Skala reminds me of holidays as a child, in Spain, where you pay €6 for a pair of sunbeds and stay there all day. We do just that. The sea is calm and flat, and the salt hums like crickets. Shoals of silver fish swim between my feet, so perfectly blended into the ripples of the water that I wonder whether they’re there at all.
There is something very still about this place, almost lifeless. I wander round the souvenir shops and find all the pieces of beloved tat that lined my bedroom shelves as a kid. Gifts brought back from places exactly like this – a too small pair of slippers (pom poms and all), a puffa fish hanging from a piece of string, a tiny ceramic pot decorated with pictures of the gods – I already know what the perfume balm smells like before I open it. Part of me wants to buy it all.
Even the slice of Kefalonian Kataifi – a type of baklava – takes me back to a holiday to Turkey aged six, the days hot, and the desserts achingly sweet.