Throwing in one last bikini, I jumped up and down on top of my suitcase and, with a huge effort, heaved it shut.
It was August 1992 and aged 19, I couldn’t wait for my two-week trip to the Greek island of Kos.
Me and my two friends planned to find some bar work and enjoy a fortnight in the Greek sunshine.
And when we arrived, it didn’t disappoint.
Golden sand, sparkling blue sea, really friendly locals.
Standing in the pretty harbour town a few days later, I took in the beautiful whitewashed houses and the buzz of the markets.
In that moment, this place had captured my heart.
‘I’m not coming home,’ I
