![]() ![]() It is still not ours, not quite, only two-thirds built and carpeted throughout with dried goat droppings. ![]() It has been four since I spotted our dream house, on top of a cliff with the most ludicrously spectacular view of Fokos, a horseshoe-shaped beach off a beaten track in the north of the Greek island. It was 10 years ago that we started summering in Mykonos. Meanwhile, weaving its knowledgeable way through the low-slung tables, where pewter buckets of icy rosé and plates of fried calamari have been set down, is a golden retriever with a faded red bandana around its neck. The Cycladean answer to Padstow, if you will, with the dusty car park full of windsurfer boards being hoisted into the backs of Jeeps as lunch segues into happy hour. Shoulders the colour of conkers, pareos fashioned from Louis Vuitton leopard-print scarves, diamonds, a conspicuous lack of make-up and perfect masculine top knots. The crowd? Distinctly Athenian beach bum. A sprawling, reed-thatched shack dotted with swaying pumpkin-gourd lamps, pulsing slightly with sounds from the still-chilled DJ set.
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