Saving Endangered Sea Turtles in Koroni | Beyond the Village ep.2

Last summer in Koroni, Greece, I joined Archelon’s sea turtle conservation efforts — waking up before sunrise, tracking nests, and carefully moving eggs one by one to protect them. I witnessed hatchings, losses, and the quiet magic of this coastline. But this video is also about slower rhythms: bread baked at dawn, ancient castles under midday sun, and sunset swims with friends.

A huge thank you to my friend Rosie, who hosted me in her beautiful Airbnb throughout the filming of this video. You can find the listing here: https://agiatriadahouses.gr/

In collaboration with Archelon – the Sea Turtle Protection Society of Greece
If you want ti help support Archelon and tehir effort you can visit their webshop here : https://archelon.gr/en/shop?gad_source=1&gad_campaignid=22499648105&gbraid=0AAAAA_LpsAQ53n-CoH_l9-uLB5_mK_sf3&gclid=CjwKCAjwhuHEBhBHEiwAZrvdcv0rXJvh0il4zdrZW9sOvmPAV2C7CWm5Itm_EG4bhHGtpcS_rBSKcRoCtp0QAvD_BwE

Filmed in Koroni, Messinia – July & August

———— Chapters ———————

0:00 – Arriving in Koroni
2:45 – Following the Turtle Tracks
9:20 – Discovering Koroni’s Castle
11:38 – Rachel’s Bakery
13:15 – Peaceful Days by the Beach
17:47 – Full Moon and Hatchling Season
20:04 – An afternoon on the sea
26:25 – Shading the nests
30:19 – Saving Baby Turtles
37:36 – Archelon’s Mission
38:36 – Panighiri and Outro

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Filmed on: Fujifilm XT3 / Canon 90D
Drone: DJI Air3
Edited with: Premiere Pro 2024
Music: Epidemic Sound and Artlist

Key words:
why i chose to live rural, rural life, leaving big city, Greek lifestyle, slow living, cottagecore, cottagecore aesthetic, greek countryside, cottage in nature, nature living, boring life, quiet life, traditional, seasonal living, life through seasons, harvesting, mountains, mediterranean, seaside, Greece, wildlife

Thalassa. The sea has always held its stories, but some are older than we can imagine. There’s something humbling 
about seeing a sea turtle move. Slow. Certain. As if it’s carrying centuries on its back. It always amazes me how they 
navigate back to their birthplace. In Koroni, the beaches play a 
crucial role in this life cycle, providing essential nesting grounds 
for these remarkable creatures. But first, I’m headed to Rosie’s Airbnb, my welcoming retreat that promises a perfect start to my journey in Koroni. I came to Koroni not just for the 
view, but for the effort beneath it. To walk the shoreline with 
Archelon, marking nests, reading tracks and helping in the preservation of the amazing Carretta Caretta turtle. That means, waking up at 4:00 am and getting ready to walk 
the long sandy Zaga beach on the lookout for new nests. Good morning. It is now 5:30 and I am going to Zaga beach with Archelon to find the sea turtle nests 
and note down all the activity of the Caretta Caretta. So yeah, see you there. Archelon has been protecting Greece’s 
sea turtles since the 1980s.
 Every summer, volunteers come from all over 
the world to walk these beaches at first light, before the heat, before the crowds, 
before the stories in the sand are lost. And sure enough, it doesn’t take 
long to find our first nest.
 A fresh, wide trail carved into the sand tells 
us a turtle came ashore not too long ago. The volunteers get to work.
 They read the track like a map, trace it to where she stopped, and begin the careful task of locating the eggs. Then comes the decision:
Is it 
high enough above the tide line?
 Because too close to the sea, and the 
eggs risk drowning before they ever hatch. Once the spot is confirmed, the 
nest is marked and protected. A simple barrier against 
curious dogs, wandering feet, and whatever else might 
come sniffing in the night. With the nest protected, we 
erase the trail she left behind. It helps us avoid false alarms tomorrow, and keeps wandering eyes from 
finding what was meant to stay hidden Here at Zaga beach, the stretch is long.
 Over three kilometers of soft, shifting sand. We walk it all, eyes scanning 
the shoreline for tracks, dips, disturbed patches that might mean a nest. And this morning, there were a lot of tracks. They tell the story of a creature who moves 
so differently on land than in the water. Fluid and graceful beneath the waves, slow and steady as she 
presses on through the sand. It’s always a bit astonishing how far she 
must drag herself to reach the right spot. It’s a quiet kind of devotion, 
one that leaves behind a trail, and, if we’re lucky, a nest. And so the mornings come and go. Occasionally, we come across signs of jackals 
or dogs that have found their way to the nests, leaving behind empty shells where eggs once were. We then assess the damage, 
counting how many eggs were lost, how many were spared and reinforce the protection around the nest, hoping to keep the remaining 
safe until they hatch. Most mornings blend into each 
other, long walks, waves, tracks… but some other mornings, we get a closer look at 
what lies beneath the sand. They’re actually quite durable. Good. They have to have something going on for 
them cuz everything else is against them. Yeah. He said the Normandy beach had less 
casualties at war than the turtles do. He’s not wrong! Indeed, out of a thousand eggs that hatch, 
only one of the turtles will reach adulthood. Each mother lays around a hundred eggs, gently covers them, and 
then goes back into the sea, no protection, just instinct, and 
the odds stacked against them. This nest was laid too close to the waves. So, after careful consideration, the 
volunteers decide to relocate it. It’s a gruelling task, especially 
under the ever-rising sun that – despite our best efforts at an early start — finds us at midday, knee-deep in the sand, counting, one by one, the 
many eggs we have to move. We take care to transfer the 
surrounding sand as well, still damp from the protective fluid the 
mother turtle released when laying her eggs. Even the order in which the eggs are 
placed back into the new nest matters. Those nearer to the surface will be warmed 
by the sun and develop into females, while the cooler, deeper ones will become males. It’s a meticulous process and every step matters. A few final scribbles in the logbook, its pages now swollen with sun-faded notes, and that’s the morning wrapped. By 1:00 p.m., we’ve walked 
the full three kilometers. When I finally make it home, 
all I want is a cold shower to rinse off the sand, and the lingering smell 
of decay that clings after unearthing old nests. And so another quiet afternoon begins. Koroni’s calm settles in the soft flutter of swallows, the quiet pulse of 
the sea, and the steady rhythm of life unfolding. With the hours stretching ahead, I usually 
find myself wandering up toward the castle. It stands as if it always has massive, weathered, watching over the sea. Koroni’s castle isn’t just 
a relic; it’s a survivor. First built by the Byzantines, then fortified 
by the Venetians in the 13th century, it once guarded one of the most 
important ports in the Peloponnese. If you look closely, you can still find the old 
Venetian coats of arms etched into the stone, small, stubborn details holding on through time. But for all its imposing scale, it’s the 
stillness that catches you off guard. The battlements are quiet now. Fig trees lean through crumbled walls. Goats move through the ruins 
like they belong there. And just like the beaches we walk each morning, the castle is a place of quiet preservation. It’s taken immense effort to keep it standing. Centuries of wind, salt, 
and siege have worn it down. But it’s thanks to the dedication 
of locals, quietly patching, rebuilding, protecting, that it hasn’t 
eroded – entirely- into the sea. It’s the same instinct, really. Whether it’s a clutch of eggs hidden in sand or the stones of a crumbling wall something in us wants to protect what has endured. What still matters. Because once it’s gone, it doesn’t come back. Near the town square, below the castle walls a small piece of heritage remains. Rachel’s Bakery. Before the sun even rises, fresh loaves of bread are baked here 
as they have been for generations. The heat of the oven doesn’t take long 
to make my cheeks turn bright red, but Rachel gently smiles and 
tells me you get used to it. This central hub of village 
life maintains the old ways, keeping machines to a minimum and 
crafting bread and pastries by hand. It is with the rustle and bustle of 
the bakery in the early morning light that the village of Koroni awakes. Slowly fishermen come back 
from their late night catch, the volunteers of Archelon 
make their way to the beach, the truck is being filled 
with freshly baked warm bread, and Rachel serves me a very hot and 
very delicious slice of bougatsa. Layers of thin, flaky phyllo dough wrapped 
around a creamy, sweet custard filling. It’s dusted with powdered sugar and cinnamon simple, warm, and very indulgent. The perfect morning treat to start the day. After a morning back at the beach, treading sand and watching out for turtle tracks, I returned to Rosie’s Airbnb. Her beautiful place, tucked quietly between 
lush nature and just five minutes from Koroni, offers the perfect refuge. It’s where I can unwind, listen to the gentle 
rustle of the trees, and enjoy a simple lunch. It’s actually already been a very long day. And tonight we go back to the beach to see if 
we can spot some turtles coming out of the sea. We have to be actually very quiet because we don’t 
want to disturb them and we can’t have any lights. So it’s going to be quite fun. So we have to go there 
around midnight to 1:00 a.m. because that’s usually when 
they get out to lay their eggs. We have to be very careful because 
we don’t want to scare them. But let’s see if we can spot one. There’s nothing better than 
a Greek salad for lunch. So fresh. As with every summer day, even one 
where I’d have to wake up at 3am, I still find myself wanting to explore 
the crystal blue beaches around Koroni. On this beach, though, the locals 
have stepped up to protect the   nests where Archelon can’t always be present, quietly carrying the weight of 
preserving nature’s fragile balance. After a peaceful afternoon by the sea, Soto and I make our way back to the beach but this time at night. The towering castle watches over us, its silhouette softened by the comforting 
darkness that keeps the nests safe. Flashlights are forbidden. We walk slowly along the shore, eyes alert for turtles, moving carefully 
so as not to disturb these quiet visitors. And so the days slip by. When I didn’t wake up at dawn, I 
would linger in slow, sunlit mornings, savouring the soft warmth that 
filtered through the windows. Afternoons were spent soaking up 
the golden sun on quiet beaches, and the evenings unfolded at the 
local tavern with dear friends. The scent of jasmine drifted 
on warm evening breezes, and the cicadas sang their endless song. Some afternoons, the only thing 
to do was float in the shallows, letting the cold bite of the sea offer 
an escape from the scorching heat, Rosie’s father tended to their 
little garden with patient hands, coaxing life from the earth, and I would often steal away 
for a cool, comforting tea break beneath the generous afternoon shade. I worked and followed the 
volunteers whenever possible, walked the beach up and down again and again, walked among the many olive groves that make 
this place in the Peloponnese so special, and I loved every second at this 
beautiful little lost cottage, tucked away between hills and sea. None of this would have been possible 
if not for my amazing friend Rosie, with whom I would enjoy delicious local 
wine on her rooftop in the evenings. And before I knew it, hatching season was upon us. You notice the change in the sand first. Tiny, uncertain tracks going in all directions. The light pollution at night often makes it 
harder for the tiny ones to find the sea. And not everything watching 
from the dunes is here to help. We built small screens from reeds and woven mats, just enough to block the glare of nearby lights. But each morning, we’d find them trampled or torn. The soft illumination of the full moon 
provides the hatchlings with crucial cues, steering their delicate journey toward open water. The moon’s glow is said to 
be the blessing of Artemis, guardian of the wild, watching gently over every fragile 
step taken under her watch. And as much as part of me wants 
to be there and help them out, we need to let nature take its course. Walking through Koroni’s streets, you 
realize mornings aren’t about urgency. They’re about catching the small moments, like blossoming flowers near the castle walls, the soft clink of cups from the corner café, and the smell of freshly baked bread, once again. We’re planning a slow afternoon on the water, and Rosie leads the way through 
Koroni’s narrow streets. Going from bakery to local market, we pick up 
fresh tomatoes, olives, and local sausages. The simple ingredients that 
will bring our riganada to life. In a small town like this, it’s no surprise 
that Rosie knows every vendor by name and greets them like old friends. Captain George welcomes us on his boat, and off we go for a ride. From the water, Rosie points 
out the edge of the castle where part of the wall has 
already collapsed into the sea. You can clearly see the 
patchwork of old and new stone. Quiet signs of the effort it 
takes to keep it standing. A little later, we spot a 
windsurf board drifting sideways, its sail half-submerged. Captain George steers us toward it, and with a little bit of effort, we bring it back to a very 
relieved swimmer on the shore. Once anchored, Rosie starts preparing “riganada”. A slice of freshly baked bread 
topped with grated tomato, local olive oil, dried oregano, 
and a crumble of sfela cheese. It’s a dish full of childhood 
memories for our friends from Koroni, something their grandparents would throw together before an early school day. And for a little while, with 
salty hands and full bellies, nothing else really mattered. This place has a certain kind 
of pull I can’t easily describe. It feels like it quietly slipped 
out of my childhood memories. Perhaps it’s the fact that 
my great grandma lived here that makes this place feel like 
it’s always been a part of me, like a soft memory just waiting to be remembered. With all its history, nature, 
culture and beautiful scenery, I can see why many people chose 
to spend all their vacations here. This place is very, very quiet. We are only 5 minutes away from Koroni by car. And yet we are surrounded by 
trees, olive groves, and vines. You’re just lost in nature right next 
to one of the best beaches of Koroni, but you’re still not cut off from the city. It’s just really an amazing location, and all you can hear is just 
birds, crickets, and other animals. It’s really nice. So, we’re now in August and the 
baby turtles have started to hatch, which means that every morning I go 
back to the Zaga beach with Archelon and we’re trying to spot baby 
turtles that have hatched overnight. They tend to come out around 
midnight and 1:00 a.m., late at night when the sand is actually less warm. And it’s just been an amazing experience seeing the baby turtles making their first steps and reaching the sea, helping 
them out as much as we can. It’s been really amazing. Tonight, we’re actually going to go with 
my mother and Rosie at the beach again during the night to shade one of the 
nests that’s about to hatch overnight. It’s predicted to hatch either today or tomorrow. And we’re going to be there because 
it’s right next to a football stadium so there’s a lot of lights 
and we’re going to shade it because we don’t want them to get confused. They have a tendency of 
following the brighter light because they think it’s the 
moon reflecting on the ocean. So we’re going to go there and try and 
help them out to find the right way. So it’s going to be nice. Hope we can help. Anyway, I’m going to drink my tea and then I’m going to start getting ready. See you there. Bats skim low over the sand, and from the 
hills behind us, jackals begin to call. Out here, the hatchlings have more 
to worry about than just the lights. Hi. So, I’m surrounded by three 
nests that should be hatching, *have already* started hatching a few days ago and continue hatching overnight. And unfortunately, behind me, as you can see, there’s a lot of light pollution. So, this is why they put 
the shades around the nest. I’ll just wait to see if we can maybe see any turtle hatching and help 
them find the right direction. What are we waiting for?
For the baby turtles to come out! After a good hour of star gazing in the dark, we started hearing tiny 
noises coming from the nest. Sure enough, when we eventually 
turned on our lights, long after the noises had stopped, we saw tiny tracks leading to the sea. I was back on the beach before sunrise. Sand still cool underfoot, 
sky just starting to shift. it started like one of our 
usual shifts on the beach, when suddenly I heard someone 
calling for our attention. A baby turtle. Alone. Heading the wrong way. Somehow, it had made it through the entire night, crawling uphill instead of toward the sea. It had survived the jackals, the cats, the dogs, and the many pitfalls. And now, just as the sun was about to rise, it had found us. It must be terrified and exhausted. It seems quite strong still, considering 
that you walked around so much. All night long! You’re not going anywhere little guy. We gently redirected it, but 
didn’t bring it to the sea. That walk across the sand imprints 
the beach into their internal compass. Decades from now, if she’s female, that memory will guide her 
back here to lay her own eggs. If we carry them, we erase that connection. Lost and disoriented, we watched her closely, gently trying to show her the way. Later that morning, we started digging out 
a few nests we suspected hadn’t made it. I’ve done hatchling season four times. Oh, yeah. Sometimes, hatchlings get 
trapped under the surface. Too deep, too tangled, or just too slow. And once the sun rises, the sand heats fast. If they have dug themselves 
out too close to the surface and haven’t made it out by 
then, they don’t stand a chance. Even when a nest’s been 
raided, we still dig it out. We count the empty shells, the broken ones, and anything that didn’t make it. And most importantly, we check 
if anyone’s been left behind. This one is hatching. It’s alive! Sometimes, we get some nice surprises. Amongst the chaos of his nest being raided, this little one was particularly lucky. Their walk to the sea might look 
small, but it means everything. It’s where they build the 
strength for what comes next: to fight the waves, to rise for air, to stay alive. It can seem cruel, letting 
them struggle like that. But without this first journey, 
they won’t survive the next. Carry them, and they’d drown. This is what we call life pips Welcome. Oh, lucky you. Oh, and he’s a strong one. There’s another one. Well done! Yeah, this is a bit too hard 
for you in it. There you go. Most hatchlings won’t make it. But the ones that do will spend decades at sea, crossing entire oceans before maybe — just maybe — returning here one day to 
start the cycle all over again. Across Greece, Archelon cares for all turtles. Turtles injured by boats, 
fishing lines, or plastic. Some arrive with swallowed 
hooks or tangled in nets, barely clinging to life. But with time and care, many 
of them get a second chance. As our time in Koroni was coming to an end, we couldn’t miss out on one last panigiri. Platefulls of roasted pork, 
greek salads, and a cooling beer. Lively music playing aloud, and surrounded by our lovely friends. It’s all rhythm, in the end. Steps we’ve learned, in water or on land. We follow the music. The turtles follow the current. In parallel worlds, close but never truly meeting. A quiet instinct to return, to repeat, to belong. You feel it here, that easy calm that makes Koroni feel like home. And I already know I’ll be back.