My best holiday was when I went to Mykonos when I was eighteen, for three glorious weeks.
I'd somehow managed to save up for it myself, but a month before going was offered a job working as a wardrobe assistant on a film set, which paid fifty pounds a day, a fortune to me then. So rather than budgeting carefully, I had loads o' money to splash. A bonus, as it's notoriously expensive.
Mykonos was, and is, the most beautiful of the Greek islands, in my opinion. White washed windmills, flower strewn streets, and poodles wandering about in diamond collars.
As well as falling in love with the island, it was also the place I fell in love with someone else for the first time.
I made friends with some Austrian girls, and literally had the best three weeks of my life.
I returned at the end of September to go back to college, and someone I didn't know told my mum I looked like a Greek God, when she saw me walking down Union Road, all tanned, with my hair, which was long then, a la Greystoke film, bleached by the sun.
I've been back a few times since, but it never quite had the magic of my first visit.
The last time I went, I returned less Greek God, and more Demis Roussos.
I've been lucky enough to have travelled to many places in the world, but nowhere captures the excitment of that first trip to Mykonos.