling.
Accommodation in Skala Eressos ranges widely. At the east end lies the Aeolian Village Resort (luxury apartments with spa), and a women-only guesthouse “Sappho House” nearby. Scattered along the shore are mid-range hotels like Fenareti Apartments, Ilaires Studios, and family-run pensions. A few boutique stays cater to the festival crowd (e.g. Sappho Hotel). West of the river, lodgings tend to be smaller rooms and hostels. Foreign visitors often opt for long-stay apartments or eco-campsites a bit inland. Overall, however, most naturist beach-goers simply walk from their hotel or villa. Public transit within the village is unnecessary – the main harbor, shops, and restaurants are all within a 1 km stretch.
Beyond sunbathing, Skala Eressos has notable attractions. Within walking distance on the bluff above is the town of Eressos (ancient Eresos), where Sappho’s ruins lie among olive groves. Inland, the Petrified Forest of Lesvos (a UNESCO Geopark) is a remarkable site of fossilized trees, just a short drive south. Hikers can also explore nearby trails up to Mt. Ypsilou for sweeping island views. But most visitors choose Skala for its easygoing village life: a cheap morning espresso, a lazy afternoon by the tide, and communal music by night.
As one local guide puts it, Eressos offers “a fine beach and small working harbour, and the sea is good for swimming and snorkeling” – while adding, in a wink, that it is a very safe place to bask in the nude if you wish.
Mandomata is Rhodes’s lone official nudist beach, tucked into a tiny bay just south of Faliraki village on the island’s east coast. Faliraki (10 km south of Rhodes Town) is a major resort center with buses, car rental, and nightlife. Visitors reach Mandomata either on foot or by car. On foot, one walks from Faliraki’s harbor (the main beach), following a narrow footpath from Kathara Beach around the headland. This trail is only about 200 meters long – a quick scramble past rocks and shrubs leads to the sandy curve of Mandomata.
By car or scooter, one can also drive from Faliraki along the eastern coastal road. Road signs mark a turnoff onto a dirt track that descends to a small gravel parking lot right behind the beach. (Note: the final access road is narrow and one-way; larger vehicles should park just above and walk down.) The distance from Faliraki’s main beach is about 1.6 km, so the walk from any Faliraki hotel is short.
Physically, Mandomata is a sheltered cove of fine pale sand mixed with small pebbles. It is quite small – only a few hundred meters from rock head to rock head. The bay is hugged by rust-colored sandstone cliffs streaked with lichens and sparse vegetation. The coastal floor is uneven: coarse sand transitions to patches of rock and pebbles a few meters offshore. Bathers should wade carefully or wear water shoes, as submerged stones can be slippery.
In practice most people stay in waist-deep water or near the shore where the sand is soft. The sea color is a transparent turquoise; at midday the sun makes it especially clear. Because the bay is encircled by hills, waves are usually minimal – even when the Aegean blows, Mandomata’s calm remains reasonable. Early and late in summer the water is wonderfully warm (up to ~28°C), and there is little seaweed. Further outdoors, small fish and occasional starfish inhabit the shallow nearshore.
Mandomata’s social context is defined by its status as Rhodes’s only sanctioned nudist beach. The Municipality of Rhodes designates this cove as a naturist zone, meaning nudity is explicitly tolerated here. The result is that the beach has a distinctly beach-club feel – “organized” comfort without the kitsch of commercial FKK resorts. In practical terms, many locals from Faliraki and visitors from Rhodes know Mandomata as “Diamandos Beach”, after the small tavern on site. By 10 a.m. the tiny parking lot and beachfront parking fill with cars and scooters bearing sunbathers.
Yet Mandomata never becomes sardine-packed: guides note that even on busy days the crowd is average, not extreme. The mix is broad: middle-aged couples, families with older kids, and older nudists. During peak season (mid-July to mid-August) the beach is lively but civil. Because it is well-known among naturists, visitors from Europe, Israel, and elsewhere seek it out. The ethos is polite – most people politely keep a respectful distance unless lounging side by side, but there is no hostility or ostentation.
Modern signage and facilities give Mandomata a comfort level unusual for a nude beach. At the path entrance and at the parking area there are restroom/toilet units and fresh-water showers. On the sand itself one rents aluminum parasols and cushioned sunbeds from two or three vendors. (These are available for a few euros each; they help draw a clear line between the “organized” zone and more free sections at the ends of the beach.) The central amenity is Diamandos’s Cuisine, a sunlit tavern at the curve of the bay. Operated by a local family, Diamandos serves seafood platters, grilled meats, salads, and soft drinks – exactly the classic Greek mealtime one needs after sunbathing. Families will find it convenient (a child’s portion of grilled fish or pastitsio, or fresh yogurt and fruit).
Next to the tavern is a kiosk that sells bottled water, beer, ice cream, and snorkeling masks. All in all, one rarely has to leave the beach for food or basic needs: there are showers and toilets at the back of the tavern, and the Diamandos menu covers lunch and snacks. Around midday the tavern terrace fills with diners listening to sea breezes and the tinkle of plates. Those unwilling to dine on sand might return to Faliraki’s many eateries or pack sandwiches.
In the afternoons, with the large umbrellas rented out, some prefer to sprawl on towels under the pine trees behind the parking lot (small pebbles, but free shade). Late afternoon is special: the sun, now low in the west, bathes the sandstone hills in golden light. Some energetic guests climb one of the bluff tracks above Mandomata to watch the sunset over the Faliraki hills and distant Rhodes City. By dusk the paragliders sometimes drift over the bay.
When it comes to seasonality, Mandomata beach follows Rhodes’s pattern. The high season is June–September, with July and August at peak. During these months, the ambient temperature regularly exceeds 30°C and the nudist beach is open daily (though Diamandos’s hours can be shorter in early June and late September). Shoulder seasons (May, early June, and late September) are pleasantly warm but less crowded; by May the sea is swim-able and spring wildflowers dot the hills. Outside May–mid-Oct, the beach is quiet: most years Diamandos closes for the winter by late October. (Unlike Gavdos, Rhodes shuts down quickly after tourist season.) Rain is rare until late November, so one could conceivably have a deserted Mandomata on a warm, windy off-season day – though few do in late fall.
Almost everyone who visits Mandomata stays in Faliraki or nearby. The large hotels of Faliraki (e.g. Paradise Village, Mitsis) are a short drive away. For boutique or mid-range stays, Faliraki has dozens of apartments and small hotels (Moscha Hotel, Kouros Suites, Kouros Village) within 1–2 km. Alternatively, the hamlet of Kathara (just above the beach) contains several villas and studios targeting beachgoers. Some naturist groups form caravans, but official camping is not available here.
Notably, Mandomata lies amidst a wealth of Rhodes attractions. A short walk leads to the larger Kathara Beach, another family resort bay. The historic acropolis of Faliraki (hilltop ruins of ancient city walls) overlooks the town and is reachable by a wooded path. Parasailing and boat-tours operate from Faliraki harbor, which itself comes alive at night. But for a naturist, Mandomata is a retreat from the party scene – a bit of privacy protected by law.
On the northwest corner of Skiathos Island lies Little Banana Beach, the island’s de facto naturist shore. (Big Banana Beach, immediately adjacent, is now textile-only.) Little Banana sits roughly 5 km from Skiathos Town near the settlement of Achladies. To get there, one takes the blue public bus (#5 and #6 routes) heading west from the main town toward Achladies/Big Banana (line “Βαθιά Λουάδα–Αχλαδιές”). The final stop (No.26) is at the end of the road.
From stop 26 walk up a short concrete lane toward a kiosk and a junction; then take the narrow footpath uphill and around the hilltop. After about 200 meters more, the path swings along the ridge and then descends. Dropping off to the right (north) brings you over rocks and down to Little Banana’s sands. In summer, local taxi-quads (ATVs) sometimes offer rides to the start of this trail. Alternatively, adventurous hikers can continue a rugged coastal path around Big Banana’s point. In any case, the natural setting is worth the trek.
Little Banana’s physical charm is in its simplicity. The beach is a gentle bay of fine golden sand, only a few tens of meters across between rocky headlands. A necklace of pitched white umbrellas (many rented out by vendors) dots the sand, but between them the grassy patches and barefoot towels show it remains low-key. Behind the sand, clusters of umbrella pines rise in the grove – these are the “swaths of pines” that Lonely Planet praises.
Unlike the busier Big Banana, Little Banana’s backshore is unbuilt – only scrub, olive trees, and the sporadic pine. The water here is remarkably transparent and shallow at the edge, deepening to turquoise. The sand is “white-gold” and indeed the beach shines under the midday sun. A shallow, even ocean floor makes wading easy. On any visit one notices the background scent of pine and the sound of waves lapping. (One slight drawback is a small seasonal beach drainage from the adjacent villa, which can cause a thin trickle near the rocks. Otherwise the water is clean and suitable for swimming and snorkeling.)
Culturally, Little Banana is essentially a naturist enclave. It has been the island’s lone unofficial nude beach for decades. Guides note that it is “almost exclusively naturist” – seldom will you see another visitor in a swimsuit. The few “inhibited individuals” do arrive now and then (usually Greek families who lie toward one end), but these are a small minority. In August even foreigners on charter trips may alight on Big Banana and amble over to Little Banana, but most are respectful of the clothing-optional section. Locals treat the cove as a private nook: everyone uses the marked trail, and beachgoers generally mingle at a respectful distance.
As one naturist reviewer notes, even when a 40-person charter boat dropped tourists at the beach, there was “enough space for everyone” to spread out on towels. In practice, nudity feels normal and comfortable here. This acceptance is partly due to the island’s cosmopolitan beach culture and partly because Little Banana is relatively hidden from the larger population, which tends to congregate in busy resorts.
Seasonally, Little Banana’s popularity follows Skiathos’s tourism peaks. From mid-June through August the small parking is full by mid-morning, and many day-trippers (including numerous Europeans) visit. Even so, this beach rarely feels overcrowded due to its compact size and dense shade trees. After the charter boats depart (often around midday), the crowd thins as snorkelers and families drift away, leaving naturists to reclaim quiet spots. Locals warn that the path can be slippery when wet, so early morning or immediately after rain one should be cautious.
By late afternoon the light softens and the western view of the channel to Skopelos is lovely, though the real sunset happens behind the beach. Outside summer, Little Banana is blissfully quiet: in May and September it is mostly empty, visited only by intrepid hikers or late-season Greek campers. (Be aware that construction for a new resort – the five-star ELIVI Skiathos – has begun on the edge of this cove. However, as of 2025 public foot access remains open via the old track.)
Facilities at Little Banana are extremely limited. There are a couple of low wooden sun umbrellas and some paid loungers, but no lifeguard or restroom. The sparsest amenity is Niko’s Beach Bar, a simple wooden shack that sells cold drinks, beer, and snacks. Open only in high summer, Niko’s is run by a friendly local family; it has a handful of tables overlooking the water. Early arrivers sometimes secure seats there, but the bar can run out of some items by late afternoon (it’s wise to bring bottled water and lunch fixings).
Aside from Niko’s kiosk, all facilities – supermarkets, bakeries and restaurants – are back in Skiathos Town (about 30 minutes away) or in the village of Achladies (3 km around the bay). The bus runs through the late afternoon, so daytrippers often take the bus back toward Skiathos with one last swim.
Accommodation: There is no lodging at the beach itself. The nearest stays are in Achladies (Big Banana area) or Skiathos Town. Achladies and Mandraki Village offer mid-range hotels just 5–10 minutes’ drive away. For naturists seeking on-site convenience, the Elivi Skiathos resort (opening soon) will have new rooms and a luxury spa by the water; but as a 5-star complex it caters more to hotel guests than casual beachgoers.
Most visitors opt for skiathos town hotels or the Achladies/Big Banana enclave of villas. Skiathos Town (Chora) has dozens of hotels and studios on the east side of the island; from there one can day-trip to Little Banana by bus or scooter. Camping (except at designated sites) is illegal, so picnic under the pines at Little Banana rather than pitching tents.
Like the others, Little Banana has some local lore. It is said that the bay was once rented by nudist clubs in the 1960s, giving it a long history of skinny-dipping. Today it’s featured on many LGBT travel lists due to Skiathos’s overall welcoming nature. On any given afternoon you might find a gay couple from northern Europe, a discreet local family, or a solo backpacker enjoying the solitude.
The mood here is friendly and unguarded: children sometimes paddle in the shallows while middle-aged couples read books nude under the trees. It is perhaps fitting that the only official restrictions one hears about involve “no photos” (locals prefer not to have tourists taking casual smartphone snaps of naked people). In all, Little Banana delivers the essentials: warm sand, clear water, pine fragrance, and the feeling of complete ease under the sky.
Greece is not a single coastline, but a chorus of them—each cove, cape, and curve of rock telling its own quiet story. On some of these shores, where the line between self and landscape softens, clothing fades from relevance. There, sun touches skin unmediated, wind moves freely over the body, and the sea, indifferent to modesty, invites all without pretense.
What began decades ago as an informal, often subversive act—hippies shedding swimsuits on forgotten beaches—has settled into a kind of cultural sidestream: tolerated, unspoken, enduring. Despite the legal technicality of a mere few officially designated naturist resorts, Greece’s practice reveals something else entirely. From Gavdos to Corfu, from Lesbos to Mykonos, there exists a parallel coastline—a barefoot, free-breathing Greece where bare skin and ancient sunlight coexist without ceremony.
These beaches, so different in temperament and terrain, reveal more than a pattern of tolerance. Agios Ioannis on Gavdos, for instance, holds a primeval quiet that seems older than language. Chalikiada on Agistri, fringed with pine and cliffs, feels like a secret you’re meant to keep. Skala Eressos whispers its Sapphic legacy through warm pebbles and lilting surf. Rhodes’s Mandomata, organized yet open-hearted, holds space for both first-timers and lifers. And Little Banana on Skiathos, cheeky and sun-drunk, dances with laughter and light. Each place carries its own rhythms, shaped as much by wind and tide as by the human stories folded into their sands.
Naturism here is not political or performative. It’s something quieter, more personal—an act of return. A return to body, to earth, to a form of presence too often forgotten in the clothed, scheduled, curated architecture of modern travel. That return doesn’t need to be named or claimed. It only asks for space. And in Greece, that space exists—not in lawbooks, but in the gentle arc of a crescent bay, or in the way an old fisherman on a nearby boat doesn’t look twice at a nude swimmer wading ashore.
There’s no universal ethos among the bare-skinned in Greece. Some come to unplug; others, to belong; still others, just to bronze evenly. But if there is a common thread, it’s not rebellion—it’s relief. A letting-go. A standing-still. As though, in this particular corner of the Mediterranean, people have remembered that the human body isn’t a spectacle but an element, as natural as seawater or sunburnt rock.
And that’s perhaps the quiet triumph of Greece’s unofficial naturist beaches: their ability to resist both commercialization and shame. They haven’t been overtaken by signs, slogans, or resorts designed to package freedom into something sellable. Most are unmarked, unguarded, and sometimes unclean. You’ll find no concierge to smooth your towel or schedule your self-discovery. Instead, you get dry grass on your feet, briny air in your nose, and the steady rhythm of waves brushing up against old stone.
It would be wrong to romanticize it too much. Not every beach is serene. Some are overcrowded in August; others strewn with litter, or shaded by awkward social dynamics between the clothed and unclothed. But even in their imperfections, they hold a kind of honesty that’s rare in travel today. These aren’t curated “experiences.” They’re simply places where people come to be. And that, in the end, is what makes them unforgettable.
In a world where so much is observed, scheduled, filtered, and enclosed, these beaches offer something ancient: unmediated being. They aren’t escapes, not exactly. They’re more like apertures—narrow, sunlit openings through which a person might feel, briefly, the original simplicity of being alive. Skin. Salt. Silence.
No ticket needed. Just the willingness to arrive without armor.
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