We strolled while taking in the atmosphere of the early evening crowd. It was a good mix of locals – who chatted with each other in rapid-fire Greek – tourists, and travellers. I distinguished between the two because those I called ‘travellers’ were clearly not local, but had a relaxed air about them, moving fluidly through the loud, brightly lit streets. The ‘tourists’ looked either a little lost or utterly annoyed by the bustle surrounding them; I pitied people who could be in paradise, but not see it.

And then there were the pilgrims.

Like Syros, Tinos had a giant church overlooking the town. Unlike in Syros, the church on Tinos was a drawcard for thousands of pilgrims each year. The church was called Our Lady of Tinos, Greece’s main shrine to the Virgin Mary. Apparently, a holy relic was discovered on the site, and people came from everywhere to partake of its powers and pay their respects.

Red carpet lined the sides of the steep road, which led directly from the marina to the church. People crawled on their hands and knees all the way to the top of the hill, and then up the stairs of the church to honour Mary. It was quite incredible to see this kind of devotion, and throughout our brief stay we had respectfully stayed off the red carpeting as we moved about the town.

That night there were more pilgrims than we’d seen during the day, and they added to the incredible atmosphere around us. We walked up the hill towards the church, and then about halfway we turned off the main road into a side street. Small tavernas occupied spots either side of the street, and bursts of laughter and chatter filled the air around us as we passed. As we approached each one, I wondered if that was where we were heading, but we kept going.

Eventually, Josh led us down a rather steep set of stairs. At the bottom was a small arched entranceway made of stone, and a smiling middle-aged (that word again) man was there to greet us.

‘Kalispera,’ he said softly, nodding his head slightly.

‘Kalispera,’ Josh and I replied in unison.

‘My friend called ahead,’ said Josh. ‘Duncan Ford?’

A smile broke out across the man’s face, and he switched seamlessly to English. ‘Of course, sir. Duncan is a good friend of ours and we have expected you and the young lady.’ ‘Young lady’ – how nice.

The man led the way into the restaurant, a stone-paved terrace that was open on two sides to views of the water and the town. There were several couples at small tables with white tablecloths dotted about the terrace, and it was subtly lit with candles and warm-coloured lights.

‘Josh, this is beautiful,’ I said as we followed the maître d’ to our table.

He smiled. ‘Duncan said it was a special occasion kind of place. I’m glad you like it.’