THE British lie glued to their books, heads down like so many donkeys feeding from stalls.

Eyes to the front, eager noses in the third chapter of Larry's Party, pupils darting with that glint of expectation for when the mucky bits inevitably arrive.

Acres of flesh in various stages of cooking, all coated in a mixture of Ambre Solaire and volcanic sand particles. Reddening snouts in the literary trough.

This might as well be the waiting room at Crewe station, but it's not. It couldn't be more removed in fact, for this is the nearest to paradise we're ever likely to encounter this side of the Styx.

I choose my river with care, for we are on the site of one of the world's oldest civilisations and so it is appropriate that I draw from the vast well of mythology that is all around us.

Although, looking at the clientele, this could be a cross between Hampstead Heath and Monmouth Bay at Lyme Regis on a balmy British Bank Holiday Monday.

Here in the Greek islands, one is spoiled by the sheer profusion of shangri-la as opposed to la-de-da which is so often the case in more select parts these days. But I'm not complaining, even if the world and his proverbial wife seem to be coming here in ever-growing numbers.

This shrinking corner of the planet now seems to be completely the domain of the young. And, already, my middle-aged body has been sorely tested.

To arrive at this island of dreams has necessitated a journey by boat skippered by a Greek who looks a cross between Captain Quint of Jaws and one of those enormous Mexicans who always end up shot to bits by Clint Eastwood in the Dollars westerns.

You know what I mean. A few seconds of out-of-sync voice over-dubbing before five of Clint's red-hot slugs part one particularly paunchy poncho.

This guy, however, does not take any prisoners. Our first task, to snorkel over 20 feet of blue water without my rubber ring, provides the leering El Capitan with his first major mirthful distraction.

I would be the first to admit that my physique is not exactly Arnold Schwarzenegger, but it is not my fault that my frame has the hue and texture of a maggot that's been left too long in the angler's bait box.

Sensing national pride and honour is at stake, my riposte, while adequate, falls together with the anchor to the bottom of the Ionian Sea. You see, I don't like swimming out of my depth, which may come as a bit of a surprise to some of you.

No, hot water's my speciality and I never pay any heed to the temperature. Pile on the coals, please, the more the merrier.

But I know my rightful element, so after 10 minutes of treading water, I haul myself back on deck. Humiliation over - for the time being.

The cheerleader on the boat is called John. I imagine it's something like Geordie John as he's from Newcastle and if he's not a former NCO, then I'm Richard Gere. There is just the hint of the parade ground about him, a touch of the colour sergeant.

What's your name lad? Phillpott, colour sergeant. And where are you from, Phillpott? Worcester, colour sergeant. There are only two things to come out of Worcester, Phillpott, and that's steers and queers. And I don't see any horns, Phillpott...

They make a good double act, these two. Hail-well-met, but don't even think about mucking about with them.

The boat arrives at Leisure Island guided by a school of dolphins, eager to pilot their human friends through the shipwreck-littered shallows of the intriguingly titled Murderess Reef. All right, a bit of exaggeration. But we have seen dolphins and also a Minoan period wreck's remains through the glass bottom of our ship, the Golden Fleece.

Today I am Odysseus, sailing the Seven Seas in search of danger and adventure. Sadly, today the greatest peril will probably be burning the roof of my mouth with a barbecue kebab, but that's not the point.

For when a man is tired of fantasising, a man is tired of life. Doctor Johnson said something like that my friends. You learn something every Tuesday with the Phillpott File.

The boat has successfully negotiated the treacherous reefs, but must hove-to 60 yards from the shore to avoid running aground. In a scene redolent of Saving Private Ryan, the Golden Fleece regurgitates its human cargo into the briny and we struggle ashore, bags held aloft.

The waves lap our necks as a steady spitting line of machine gun bullets flick up sand and foam. The Captain is prostrate in the water, he must have been hit. Someone has to assume command, Geordie John is nowhere to be seen, so it's down to me. Come on everyone, forwa-a-a-a-a-rd!

All this sun seems to have gone to my head. I've forgotten which film set we're supposed to be on. Ah, yes. Agamemnon And The Gilded Daughters Of Aphrodite... no, hang on, it's Carry On Up The Acropolis.

The sea is full of large fish and out-of-condition British people. The fish have their excuse but what about the other lot? It has to be said that the game of volleyball that has been going on for the last two hours will not significantly reduce the acreage of a single waistline.

The squeals of delight floating back from the tideline don't mean anything, either. It's an established fact that we Brits become racked with guilt about anything that remotely resembles enjoyment.

As the Captain says - you'll all be back around the fireside in England soon, so don't be so boring. Go on you staid Brits, play volleyball and that way you'll be ready for lunch when it's ready.

Yes, when it comes. The third member of the crew is some nameless Hellenic oppo who has now poured on to the fire enough petrol to fuel the entire Greek Navy.

Three people on the sands downwind of these experiments with the properties of combustion are now blacker than chimney sweeps. Maybe we're stranded and this helpful little chap is actually sending smoke signals.

The Captain's just asked for volunteers to help out on the salad table. It's a case of all hands on deck to man the lumps. Only Poseidon himself knows what this salad will turn out like, for by now nearly everyone is coated in the dark, fine builders'-type sand that makes up this beach.

This afternoon, we have been told to expect a mud-wallowing session once our lunch has gone down. Apparently, the island's primaeval slime has curative properties. It may indeed cure everything up to and including the common cold, but there is one feat of which it is not capable.

And that is, come hell or high water on this island Garden Of Eden, nothing but nothing will seemingly prise that cluster of defiant Brits by the shingle to take their noses out of their beloved books.

Ah well. We'll soon be out of this nasty sun and back in Britain where the cold wind always blows and there's enough books to stop us thinking too long about our brief life on Leisure Island one long, hot summer's day just a short time ago.