Drier – we were all still wearing our wet shorts – and warmer, we sipped the soft drinks Martika had brought to the table. It turned out there were no menus. She would bring food to the table – whatever she had prepared that day – until we were full. While she bustled around her tiny kitchen, we nibbled on her home-made bread, which we dipped in her home-pressed olive oil, and both were so good I nearly cried with joy.

Three large bowls of horiatiki appeared next. She pointed to the thick slabs of feta sitting atop the salads, each one drizzled in olive oil and sprinkled with fresh oregano. Then she pointed to her chest. Even though I knew she didn’t speak any English, I blurted out, ‘You made the feta?’ She seemed to understand and nodded. She smiled as she watched us take big helpings and then went back to the kitchen. ‘Holy crap, can you believe she makes her own feta?’ I asked my tablemates.

There were no replies; everyone was already stuffing their mouths. I did the same. Remember how I said that the Greeks grow the best tomatoes in the world? Well, as soon as I took a bite of that salad, I knew Martika grew the best tomatoes in Greece, which made hers the best of the best.

As we drew near to the bottom of the three bowls, she came back to the table with a vat of tzatziki, a pile of steaming hot pita bread, and an enormous platter of roasted meat. After a series of Old McDonald’s Farm-style noises and actions, and quite a bit of laughter, we arrived at the conclusion it was goat. It looked delicious and it tasted even better. I glanced over at Hannah who was on my left. ‘Gonna try the goat?’ She had screwed up her nose the last time we’d ordered it.

‘Hell yeah,’ she said, heaping a pile onto her plate. I must have looked a little shocked, because she added, ‘Starving!’ and then tucked in. She moaned shortly after, so I guessed she’d been converted.

‘So,’ I said to Marie and Gary between bites. ‘You guys are going to Paris next?’

‘Yes!’ exclaimed Marie. ‘We’re having our do-over trip.’

‘Oh, why’s that?’ asked Hannah, coming up for air between bites of meat.

‘Last time we were there, it was a disaster,’ said Gary.

‘To start, I had the flu,’ said Marie. ‘I’d felt it coming on before we left London on the Eurostar, so I’d stocked up on cold and flu tablets and lots of the other good drugs. But it was bad. By the time we got to the hotel, it was coming out both ends, with snot everywhere. Sorry to say that while we’re eating, but not only did I feel like hell, I also looked horrendous – not exactly how you want to spend a Parisian holiday with your handsome husband.’