She placed a worn wooden cutting board on the table, and on it were several apples cut into eighths. Next to the pile of apple pieces was a block of hard, salted cheese. By this stage we didn’t need to ask – she grew the apples and she made the cheese. Despite my engorged state, I reached for a few slices of apple and a piece of cheese. They were both delicious, especially together. I told my groaning stomach to shush as I took another bite.

Even though the meal was winding down, the chatter continued in a lively manner, and I found myself watching the group, slightly detached. I knew I was stone-cold sober, because all I’d had to drink was Coke – albeit the diet version, which in larger-than-normal quantities can make me go a little loopy lala – but I felt all warm inside like you do after a couple of glasses of wine. And then I realised why. I was happy. Not only that, I loved these people – these irreverent, hilarious, caring, fun people – people who were strangers to me less than a week before. At that moment, those people became my family.

When we emerged from our three-hour-long lunch – yes, three hours is how long it takes to eat the best meal you’ve ever had – the clouds were gone, the sun was out, and all the flood waters had receded. It was like a completely different day. Martika saw us off, and I hugged her as a thank you for the lovely food. Of course, we paid her – a ridiculously small amount considering the feast she had served us – but she had shown us great kindness and had been a gracious hostess, so hugs were in order too.

The others then crowded around to give her hugs and she waved as we began the slow ascent back to our scooters. It took a little longer than you might expect for reasonably fit and relatively young people, but in our defence, we were all suffering from chronic overeating. I just wanted to take a nap. We finally made it to the top of the town and assembled around our scooters. Josh got his travel towel out of our scooter’s small storage compartment and dried the seat, the helmets and the handlebars.

‘Hey, Duncan?’ asked Gary.

‘Yeah, mate?’

‘So, are we heading back to the marina now?’ I could have kissed him right then for saying what I was thinking. Six pairs of eyes looked expectantly at Duncan, including Gerry’s. Thank goodness I wasn’t the only one who wanted to crawl onto my bunk and have an afternoon snooze.

‘You don’t want to go to Halki, to the distillery?’ Duncan asked, directing the question to the whole group.

A chorus of mumbled responses ensued. ‘Heading back would be okay.’ ‘Only if you wanted to.’ ‘The distillery’s okay if it’s just for a little while.’