Ann's entry: A lingering ambition to visit Crete was finally realised, but we sought more than the well stocked mini-bars, isolating air conditioning and swimming pools of glitzy hotels. Not for us popular tourist beaches idolised by the tour companies, where a crush of humanity, glistening with coconut scented sun lotion, sprawled near-naked on scorching sands. We wanted the soul of Crete. Without transport, our legs were our conveyance. In a heat filled morning’s walk, we stumbled across the original town, ignored by the tour brochures and relegated to a poor cousin to the sparkling new town built with tourist riches. There were no sightseers in this forgotten backwater save for us. Only elderly men and black clad women perched precariously on wooden benches lining narrow footpaths. Some leaned hands and chins on walking sticks carved from ancient olive trees. Time was of no consequence to them or us. Let the visitors bake themselves to a crisp by day and drink and dance the night away. The townsfolk greeted us with a friendly nod, or wave of a sun-creased hand. Narrow streets, constructed for nothing wider or faster than a donkey, were a cool, quiet respite from the ceaseless heat of the sun and noise of the new resort town. Houses clustered intimately together on every available piece of earth. This was no classic Greek architecture of renown, but simple structures constructed of local stone to house the common citizens. A darkened doorway opened into a whisper-quiet taverna cooled only by clever construction. Strangely the cellar temperature wine and beer were delicious and our hostess, a replica of the town elders outside, ushered us to a table. Her pleasure at serving us was obvious from her tone of voice and gestures that needed no translation. She offered us Greek delicacies to accompany our drinks at no charge. The traditional slug of free Retsina when the bill was paid brought tears to my partner’s eyes as it hit the back of the throat. Our serendipitous find became a regular haunt for us and we harboured a secret pleasure it was not mentioned in the travel brochures. Geoff's entry: Our plane bounced into Colombo. We were soon ingesting fumes on the grimy back seat of a motorised supermarket trolley bound for The Galaxy. The driver smothered us with boisterous charm and an immense desire to organise the rest of our lives. Within the hour he’d dumped us off at the hotel and we were planning our own itinerary. The Galaxy was unnervingly dismal and cramped. Wandering outside, we came across Victoria Park whose elaborately ornate gates led us into a haven of beauty and tranquility. A man claiming to be head gardener Williams sidled up and took pride in showing us his rare exotic plants. As he clambered through them to provide us with a sackful of cuttings, we gazed up at some majestic trees towering above us. We were amazed at the enormous size of the weird fruit hanging from the branches. Each was two feet long. The branches sagged under them. Asked what they were, Williams chuckled, “Wait till 7 o’clock’. Scrutinising the fruit which now seemed to be stretching and shuddering, we finally realized we were in the presence of flying foxes, or fruit bats. Their heads were tucked under gigantic, sinister wings. As 7 o’clock approached, the wings started flapping, creating a rustling which spread through the park. We gaped as the bats finally released the branches and took to the air, stirring others until the trees seemed to be dancing. Soon a dense cloud of thousands of bats filled the sky. They swept back and forth for 20 minutes, obliterating the setting sun and swooping low overhead until they sped swiftly away towards the south. We were simply in awe. Williams broke the spell, “They’ll be back at 8.30 after dinner”. We later consulted guide books: no mention of bats. Had we imagined them? Sally's entry: We were at a loose end in southern Brittany, casting around for entertainment at the dog-end of a two-week holiday. Someone suggested taking one of the hundreds of ferry boats chugging out of the harbour at L'Orient, and we duly boarded a boat to the Ile de Groix. We knew nothing about the island beyond the fact that it was very small. There seemed to be a lot of bicycle-hire shops at the picture-postcard harbour, so we took the hint and got some wheels. We set off up a punishing one in five gradient and sweatily it dawned on us that we were cycling around a mountain on top of a cliff. We were just wondering why anyone would do such a thing when we turned a corner, and realised what it was all about. Rolling out in front of us at the foot of a sandstone cliff was quite simply the most beautiful and perfect beach I have ever seen. Pure, white, impossibly clean sand was punctured here and there by granite rocks smoothed by the sun into friendly, inviting hummocks. The waves lapped at the gentle incline, bathing the ankles of a sun-drunk couple strolling languidly through the shallows. They turned out to be the only other people on the beach - and this in July. There was just enough shade to shelter from the heat: just enough sunny spots to warm the toes. The kids had rocks to potter among when they got bored, complete with crystal-clear rockpools in which obligingly interesting blobs of life skittered around among gaudily coloured weed. It seemed to go on forever, twisting sinuously around the foot of the cliffs, each inlet more perfect than the last, and more deserted. It turned out that this was the beach the French forgot. Even the Bretons don't know about it, let alone the Parisians strutting their stuff on the far more popular - and far less pleasant - L'Armor Plages on the beach front in L'Orient. Let's hear it for obscurity, I say. We're going again next year.