At the bottom of the cliff, I could make out the old port. From there, a stream of donkeys ferried people back up to the top of the zigzag staircase. For a moment, I considered a donkey ride, but then I looked down at my outfit and decided against it.

‘Where are you from?’ I heard from behind me.

I turned and saw an extremely handsome man in his late forties, sitting on a bench about five metres away. He was wearing beige linen pants and a white linen collared shirt, open to the third button, and he was smoking a slim cigar. His whole look, including his salt and pepper hair and deep tan, was a throwback to a more elegant era. He regarded me while he drew from the cigar, smiling, and for some reason, I felt compelled to answer him. Maybe it was because of his eyes, which crinkled at the corners as he smiled. I like crinkling eyes.

‘Australia – Sydney.’

‘Of Greek ancestry?’ I couldn’t place his accent, and I could always place an accent, but I guessed it was somewhere in Western Europe. His head tilted slightly and I felt a twinge in my stomach – the good kind – as he watched me.

‘No.’ It wasn’t the first time I had been asked that. Greek, Spanish, Italian, Maltese, Lebanese. I took it as a compliment whenever someone asked. I couldn’t imagine anyone asking about my family background to insult me, but rather to pinpoint the origin of my looks. And even though I’m not, I look Mediterranean.

He smiled and the crinkles intensified. So did the twinge.

‘Sorry,’ he said, seeming to laugh at himself, ‘I don’t mean to intrude on your day.’

Intrude away, handsome man. I shrugged as though I was used to good-looking strangers engaging me in conversation. ‘It’s an exquisite view,’ he added, gazing past me.

‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like it,’ I replied.

‘So, not of Greek descent? Do you mind me asking what your heritage is? You’ve piqued my curiosity.’

‘Actually, my dad’s English and I look like him. He says he’s proof that the Romans were in England for hundreds of years.’

He smiled at that. ‘Well, you’re very beautiful,’ he said matter-of-factly.

I tossed my ponytail and allowed a smile to dance across my lips. ‘Thank you,’ I replied, not flinching under his fixed stare. I silently congratulated myself on such advanced flirting skills.

‘Have lunch with me.’ It was a statement, not a question. Smooth.

‘Maybe,’ I said, as though I was actually considering it.

‘I know a very nice place around the corner. Excellent seafood. Ellis, it’s called. We’ll eat, have some wine. And you’ll tell me what brings you to Santorini.’