I’ve been to Greece before. In fact, I was here 2 or 3 years ago, for my maiden voyage to Athens. Wonderful city. And I’ve been to numerous islands over the years, as everybody has. You get off the plane, they tell you it’s Corfu, or Mykonos, or Crete, but it’s probably the same island with a different name-tag put up at the airport. They’re all lovely. Because it’s the same place. Only Cyprus is different because you have marauding Turks on the northern border. Otherwise, to all intents and purposes, Greece has only one main island, with a changeable name.

But no-one’s ever heard of Kea. Not until Mark came here anyway. And he’s a famous blabbermouth so he told me. And now I’m here and I’m telling everyone. I was sold by my mate’s words: ‘there’s nothing to do’. Oooooh, I thought, I like the sound of that. Nothing… for a whole week… hmmm…

The hotel pool is ‘refreshing’. So ‘refreshing’ that your testicles will shrink to the size of a (frozen) pea within 1.2 seconds of entry. But it is exhilarating. And because it’s September, the temperature here is a lovely 25 ish. All day. Hot enough to enjoy, not hot enough to fry.

The above is the view from our room. Its horrible. Where’s the motorway? Car park? Hi-rise flats with cladding? We looked at other rooms but they all have the same view. Nothing better on offer. No view of White Hart Lane. THANK GOD!!!

The only surprising thing about Kea, so far, is the price of fish. Just up the road from the hotel is a row of lovely little tavernas, all, basically selling the same stuff. Greek stuff, in the main part, oddly. They all have seating quite literally ‘on the sea’. Where the fish live. You’d think in some kind of abundance. In Epping forest you’d be hard pressed to stumble across a red mullet, but in Kea? How hard can it be.

Yet that red mullet will cost you £145/kilo in the little ‘local’ tavernas. Because they’re fished out of the sea in nets made from spun gold. Only 16 year-old virgins with webbed feet can catch them. They’re carried across the road, all of 12 metres to the kitchens, in special carriages which can only be made in Papua New Guinea and brought here by swimmers.

Fortunately there’s other things to eat. Yet it doesn’t matter anyway: Mark’s paying.

Happy holidays

A xxxx