This Island Doesn’t Allow Phones — What Happened Next Blew My Mind and Changed How I Travel Forever
I didn’t think much of it when I first heard about the island. A friend casually mentioned it over coffee, saying, “There’s this place in Europe where phones aren’t allowed at all. Not even for pictures.” I laughed. That sounded impossible. Or at least too extreme to be true. But a few days later, I found myself Googling it. And soon after, I booked my ticket without really knowing what I was signing up for.
The island is called Eremito. Technically, it’s a restored 14th-century monastery turned eco-retreat hidden deep in the Umbrian hills of Italy. But to call it just a hotel or retreat feels wrong. It’s more like a time machine. Or a mirror. Or maybe even a kind of reset button you never knew your brain needed. The big rule? No phones. No internet. No digital screens of any kind. You leave them at the entrance. No exceptions. If you want to take notes, you use a pencil and paper. If you want to communicate with the staff, you speak directly. If you want to scroll through Instagram — too bad. You’ll have to wait until you leave.
I arrived late in the afternoon. The sun was sinking over the hills, casting long golden shadows across the olive trees and stone walls. It was stunning — but I couldn’t take a picture. And that was the first punch in the gut. I instinctively reached for my phone more than five times within the first ten minutes. Each time, I felt a little more embarrassed. Who was I without my phone? What did I even do with my hands?
The rooms were tiny. Monastic. A small bed, a desk, a candle, and a window that framed the landscape like a painting. There was no television, no air conditioning, no buzzing notifications. Just silence. Thick, full-bodied silence. At first, it was almost awkward. I kept expecting a background noise, something to fill the space. But eventually, I started hearing things I hadn’t noticed in years — birds calling from trees, my own breathing, the rustle of leaves, the sound of my footsteps. It felt like the world had been on mute for years and someone had finally turned the volume back up.
Meals were served at set times in complete silence. I know how that sounds — weird, maybe even cultish — but it was one of the most calming things I’ve ever experienced. No small talk, no phones flashing over plates, no debates about where to eat next. Just food. Simple, warm, healthy meals. You actually tasted every bite. You noticed textures. You were present in a way that’s almost impossible in normal life.
But it wasn’t just about silence. It was about stillness. The kind of stillness that seeps into your bones. I started waking up without alarms. I watched the sunrise because there was literally nothing else to do. I walked the same path every day and noticed new flowers, different shades of sky. I wrote in a notebook. I remembered things I hadn’t thought about in years. I cried one morning for no real reason. It was like my brain was taking a deep breath after years of shallow ones.
The staff didn’t hover, but they were always around. Kind, calm people who looked you in the eye and actually listened. There was a sense of mutual respect — you were all here for the same reason, even if you didn’t fully understand it at first. Every guest had their own story. Some were burnt out from work. Some were healing from loss. Some, like me, were just curious. But by the second or third day, we all started to soften. To smile. To breathe deeper.
What blew my mind the most wasn’t how peaceful it was. It was how much of my own life I’d been missing without realizing it. How much time I had spent curating instead of living. How often I reached for my phone during a moment instead of being in it. On this island, I didn’t just disconnect from technology. I reconnected with everything else — nature, time, my own thoughts.
One night, I lay under the stars for over an hour. There was no one taking selfies. No music playing from someone’s Bluetooth speaker. Just the sky, endless and silent. I couldn’t capture it. I couldn’t post it. But I lived it. And honestly, that felt more real than anything I’d shared online in years.
When my stay ended and I picked up my phone again, it felt strange. Like shaking hands with an old friend you no longer trust. Notifications flooded in, timelines restarted, and the world picked up right where I left it. But I was different. I didn’t want to dive back in like before. I wanted to hold onto that slowness, that space. I realized I could choose to use my phone — or not. I didn’t owe it my attention every minute of the day.
Since returning, I’ve made changes. I’ve created phone-free hours every day. I go on walks without my earbuds. I eat without screens. And I remember that one quiet island where I relearned how to live without constant noise.
So yes, the island doesn’t allow phones. And at first, that feels impossible. But what happens when you surrender to it — when you let go of the urge to document, scroll, text, post, and like — is something wild. You start to remember who you were before the screen. You start to feel human again.
