We walked away from the edge of the road and looked down into a steep valley. Sure enough, there was a town down there, clinging to the side of the hill, all quaint and whitewashed and boxy, just like in the Greek postcards. Duncan signalled for us to follow him as he descended a set of stairs. We followed single file, water gushing around our feet as it flowed from the top of the hill down the town’s walkways and stairs. The rain relentlessly pounded us from above as we navigated steep steps and a reasonably sized flood.

And then I started laughing, at first a giggle and then a belly laugh. I couldn’t remember ever being wetter while fully clothed, and the whole situation was ridiculous. The laugh caught on, and the others joined in – even Duncan. So, there we were, seven laughing maniacs tromping into a flooded Greek village to have lunch – as you do! At the bottom of the valley, the town levelled out, and we entered a small courtyard. Its white walls were covered in thick ropey vines of bougainvillaea and hundreds of colourful flowers reached out to us in bright clumps. It was pretty, but I was so wet and cold, I could hardly care.

A woman appeared in a doorway, a smiling woman who looked like someone’s grandma – or YaYa as they say in Greece. She signalled vigorously for us to come in and we happily obeyed. Right inside the doorway, we gathered close to each other, dripping water onto the tiled floor of her little café. There were four tables, two long and two small, and at one of the small tables sat a man in a pair of trousers and a singlet, smoking. He read the paper and grunted at its content, ignoring the bedraggled septet in the doorway.

The woman didn’t ignore us, though. She fussed about, tutting at the state of us and eventually signalled for us to take a seat at one of the long tables. We filed around it, and I was delighted to see a heater affixed to the wall next to one of the chairs. I claimed that seat and slipped off my saturated sandals under the table in the hopes of warming up my poor toes.

Duncan explained how he always went there – every trip – because the food was so incredible and Martika – the smiling woman – was so nice. Martika had disappeared, and I hoped it was to get menus. I was starving. She returned, not with menus but with something better. A large stack of towels and clean, dry T-shirts. She motioned for us to dry off and get changed. Modesty was abandoned as we each did what was necessary to get into the dry shirts. I reminded myself that a bra was pretty much the same as a bikini top and that everyone had already seen me in one of those.