By the middle of November the last charter flight leaves, and Mykonos performs its annual disappearing act: from a hundred thousand people a day to the ten thousand who actually live here. The island that remains is, whisper it, many locals’ favourite version.

What winter looks like

Chora’s lanes belong to cats and grandmothers. A handful of kafeneia stay open around the farmers’ square, serving hunters and fishermen from six in the morning. The sea turns serious — winter storms send waves clean over the Little Venice balconies — and between the storms come still, crystalline days when you can see every stone on Tinos across the channel.

This is also when the island eats best. The fish that summer visitors pay festival prices for — red mullet, grouper, spiny lobster — costs half as much and tastes twice as good, and the winter tavernas of Ano Mera cook it for a dining room of neighbours.

The hotel sleeps through it all under fresh tarpaulins, dreaming of April. If you are tempted by the shoulder seasons this letter describes, May and October are the closest a guest can get — and the booking page knows exactly which dates we wake up.