At a time when much of Greece’s coastline is synonymous with overpriced hotels, crowded beaches, and restaurants that require booking months out, I wanted to see what remained of Mani’s storied past and slower way of life. Its lack of a central airport and distance from major cities have helped spare it from large-scale development, leaving behind a Greece that can feel increasingly hard to find.

The gateway to Mani is through Kardamyli, at the northern edge of the peninsula, or Messenian Mani. My first stop is here, in the Mourtzinos Tower complex, a short walk uphill from the main road, where a cluster of stone tower houses and a fortified church now houses a small museum dedicated to the region’s history. The towers are among Mani’s defining features, appearing in settlements across the peninsula. Some are restored and inhabited, while others have been left to crumble into the mountainside.

Walking downhill, modern Kardamyli comes into view with its more polished seaside atmosphere. Cafes and shops spill onto the main street, tavernas serve seafood well after sunset, and the long pebbled stretch of Ritsa Beach draws swimmers from late spring through October.

Lela’s Taverna, I’m told, is a local institution. It was founded in 1983 by Lela Giannakeas, who spent years as cook and caretaker at writer and scholar Patrick Leigh Fermor’s house just down the road. Today, her son Giorgos runs the kitchen while her grandson Kostis oversees the wine program. Lela’s classics never come off the menu, and I spring for the moussaka and stifado while overlooking Meropi Island. For my next meal, I sit down at Elies on Ritsa Beach, which serves simply cooked vegetables, fish, and local meats in its geranium- and olive-shaded garden. The dishes are so flavorful, I return several times.

My home for the night is Villa Salvia Kardamyli, a collection of four stone houses nestled among olive groves down the road from the beach. Sage, fennel, rosemary, and mastic grow wild across the property, and I take an afternoon dip by simply descending a ladder into the waves. In autumn, the property hosts yoga and meditation retreats, but to me, the surrounding landscape encourages enough reflection on its own.

Few non-Greeks understood Mani better than Patrick Leigh Fermor, whose 1958 book Mani: Travels in the Southern Peloponnese is the peninsula’s defining text. In the 1960s, he and his wife, Joan, settled above a small cove outside Kardamyli, building a stone house where he would spend much of the rest of his life. Now managed by the Benaki Museum, it occupies one of the most enviable settings in the region, hovering above turquoise water and framed by dark cypress trees. I’m lucky enough to be here on one of the weekly public visiting days, and before long I’m imagining the friends I’d bring back to rent the entire house, available from June through September.

The closest possible base without actually staying in Fermor’s house is Kalamitsi Hotel, which is connected to the historic home by a footpath. A pared-back property built entirely of local stone, it’s a cluster of buildings scattered across the hillside, each with its own veranda. Staying here is like returning to a family beach house, and after an evening swim in the hotel's private cove, following the cue of my neighbors, I hang my swimsuit and towel from the line outside my room using clothespins—charmingly, one of the few amenities.

Hotel Kalamitsi is a great base for exploring the back roads of northern Mani, from Foneas and Delfinia beaches to Gnospi, where you can take a scenic dip outside the fishing village of Agios Nikolaos. The most picturesque setting of all is the small harbor at Trahila, where swimmers dive from concrete slabs into crystalline water.

But to some Maniots, I still haven’t reached the real Mani. For that, they insist, I have to continue south into the Laconian, or “Deep,” Mani, where fertile land gives way to arid expanses and villagers recall a time before electricity arrived in the 1970s.

Back on the road, through the car window, I notice the occasional large, open rectangular basin constructed of stone. Historically, Maniots collected rainfall in these cisterns to ensure their survival. (There are well-preserved examples at the Sklavounakos Tower Complex near Pyrgos Dirou.) All around me are Koroneiki olive groves; this local variety stands out for its gnarled appearance. The trees, which hunch toward the earth, have been cultivated here since at least the tenth century.

The road winds through narrow valleys before climbing toward bare rock faces, Byzantine churches appearing unexpectedly along the way. Nearly 1,500 are believed to be scattered across Mani, many dating from the ninth to the 15th centuries. Some are little more than rubble; others stand unlocked, their frescoes astonishingly intact after centuries. I find one with an open door and step inside. Gazing up in silence at the faded figures, I realize I’ve seldom had a whole church to myself in Greece. In pursuit of more vivid frescoes, I stop at the Church of the Taxiarches in Charouda and Monastery Tsigou, just north of Oitylo. (Lesser-known and easily accessed off the main road are the Church of Agioi Anargyroi in Nomitsi and the Church of the Metamorphosis in Lagkada.) The scenic village of Lagkada is also prime olive oil territory; stop at By Babis, a delightful family-run shop, and pick up a freshly pressed bottle.

The Church of the Taxiarches in Areopoli, with its carved stone facade, stands on the square where Maniots gathered before launching the Greek War of Independence. Named for Ares, the god of war, Areopoli is the largest town in the Deep Mani. Its stone lanes are bustling, lined with towers-turned-tavernas, cocktail bars, and small shops. At the edge of the square, I grab a milk pie—a regional specialty—at To Psomi tis Milias.

Continuing down toward the sea, Limeni appears, its stone houses tumbling into the water—a view you can also catch from the terrace or sea-view suites at Akrolithi Boutique Hotel & Suites. Limeni was once the harbor of Areopoli and the stronghold of the powerful Mavromichalis family, but today it’s a Mediterranean paradise better known for swimming, sunsets, and harborside restaurants. At its center, Mavromichalai Historic Hotel occupies an 18th-century tower house that was once a Mavromichalis residence. At check-in, I learn that in 2007 it opened as the first hotel in Limeni, restored by the current owner’s father, who also restored Tsitsiris Castle in Stavri and dozens of historic local buildings. Thick stone walls keep the building cool even in midsummer, but the rooms manage to feel airy despite the sturdy architecture, thanks to dramatic sea views out the windows.

Continuing south, I pass through ever-smaller settlements. Each village once belonged to a different clan, making development notoriously difficult with disputed ownership and competing inheritances. In these remote reaches of Mani, a single taverna or small hotel is often the only sign of modern life. I spend the night in the village of Kitta in another converted tower: Hotel Citta dei Nicliani, near Mezapos Beach. Built in the 18th century and abandoned after World War II, it reopened as a hotel in 2011. The seven guest rooms are spread across the original stone complex, which is centered on a courtyard where you can sip back-vintage Greek wines (the oldest dating to 1944).

The best meal I have in Deep Mani unfolds just down the road at Aspasia, a relative newcomer with chef Stavriani Zervakakou at the helm. Her family has deep roots in the region and works much as her ancestors did, transforming locally foraged greens, legumes, and olives from the groves visible from the table, cooked over a wood fire. Though meat is still more prominent than seafood throughout the region—a vestige of a time when pirates made the coast too dangerous for fishing—here Zervakakou’s menu draws largely from the sea.

Beneath a great carob tree, I savor a crudo of marinated sardines and white sea bream layered with sweet cherries, Vatika onion, and preserved bergamot. Then comes grilled smoked horta with melon and creamy Cretan goat cheese, followed by a fillet of corvina, its skin singed by woodfire, with green beans, local cured pork, and fresh herbs. Zervakakou tells me her cooking isn’t strictly Maniot, but it draws on the peninsula’s women-led culinary traditions—even in the restaurant’s name, which honors her great-aunt Aspasia.

The sun is now setting, and I drive toward the water, chasing the horizon. Off the main road, scrub tickles the car doors as the cliffs open up. Suddenly, a dazzling view: Straight ahead is the Byzantine church of Panagia Odigitria, built directly into the cliffs of Mezalimonas. It has stood watch over this stretch of coast for more than eight centuries. From here, the road presses deeper into the peninsula, toward the villages that have come to define the Deep Mani.

Vathia comes into view, its dense cluster of stone tower houses rising from a rocky ridge that towers over the sea. The village is perhaps one of the peninsula’s most emblematic images. Depopulated early enough in the 20th century that little was ever rebuilt or modernized, it remains one of the clearest surviving examples of a traditional Maniot tower settlement. I wander its narrow lanes in near silence before descending the winding mountain road to Gyalia Beach for a swim.

Clothes still damp, I park outside Kyrimai Hotel. This restored 19th-century trading complex at the water’s edge has 22 guestrooms in the original buildings and tower. There’s little more to do here than drift between the restaurant’s wooden deck and a concrete swimming platform extending into the sky-blue bay, where I linger until the last light slips behind the headlands.

After days spent winding even farther south, it becomes clear why most travelers to Greece have never discovered Mani: Its pleasures are less obvious than those of the islands. Distances here are longer, the historical sights more subtle than showy, and the roads often long, barren, and sun-beaten. But somewhere between an empty pebble cove, a Byzantine chapel left unlocked, and a stone village that still bears the battle scars of clan rivalries, I understand why Greeks speak about Mani with such pride and conviction.