A holiday sans parents is an adventure that any young person craves. Unfortunately overprotective mothers and an unwillingness to fork out from one's own pocket delays the annually discussed event summer after summer. Independent-types (or is that anti-parent-types?) long dream about that gap-year helping poverty stricken children in Nepal, or washing down elephants in Ghana, but that kind of travel does not appeal to one such as me.  That sounds far too much like hard work for my liking.  I prefer a two-week (or three to those who pushed for overtime in the local pub) getaway, somewhere very hot and very Mediterranean, where I can bask on a sun-drenched beach with a copy of Bridget Jones' Diary by day, and paint the town red by night.  This may seem like a holiday nightmare for those who prefer action and adventure, but hey, all young Brits are the same at heart aren't they? Lazy days and lots of alcohol, just like at home, but somewhere really hot. Perfect.

The hyperactive, sweaty jostle of somewhere like Ibiza, that most opt for, has never appealed to me, and quite frankly, I'm bored of hearing about that island.  Instead I chose the Greek Islands, the island of Zakynthos in particular, also know as Zante. Situated in the Ionian Islands, a stone throw away from Cephallonia (perfect for island-hopping, but too small and quiet for my liking), and not too far away from mainland Greece (in case a strong desire for shopping and city-sights comes on unexpectedly, I am female after all), I decided Zakynthos would be the perfect choice for my first trip to Greece.

Arriving at the island's tiny airport, not unlike a bus station, at 6.20am, my friend and I were greeted by a group of Greek coach drivers in the midst of a heated row.  When motioning that our luggage needed to be deposited into the coach, the driver, with a look of death and a few words probably translating into "Go away you annoying English tourists, do I look like a donkey?", proceeded to throw our cases into the boot.  My excitement was dampened a little by this incident, I must say, but was wholly revived when the sun came up (and our heads from our pillows in a similar fashion), and we took our first daylight view of the island.  It was beautiful and bright, everything that a summer in England was not.  Brilliant.

A midday walk to the local shop proved that mothers sometimes do know best and I was wise to pack lots of suncream.  After 30 minutes outside, both of my arms were bright red and not unlike fish sticks.   Our pre-booked two weeks had coincided with Greece's infamous summer 2000 heatwave.  Thankfully it wasn't so hot as to start the fires which had scorched half of mainland Greece, but the island had reached an all time high of 47º Celsius.  A far cry from the Midlands' July temperatures.  This blistering heat increased a much-needed desire to get to the nearest beach and dive into the water. Picture a steam-rising effect as we belly-flopped into the glorious sea.

One excursion recommended by our tour operator was a boat trip to Marathonissi, or the 'Turtle Island'. Zakynthos is home to the endangered 'Caretta Caretta' turtles that live and breed within its' waters.  A glass-bottomed boat would take us from the island to the nearby uninhabited Turtle Island where we would anchor for two hours to enjoy the calm of a paradise-esque island.  En route to Marathonissi, the driver frequently stopped and shouted "caretta caretta" (meaning 'turtle' in Greek), pointing into the water.  The turtles were mammoth and covered in barnacles. They seemed oblivious to the gawping tourists above, pointing and cooing as if at the zoo. Our turtle viewing was cut short somewhat by a small boy who was so excited by the creatures that he failed to notice our boat, and almost swam headfirst into it, repeatedly.  After a few annoyed gesticulations from the driver, we carried on to Marathonissi. The island was serene and tranquil, a mixture of turquoise seas, white sands, and lush nature. Unfortunately, the mini-sand storm dampened our utopian daydreams, and we boarded the boat two hours later feeling as though we had over done it a tad with the exfoliator.

Back on Zakynthos, we decided it was time for a much-needed dose of the island's renowned nightlife.  Our resort, Laganas, is infamous for its' 'Golden Mile' stretch of bars and clubs.  On first glimpse, you could be mistaken for thinking you were in Blackpool, with its bright lights and pumping British chart tunes, but as your eyes mist over from copious amounts of Apelia, you are oblivious to the familiar chants of "football's coming home!" emerging from the depths of the numerous bars.  My friend and I agreed it was a little too familiar for our liking, and headed to a Greek nightclub called Cameo.  It was unique from the other clubs in that it was on its' own tiny island that could only be accessed from a 100 yard-long wooden bridge that ran over the water.  As we walked over the planks, we humoured ourselves thinking of how many drunken people had fallen off before reaching the other side.  Once at the top of the steps, the dance floor, set into the rocks, pumped out Greek chart music, and heaved with sweaty Greek youths.  Fantastic.  An adjacent bar, covered in palm trees overhead, provided our cocktails whilst we demurely surveyed the local youths desperately attempting to recall their school-taught English to impress a group of English lasses. Oblivious to the amused sideways glances the girls were giving each other, the youths persisted, but became bored after 20 minutes of the girls' frequent exclamations of "what?" and "I can not understand you", and they moved on to the next group of unsuspecting females.  My friend and I amused ourselves once again by discussing the similarities of a night out at home.  As dawn beckoned, so did our beds, and we called it a night and crawled home. As the end of our fourteen days on Zakynthos crept to a close, we realised that we were really going to miss it. We had grown accustomed to the heat, moulded ourselves into the sand, and cried with laughter at the local Greek lads' attempts at pulling. Some things never change, no matter what part of the world you are in.

After an evenings hard work in the local pub, or a busy Saturday in a shoe shop, or whatever method you choose to earn your cash, a holiday sans parents in the sun-drenched Mediterranean waters is definitely unmissable.

First printed in Leicester University's newspaper, Ripple, 30th October 2000