I went with my parents to Cephalonia last month.

We meandered north, where winding roads hang over slashed cliffs that wet their long feet in glorious sparkling waters, and goats appear unannounced (‘holy!’) in your lane, staring at the approaching car and wondering what has happened to the world these past millennia.  

My dad rode shotgun and had several heart attacks. 

We stayed the first two days at a village permanently scarred by people like us — fleeting and with no connection to the daily routine. I tried to learn about its past but the few public information boards looked older than history; their letters written with the sun's invisible ink. 

‘Why don’t you try the Internet?’ said my mom, an expert in cutting the Gordian knot.  

Our second accommodation, at the other side of the island, was a complete upgrade: better pillows, better views, and butter in the fridge. We surrendered to this new place instinctively and remained its hostages for the rest of our trip. 

On our way back to the airport we stopped to buy honey, because nothing sells a product more than relentless advertising buzz from its makers.