Zakynthos: then and now

“You just missed Chris Hoy. He was here leading cycle rides over the summer,” the Peligoni Club’s receptionist informed me breezily as he lugged my suitcase down the gravel path to my villa. Lively Greek music drifted on the (non-existent) breeze, thick air seeming to press down on us despite the late hour. 

I’d come to Zakynthos seeking some solo restoration — and sure, even self-improvement. I hadn’t pictured puffing up a rock-strewn hill behind a six-time Olympic gold-medal-winning medalist, in 90-degree heat. But that’s how they roll, here; this family-run, members-only beach club regularly flies in experts to add star quality to the pared-back, luxurious spaces. Usually it’s renowned chefs — Thomasina Miers, Jackson Boxer and Robin Gill have all cooked here. Whatever I opted in for, the experience promised to be quite different from my first visit to “Zante” at age seventeen (is it still binge-drinking if you’ve switched from Kamikazes to Krug?).

Almost twenty years ago, three friends and I would have squeezed into my cottage, Kostas 2, drawing straws for who’d share with the snorer. Having it to myself, the biggest drama would involve choosing whether to read on the outdoor sofa, or by my small private pool. 

No sooner had I’d opened my suitcase, and an almighty thunderstorm rolled in, setting the tone for my stay. I tore through my book until the sun peeked over the horizon, biblically heavy raindrops pounding the roof. Jumping up to sweep the water pooling under my front door, I felt fully at home. There’s something very charming about a place that doesn’t pretend to be perfect — especially when in truth, it comes pretty close. Both bedrooms were simple but comfy, and the outdoor living area would prove perfectly cozy when the skies cleared, stacked with new reads to keep me busy.

Raiding the fridge filled with pre-ordered treats from the Deli Kitchen, the club’s casual restaurant and shop just down the road, added to the fun. Throwing bananas and honey into a bowl of the best Greek yoghurt I’d ever tasted at 3 a.m. was about as rebellious as this trip would get — and I was more than happy with that fact.

Mornings moved to my rhythm — the first being very slow. Rising late to stroll the five minutes downhill to the club, I found a message board bearing the week’s exercise class schedule, plus various watersports and events. I’d missed a guided HIIT session in the gym, and early-morning Pilates, but tomorrow was another day. Brunch on the deck provided an opportunity to strike up friendships with some of the rotating cast of wellness practitioners touching down from the UK, France and beyond — most closer to me in age than the general clientele enjoying a multi-generational holiday with their kids and parents. 

The majority of the “set” appeared to hail from London, Chelsea to be precise, and I was glad I’d had the sense to pack my poshest beachwear. That said, the vibe was decidedly friendly — I got the feeling most people were regulars, who looked forward to returning all year. Young, enthusiastic staff were pleased to assist however they could; so much so that mom ’n’ pop needn’t come along as babysitters — wandering around the club’s sailing deck, dining spots and sunbathing areas, one thing became abundantly clear — adults were very much in vacation mode.

An all-encompassing kids club and baby crèche invites youngsters to dress up as pirates and run riot, learn to waterski or expend their energy at pool parties. I saw one child cry hysterically because it was time to go to bed. I was sure he’d be happy enough once he got home — Peligoni guests are sequestered across a diverse selection of houses and villas, ranging from rustic little boltholes like mine, to sprawling, hyper-modern hideaways up in the hills, as grand as private fortresses.

I don’t need to have kids of my own to know that this is exactly the type of yearly rehab stint I’d book if I did. One parent leaned over the coffee counter to share conspiratorially, “There’s in-villa babysitting… events for the kids… our oldest actually thought the disco was good. I’m drinking a lot more wine than I’d planned and I don’t mind one bit.” We talked about the club’s various plans for adults — PACE Wellness Week balances fitness and mindfulness with feasts and creative workshops, but I set my sights on the House Party for 2025. Every September a boutique festival is packed with wine tastings, DJ sets, makeup workshops and spa treatments. “Kids club for grown-ups,” she said. I reckon I’d cry when I had to leave, too.

Blessed with more spare time than she knew what to do with, said mum kindly gave me the tour, showing off the tennis courts and small open-air gym, before extolling the virtues of the ice cream parlor staff. “Big scoops. Very generous. I’ve already had one today.” Stopping to chat with other already familiar-looking guests, it became obvious that “the Peli” is a place where family traditions begin, and are continued. There’s a thoroughly laidback, barefoot vibe, with small groups gathering to play board games and catch up across lounge areas shaded by trees and rattan ceilings. 

It wasn’t long before I was invited along to explore the area’s famed Blue Caves; we rose early to fill tote bags with spanakopita from a local bakery, before pootling along the coastline in a hired boat. That night, I joined newfound friends at Sofia’s, a restaurant-cum-disco worked out from an old house, in front of the upper village’s church. On another I heartily embraced some plate smashing at a Greek taverna, finishing with late-night cigarettes and dipping my toes in the crystal clear sea. I’d rocked up to this trip solo, but the communal vibe made it impossible to feel alone. 

More than one unplanned hangover meant windsurfing and something called “Pontoon Pandemonium” was left to the (seven-year-old) professionals, while I contented myself with sea dips, spa trips and hammering my “Peli card.” They’re used like credit cards to keep track of protein smoothies, slices of carrot cake, and impromptu bowls of seafood pasta — all excellent, all adding up to a bill I dreaded facing towards the end of the visit. This was when I felt the downside to solo travel — no little people to blame for my Olympian-level ice cream consumption. I gave the Peloton bike, weights and rowing machines a good go, and had practically moved into the sea-facing yoga pavilion by the end of the week. I suspected I’d need to do a bit more than follow fitness instructor Jemimah on Instagram to offset the effects of the trip.

I vowed to book one of Jemimah’s gym classes back home in London, clinging to the post-holiday glow. Everybody seemed to feel the same; friends new and old hugged goodbye on changeover day, making plans to meet up. I resolved to pitch the program of themed weeks — Festivals! Feasting! Retreats! — to my friends with kids, the very same I’d once stumbled around Zante’s most questionable club nights with. These days they seek professional child wranglers with the same enthusiasm they once hunted down single club reps. Some dilemmas do remain eternal: shots or Champagne? At the Peli, no one judges you for ordering both.

Amy Rose Everett was a guest of the Peligoni Club.