The Princes’ Islands drift in the Sea of Marmara like a quiet afterthought to Istanbul’s restless energy. Nine small landmasses lie an hour or so from the city, their history layered with exile and escape. In Byzantine times, the islands were a place of banishment for disgraced members of the imperial family, their names still whispered in the salt air. Later, they became a summer retreat for Istanbul’s Greek, Armenian, and Jewish communities, who built wooden mansions with lacy balconies and wide verandas, their pastel facades fading gently under the Mediterranean sun. Those houses remain, scattered among pine groves and crumbling stone walls, as if the islands themselves have chosen to remember rather than forget.
What sets the Princes’ Islands apart is the absence of cars. The only sounds are the crunch of gravel underfoot, the occasional whir of an electric cart, and the distant clatter of hooves—though horses, once the islands’ main transport, were phased out in the late 1920s after an epidemic. Today, people walk, cycle, or take the slow, open-air trams that loop around the larger islands. The pace here is deliberate, as if time itself has been stretched thinner, allowing for long afternoons spent in cafés or on shaded benches, watching the ferries come and go.
Büyükada, the largest of the islands, is the most visited. From the harbor, a steep climb leads to the Monastery of St. George, perched on a hilltop like a silent sentinel. The path winds through cypress and pine, past trees draped with strips of cloth—wishes tied by pilgrims, fluttering in the breeze. The view from the top is worth the effort: the sea stretches endlessly, and on clear days, Istanbul’s minarets and domes shimmer in the distance, a mirage of the world left behind. The island’s other claim to fame is the Prinkipo Greek Orphanage, a vast wooden structure that once housed hundreds of children and now stands as the largest wooden building in Europe, its weathered beams groaning under the weight of history.
Heybeliada, the second-largest island, feels quieter, greener. Its slopes are thick with pine forests, and the air carries the resinous scent of sun-warmed needles. The island was once home to a theological school, its red-brick buildings now repurposed or abandoned, their arched windows framing glimpses of the sea. There are no grand monuments here, just a sense of stillness, as if the island has decided to keep its secrets. The beaches are small and mostly private, tucked into coves where the water is clearer than along the city’s shores. They’re not the kind of places you come to for a day of sunbathing; they’re where you go to sit with your feet in the water, listening to the waves lap against the rocks.
Getting to the islands is part of the experience. Ferries depart from several piers in Istanbul, the fastest taking about an hour, the slower ones meandering past the city’s skyline before heading out to sea. In summer, the boats are packed on weekends, and the return trips in the evening can feel like a scramble, with crowds jostling for space on the decks. It’s better to leave early, before the last light fades and the islands slip back into their quiet rhythm. Once ashore, the first thing most visitors do is rent a bicycle—there’s no better way to explore the winding roads, stopping whenever something catches the eye: a crumbling villa, a hidden café, a stretch of coastline where the water is so blue it looks unreal.
Life on the islands isn’t cheap. Cafés and restaurants charge more than in the city, and cash is king—ATMs are scarce, so it’s wise to bring enough for the day. The food is simple but good: fresh seafood, meze, grilled fish served with lemon and herbs. There’s a sense of self-sufficiency here, as if the islands have learned to rely on what they have rather than what they can import. In winter, much of it shuts down. The ferries run less frequently, the cafés close their shutters, and the islands retreat into themselves, their empty streets and silent houses giving them an almost ghostly air.
The electric carts that shuttle visitors around Büyükada follow a fixed route, their drivers pointing out landmarks with the ease of someone who’s told the same stories a thousand times. They’re a practical way to get around, especially for those who don’t want to walk the steep hills, but there’s something to be said for wandering without a plan. The islands reward those who take their time, who let themselves get lost in the maze of narrow lanes or sit on a bench long enough to watch the light change over the water.
There’s no grand narrative to the Princes’ Islands, no single story that defines them. They’re a place of fragments: a Byzantine prince in exile, a wooden mansion left to rot, a wish tied to a tree. They exist in the space between history and myth, between the bustle of Istanbul and the vastness of the sea. To visit is to step into a slower, older version of the world, where the past isn’t just remembered—it’s still alive, breathing in the salt air and the rustle of pine needles.
