We are sitting at a cafe in a Greek island harbour. An old man with leathered nut brown skin wearing tattered trousers but no shirt cycles past. Brilliant blue sky. Clear waters dotted with fishing boats on our left and yachts on the right. Bustling after the arrival of the ferry. Peace will return in a little while. A sputtering moped pulls up and an overweight man with shoulder length jet black curly hair climbs off shouting a greeting to some of the old men who are drinking small black coffees and hurling dice at a backgammon board. Incongruously, a Mozart flute concerto is playing in the background. Leaving this behind, we climb aboard an old rattly bus which fills with ladies of a similar age dressed all in black. They chatter as though they hadn’t seen each other for years rather than the single hour that had passed since they had come down from the hill town. In a cloud of smoke, the vehicle makes its way up the mountain, one moment with a view to the crags on your right then as it twists around a bend, spectacular scenes down to the sea below on the left. Eventually it reaches the town and spews us out into a square. A taverna with bright red hibiscus wrapped around its door spills a random selection of table and chairs outwards. They are empty now but it will be lunch time shortly and they will fill with a mixture of tourists and locals. Steps lead out of the square and twist upwards through narrow alleyways past blue painted doors and whitewashed walls. The steps continue climbing and eventually emerge onto a terrace which is perched high above the town. We take shelter in the shadow of a blue domed church. The views are spectacular. The north side is filled with an expanse of sparkling sea dotted with enticing looking islands. To the south is a rugged range of mountains. The whitewashed town stretches away below. Wine and food wait for our descent. For a moment in time, all is perfect.