More self-deluding guff is written about Greek islands than about anywhere else on the planet.
Their enduring out-of-the-wayness, raw beauty and sparse, matriarchal communities, even now, foster the illusion of personal discovery - of ownership almost, as if we were staking out a private paradise handed down by Homer.
There is another illusion, too, a hang-over from the islands’ colonisation by hippies, of a freewheeling, free-loving detachment from time and toil, in which everything drips with honey.
