Then I thought, 'Aw, why not, it won't get ruined. There's no airport, no casino, no night club. Mobile phone reception is poorto-non-existent. The beach is a pebble fest.

The only way in is by boat. Truly, one person's arcadia is another's bad dream. So if a few more fellow walkers, book mavens and chillers-out get some enjoyment out of this mini paradise, fine by me.'

Years ago, we took a package to Crete's 'strip'. The accommodation proved a homefrom-home in the worst sense. With an apartment over The Shamrock Bar, even the pool was built in the shape of a map of Ireland. After three days we kissed goodbye to 4am renditions of 'Wild Mountain Thyme', hired a car and carved a path through the island's own wild mountains.

En route we passed the Matala caves where Joni Mitchell and James Taylor holed up in the '60s. At Plakias, the Mistral blew 'in from Africa'. Then we heard about Loutro.

We set off immediately, abandoning the car at Hora Sfakion and taking the ferry, a halfhour trip only marred by an American girl with a piercing high-pitched voice who insisted on informing every passenger that she hailed from "Milwaukee, Wisconsin".

Still, nothing could spoil our first sight of Loutro. It was exquisite . . . just a small hotel and a half dozen tavernas (now double that) whose proprietors queued at the ferry with big wheelbarrows to cart away provisions.

Cliffs rose steep and sheer, a barrier to the advance of the Clancy Brothers' fan club.

The tinkle of goat bells told us we would be eating organic meat.

Next morning, a bikini-clad Milwaukee Wisconsin tip-toed her way across the pebbles and plunged into the sea, tearing up the bay with an impressive crawl. She quickly swam back, ran to her deckchair and squeaked "Gee, that was gross! Nobody told me it was salted water!" Like I said, you can't please everyone.

Ernie Whalley is editor of Food & Wine magazine