We cycle back to the hotel in a neat line, spokes whirring, weaving through a patchwork of silver-green olive groves. In flat fields uninterrupted by high-rises or clunky machinery, the odd worker toils by hand in the evening sun, maintaining the grids of knarled, ancient trees, some with trunks as thick as oil drums.
Skimming into the ivory-stone courtyard, we hand our bikes to a waiting attendant and slink off to the pool, bagging loungers next to none other than Downton Abbey’s Hugh Bonneville. My partner and I lazily raise our heads from our loungers as we spot him, but it’s no big shock. Of course Hugh’s here. He was across from us at the beach club yesterday.
