Twenty-Four Hours in Kefalonia

I think it's important to separate the tourist from the local when talking about a country. I am not Kefalonian, not even Greek.

I have been to Kefalonia on three occasions, and believe that I can write accurately about my experiences there, but I can not claim to truly know this land.

The impressions of a tourist can never compare to those of a local. Yes, it is nice to visit Venice, or London, or Cape Town. To stay in air-conditioned hotels, and eat out in nice restaurants.

But what is it like to live and work there? Are the cloudless skies quite as welcome when you're in an office for 8 hours? Are the canals as enjoyable when you're late for work?

But I suspect even the most miserable Kefalonian would admit their island is special.

My first two visits to Kefalonia were as a child in the 90s. I know that one visit was in June 1998 because I remember watching England lose to Argentina in the World Cup in a taverna. Crying into my stifado as Beckham saw red.

During an earlier holiday, my sister had an ear infection, so we had to take daily trips into Argostoli, the capital, to see a Greek doctor.

His office was just off the main square, and while my mum (who spoke very limited Greek) took her to the doctor, my dad took me to a cafe on the square for breakfast.

It was fairly simple: Greek yoghurt, with fresh strawberries, and Greek honey, and it was perhaps the best thing I ever ate as a child. I've tried to recreate it hundreds of times.

I've bought multiple different Greek yoghurts (actual Greek yoghurts, not Greek-style), I've tried every variation of Greek honey I can, and all different fruits, but nothing can ever be as creamy and indulgent as that breakfast.

So, we're starting our day with that breakfast.

The funny thing is, I went to Kefalonia a couple of years ago, and while the yoghurt, fruit, and honey breakfasts I had were almost as good, they couldn't quite recreate that magical first breakfast.

So, if we're talking a perfect day, you'll want to head back to 1995 or 98 with me. Or, maybe it only works if a sibling has an ear infection? Maybe try both.

After breakfast, I'm going to want to do some sightseeing, and Kefalonia has a lot to offer.

Melissani Lake is probably the island's most famous attraction, and it is well worth visiting. But, for my perfect day, I'd rather take a taxi through the mountainous roads to the Venetian Castle of Assos.

The castle is mostly ruins now, thanks to the earthquake of 1953, but what remains is mightily impressive.

You walk up a well-maintained stone path that offers sublime views of the turquoise waters and white sands of Assos beach. Surrounding the path are pine trees, keeping you in shade as you slowly reach the summit of the hill.

Along the way are ruined walls, abandoned cannons, and views over the Ionian Sea that will take your breath away.

After that, I'd recommend lunch in a nearby taverna. Sit outside, under the shade of the bougainvillaea, with a frosted glass of Mythos, some rustic bread, some loukanika, olives, tsatsiki, taramasalata, and fried saganaki.

After taking a taxi back, I'm going to indulge myself further and return to the Metaxata apartments where I spent my 90s holidays.

Cool, tiled floors, large beds with tightly fitted sheets, and stunning views from the balconies. The perfect time for a quick swim before dinner.

And then finally, the main meal.

There are hundreds of tavernas in Kefalonia. And I am sure that a local could point out many that are better than my choice, but my choice is driven by nostalgia and love.

I'm not sure what the taverna was called in 1998, but I'm fairly sure of its location, and there is a taverna in that same spot called Xylofurnos Traditional Family Taverna, and I'm going there.

Which means, I guess, that you're going there too.

But Xylofurnos is just a representation; it could be any taverna. I just want to be back in 1998, trying Kefalonian meat pie for the first time, and surprising my parents when saying that I love it.

I want Greek chips, a wonderfully flattened version of a British chip, with salt and oregano on it.

I want Greek salads, with a large slab of feta placed on top, and vinegar and olive oil bottles placed alongside paper napkins. And large bottles of cold water, condensation running down their sides, poured into small glasses.

I want the insistent beat of the cicada, the warmth of the night air, and the buzz of other tourists drinking Kephalonian robola out of shallow wine glasses.

Give me that, with a shot of Metaxa afterwards, and then a short walk back to my apartment, and I will be a contented man.