Living in the much sought-after city of London – a mere freckle on the face of the world – is hectic; there is truth in comparing this place to speedy Gonzales on a 24/7 bender – where respite only occurs late on Sunday afternoons. And in an age where it’s easier to be a sheep, so impressionable, we all get hooked on this London buzz.

Well, not this little fishy. In a bid to retain 100 per cent sanity, I did what a staggering amount of people are afraid to do - I booked two weeks holiday: destination far, far away.

After a full day’s travel, give or take a few hours, I’d bartered my way to my destination - a tiny island in the Indian Ocean, home to no more than 300 natives. Arriving as the sun was setting at six, the trials and tribulations of London life were thousands of miles away. Literally.

From the moment I stepped off the London equivalent of a rickshaw on water, I felt more at home than I usually do at my home home. The hospitable nature in which the islanders welcomed me was next level; and I don’t mean the way one reality TV show contestant meets another. The sincerity with which I, a total stranger, was greeted shone through.

But, you may argue, the same thing happens when you walk into a pretentious London club or restaurant, and I concur. The difference being though that the club or restaurant goes on a charm offence merely to secure: a) a big fat tip and b) your custom in the future. On my holiday island, this was not the case – they knew of no other way to behave. Pride for the island life they and their ancestors had built - that’s what fuelled their enthusiasm towards my presence. Not money. Leaving my wallet on the boat only for it to be returned to me by a concerned and out of breath young boy is testament to that.

I felt privileged to be on their paradisiacal island, and the islanders were pleased to have me stay. Already, I didn’t want to leave…and I hadn’t seen daytime yet.

Two weeks drifted by, the majority of which, I was comatose. Sun stained beaches, freshly caught Red Snapper, turquoise blue seas, lovingly crafted beach huts, no alarm clock, holiday playlists (my sole luxury item)…snorkelling, a giant turtle, sunrises, chilled Bintangs, bare feet, tropical downpours, solitude…sunshine banana pancakes, coral fresh sea breezes, fishing, no Facebook, horse and carts, Kangkung Pelecing, sunsets, and a handful of football-crazed children.

Bliss.

Effortlessly tranquil by day, boasting a galaxy of shooting stars by night, the island’s beauty lay in its natural ‘no botox’ existence. Yes, the islanders were aware of the world that I come from (their knowledge of English football was better than mine) but they were happy with their lives – how many Londoners are content with theirs?

One ferry, two bus rides, and a flight via Singapore later, not forgetting a ‘Nasi Goreng’ or three, and I was back at Heathrow terminal three. Was I sad? No. A break from reality did me a world of good. And I had a tan to match the tales too, which is why we all go on holiday, right?

Were I to grade myself out of 10 for how well travelled I am thus far, I think I’d get a modest five: “Shows a willingness to learn in class but needs to broaden his horizons. Has potentially peaked too early.” This was my first trip out of Europe, and a remote, unspoilt corner of South East Asia will be difficult to beat.

More or less unheard of when I arrived, that’s how I’d like it to remain. Call it my secret island.

By Mike Christensen/MOLI