We cycle back to the hotel in a neat line, spokes whirring, weaving through a patchwork of silver-green olive groves. In flat fields uninterrupted by high-rises or clunky machinery, the odd worker toils by hand in the evening sun, maintaining the grids of knarled, ancient trees, some with trunks as thick as oil drums.

<p data-t="{"n":"blueLinks"}">Skimming into the ivory-stone courtyard, we hand our bikes to a waiting attendant and slink off to the pool, bagging loungers next to none other than Downton Abbey’s Hugh Bonneville. My partner and I lazily raise our heads from our loungers as we spot him, but it’s no big shock. Of course Hugh’s here. He was across from us at the beach club yesterday.