Oprah, Steven Spielberg, Madonna, Giorgio Armani and Rafael Nadal have all visited

We soon fell into a rhythm at our villa. It broadly centred around slathering George with suncream, dancing around to Ezra Collective, stopping him from slipping into the swimming pool, wiping Weetabix splodges off the floor, and then savouring those precious 120 minutes of nap-time like sun-soaked sips of champagne. Passing visitors, like hairy mountain goats and a leafshaped cricket the size of my hand, brought little moments of wonder.

When we invariably had the itch to explore, we visited the many bays and beach bars across Meganisi, but we tended to centre back on Vathy. There are lots of harbours in Greece with this name (which means “depth”), but Meganisi’s could be the prettiest iteration. Along the waterfront there is a lemon-yellow Orthodox church and little supermarkets selling imported products like Provencal rosé and baked beans to people like, well, me. At the family-run Stavros restaurant, we were served a perfect smoky grilled sea bream and George was treated less like a king and more like some kind of infant deity. One waiter planted the gentlest kiss on his head when he learnt they shared a name.

On our last day, at the crack of dawn we drove to Limonari Beach, a horseshoe bay with a ramshackled snack bar selling grilled fish, caught by the owner. Otherwise we had it all to ourselves, and we were surprised when George seemed to enjoy sitting in the shallows, picking up sunbleached white pebbles while his toes wiggled in the sea. The waves that washed up to his tummy were making him smile. And then he stood up and toddled into the water, holding Olivia’s hands before climbing into her arms. This was his first time submerged in the sea, with the hazy hills of Kalamos in the distance, translucent fish zipping below. No superyacht, no private island, is worth more than a moment like that.