Santorini

Flying into Santorini's Thira Airport always feels like an act of faith — the runway is short, the crosswinds are legendary, and as you bank over the caldera you can see the white villages clinging to the cliff edge like spilled sugar and you think, yes, I understand everything now. I flew from Athens on Olympic Air, a 50-minute hop on a tiny Bombardier turboprop that bounced through the Aegean thermals and deposited me, slightly green, into glorious sunshine.

I stayed in Oia for the first two weeks — a cave house carved into the cliff face at Canaves Oia Suites, a room with an infinity pool that hung over the caldera and a view that made my brain stop producing coherent thoughts every time I stepped onto the terrace. It was expensive. It was worth it without a moment's reservation.

Oia itself is the postcard — the blue domes, the whitewashed walls, the bougainvillea in shades of magenta and violet tumbling over every surface. I walked the 10km path from Fira to Oia on my second morning, a caldera-edge trail that took three hours and offered views of the volcanic rock dropping into the deep blue Aegean 300 metres below. I arrived in Oia hungry and sun-drunk and ate grilled octopus at a cliffside taverna called Ambrosia, watching the ferries move far below like toys.

The Oia sunset is the most famous in the world and rightly so. Each evening crowds gather on the castle ruins at the tip of the village and watch the sun go down behind the caldera rim. The first time I saw it I understood why ancient people built temples to the light. I went back every single evening for the entire first week. It never got old. What I'd recommend: walk five minutes east of the castle ruins to a quieter section of wall, bring wine from the little grocery on the main street (€4 for a decent Assyrtiko), and watch it with about 80% fewer people.

I rented a quad bike — the correct way to get around Santorini — and explored properly. The black sand beach at Perissa in the south, where I swam in the warm Aegean and ate fish at a taverna where the owner knew my order before I sat down by day three. The red volcanic sand at Red Beach, a short hike from the ancient site of Akrotiri — I visited the Akrotiri excavations, a Minoan city buried in volcanic ash 3,600 years ago, even more impressive than Pompeii and far less crowded. The Profitis Ilias monastery on the highest peak of the island, reached by a steep winding road, views in all directions across the Aegean.

Wine deserves its own chapter. Santorini's volcanic soil produces the Assyrtiko grape — a crisp, mineral white wine unlike anything grown elsewhere. I visited Santo Wines on the caldera edge for a sunset tasting, four whites and two vinsantos (the local dessert wine made from sun-dried grapes) with a view that made every sip taste better. I bought six bottles to take home, two of which survived.

Week three I moved to a smaller hotel in Fira — the Tzekos Villas — and explored the island's quieter south. I took the cable car down to the old port at Fira and hired a small boat to circumnavigate the caldera, including a stop to swim in the warm volcanic water near the active crater. The water there is sulphurous and oddly warm and strangely invigorating. I swam for an hour and emerged feeling ridiculous and happy.

The ferry back to Athens — a 5-hour Hellenic Seaways catamaran from the port at Athinios — was chaotic and thrilling, the Aegean lumpy enough that most of the cabin was seasick. I sat on the outer deck and ate a cheese pie from the onboard café and watched Santorini shrink to a white crescent on the horizon and felt the particular ache of leaving somewhere that had got under my skin entirely.