It’s difficult leaving an island like Santorini, particularly if you’re returning to the smouldering shops of Manchester. I will never complain about 35°C again. Everything they say about it is true: it’s impossibly beautiful, and seems to get more breath-taking every time you turn a corner. We had a garden apartment with a sea view, like a little Barbary Lane with a sun terrace and jacuzzi on the roof. There were lazy days soaking up the rays and nights were spent in the stylish cave-bars and restaurants which cling to the cliffs, watching the cruise ships and shuttles glowing far beneath us like deep-sea creatures in the dark. You could be forgiven for thinking you’ve woken up on the set of Mama Mia, and the sunsets looked like something out of a movie. I left my heart in San Francisco, but my flip-flops belong to Santorini.
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