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One of the greatest things about travelling, is when you finally reach your destination, you can lay all your previous preconceptions to rest. I can’t speak for everyone, but it’s been my experience that a place is very seldom how you imagine it to be from the safety of your living room, or staring at a brochure.

For the package holidaymaker, this isn’t always a pleasant surprise. For the independent traveller however, it’s perfect. What would a trip be like without stumbling off the beaten track, without being amazed by the locals, or without staring in wonder at sites which you never expected were so grand or so awe-inspiring - or so inconsequential?

I have never felt this more than in Mykonos. No guidebook could have prepared me for the silent, statuesque windmills overlooking the harbour; the vibrant whiteness of the Paraportiani as it hangs against the backdrop of the unbelievably blue sky, the overwhelming friendliness of the locals, and the astonishing depth of character of the cobblestone village.

To wander aimlessly through the labyrinth of narrow streets, as if woven by some drunken spider, is to experience further surprises. Rounding a corner I came face to face with Petros the Pelican. Pink and proud, he is the town mascot, synonymous with Mykonos.

Coffee shops in hidden alcoves permeated with the aroma of freshly roasted beans, secluded private gardens, so colourful they look like a floral canvas, and steep stone steps leading to tiny apartments framed by deep purple bougainvillaea.

Finally, discovering a slightly more crowded street and heading downhill to the harbour, we find the fruit market in full swing. Timeless locals in traditional gear stand behind piles of tomatoes, kiwifruit and melons, selling their wares. Travellers, tourists and townsfolk gather around, bartering and chattering and waving their hands in giant gestures of comradeship.

The waterfront is covered with sprawling white-roofed restaurants and red checked tablecloths. Sounds of cutlery tinkle in the background amidst shouts from waiters, and laughter from the diners. Moustached men huddle round tables in the sun, drinking Ouzo and playing backgammon. Their way of life remains unchanged.

Staring across the bay, the island of Delos lies hauntingly still; it’s dry ground sweltering in hot summer heat. According to Greek mythology, Delos was revealed from the waves when Lito, chased by Zeus's wife, Hera, could not find a place to give birth to Apollo and Artemis. Zeus asked Poseidon to help and he revealed a small rocky island called Delos, a word which means revealed or shown.

Half expecting a pile of rubble, which turned out to be a grievous misconception, we boarded the ferry to Delos. What I didn’t expect was to find an ancient village, decorated with murals, marble floors, aqueducts and a sacred lake; surrounded by dying trees and imposing statues that looked like they could have been sculptured by the gods themselves.

Dumbstruck, we stared in wonder. There was three hours before the ferry left again; not nearly enough time to fully appreciate the hallowed site. An archaeological dig was in progress on the northern side of the island. Slowly, and patiently, a sacrificial altar was being revealed to the world after centuries of being covered by dirt and stone and sheep droppings.

Hearts thumping we walked through the broken archways and up the stone steps to what used to be the central square. Walking in the footsteps of the ancients some living between 1600 – 1500 BC is a completely humbling experience and one I will never forget.

The museum was equally surprising, but time was running out, and just as we’d rounded the corner where the last headless statue of Zeus stood towering over the courtyard, the ferry blew it’s horn three times, the wind grew cold, and we rushed back to the landing.

Flying out of Mykonos airport, on route back to westernisation, I’m left with a faraway view of the long Aegean, rocky hilltops, scattered villages and an experience that far exceeded my expectations.