Shanti town

I'm on the Greek island of Skyros, trying to decide whether I'd benefit more from a course entitled Tender Toughness than I would from one entitled Trusting Your Inner Words of Wisdom. Tricky one, this.

The poet Maya Angelou reckons that "strength lined with tenderness is an unbeatable combination", and if it's good enough for Maya it's good enough for me. On the other hand, while I pride myself on listening to my inner words of wisdom, it's usually when that inner voice is telling me to endlessly analyse Britney's "comeback" performance on YouTube. In bed. While eating cold pepperoni pizza. Clearly there is much work to be done in the inner-voice department.

The decision is made for me in the end. My boyfriend fancies investigating tender toughness, and for some strange reason he thinks I might impede his progress if I also attend. Later that week I ask how he's getting on in the Zen Circle, where the course is being held. He makes two paws with his hands and roars like a lion. A good sign.

As I sit chanting with 10 others on the shaded terrace in our temporary home of Atsitsa Bay, I'm glad I opted to listen to my inner voice. It helps that the teacher, Lisehanne, has an outer voice not unlike Glinda the Good Witch. It's like a brook babbling or a bell ringing or a set of wind chimes, er, chiming. I chant with gusto a Hindu celebration of life. It's when I begin expertly harmonising with the others that I make a startling realisation. After all the meditation retreats I've been on, the trip to India, I am no longer self-conscious in this environment.

This realisation makes me self-conscious, though, so I get back into the singing, and before you can say "om shanti" I'm happily communing with my higher self and visualising my tree of life.

Much to my disappointment my tree turns out to be a barren, gnarled old thing standing stark and unforgiving against a winter sky. Lisehanne then drops the bombshell that the tree represents not how we are but how we view ourselves. Yikes. I leg it back into my imagination to add a few branches of lush greenery, some sunshine and a few exotic butterflies. Can't help feeling as if I'm cheating but am vastly cheered up.

There's also an introduction to my personal angel, Metatron, who tells me I am "united with the source of all goodness, love and creativity", which is decent of him.

Open to almost everything, I usually draw the line at angels, but I am assured that I can just use Metatron as a symbol of my inner wisdom, so that's what I do. Lisehanne appears to own shares in a tissue factory, which it turns out is just as well, because your inner voice knows just what emotional buttons require pressing.

Early one evening my boyfriend and I are selecting food from yet another sumptuous buffet dinner and swapping stories about my art course and his abseiling adventures when I say to myself: "A certain beer company doesn't do holidays, but if it did they'd probably be like this." One night you'll be sitting drinking wine and minding your own business when Kel, who you thought was only the art teacher, asks if you'd like jiving lessons. Did Buddha like meditating under trees? Before you can say twist and shout you are jiving - and, for the first time in your life, managing not to lead. The next day Kel suggests a spot of drumming, so that evening you find yourself down on the rocks with a set of bongos, drumming down the sun. The following morning, at sunrise, you gather on the beach for early-morning chanting while tiny silver fish jump in arcs out of the water. And at 4am you might decide to go skinny dipping, because nobody can see you in the dark. The water is warm and soft like velvet. You've never seen so many shooting stars. You'll think of this sitting back at your desk going through your post-holiday e-mail mountain.

We don't want to leave. The next few weeks offer hiking, photography, ceramics, trapeze lessons, massage, yoga, windsurfing and sailing, and we're jealous of the new group that arrives on the coach as we leave the island by ferry. I'm going to miss our bamboo hut in the pine trees. The new friends, aged 16 to sixtysomething. The sense of community. The sunsets. The stars.

At home my boyfriend is determined not to let go of the Atsitsa feeling. He's signed up for guitar lessons and drumming workshops and is considering a rock-climbing course. Always tender, he now seems a smidgetougher. He even tried to get me to tackle the post-holiday ironing mountain the other day. Tried and failed. Progress of sorts. We'll just have to return for a top-up.