I’ve realised that islands are my happy place — and I don’t think I’m alone.
First of all, islands have edges. Proper, physical edges. You can walk to them. Stand at them. Stare dramatically out to sea like you’re in a sweeping movie montage. There’s something deeply comforting about knowing the world stops at the shoreline. An ocean in every direction and a breeze that seems to whisper, “You can relax now.”
The delicious isolation
When I holiday on an island, I instantly feel lighter. Maybe it’s psychological — water as a boundary, separating me from real life. Emails can’t swim. Laundry piles dissolve in salt air. On the mainland, life feels sprawling and busy. On an island, it shrinks to something manageable: swim, eat, nap, repeat.
Of course, island stories don’t always go smoothly. We grew up watching the cast of Gilligan’s Island attempt to get off their tropical paradise with increasingly questionable engineering plans.
And let’s not forget Mamma Mia!, where everyone lives on a Greek island and somehow resolves complex life questions through ABBA songs. I can confirm my holidays are less spontaneous choreographed numbers — though give me a good tune in the background and a margarita and I won’t rule it out.
Image – Mamma Mia! (2008). Copyright Littlestar Productions/Playtone.
Simplicity is the point
One of the things I love most about island holidays is how simple life becomes. You pack less. You need less. You rotate between two pairs of sandals and suddenly that feels entirely sufficient. There’s usually one main street, a handful of cafés, and a rhythm to the day that revolves around tides and sunset rather than traffic.
As a solo traveller, that simplicity feels safe. It’s easy to get your bearings.
“If you were stranded on a desert island…”
Islands also tap into that classic question: If you were stranded on a desert island, what would you take?
I’ve always loved this question. Not because I actually want to test my survival skills (I draw the line at building my own shelter), but because it’s a brilliant little mirror. Strip life back to one or two items and suddenly your priorities become very clear.
Would you take something practical? A knife? A solar-powered gadget? Or something sentimental — a photo, a book, a piece of music? The question quietly forces you to consider what really matters when all the clutter falls away. It’s a reminder that most of what fills our homes — and our mental space — isn’t essential at all.
When I’m on an island holiday, I feel like I’m gently living that question.
