Camping always reminds me of Guide camps and family holidays. “Don’t touch the edge of the tent,” my mother screamed on wet days as the smell of bacon wafted from neighbouring tents while we grimly swallowed baguettes with jam.

But I wanted to camp in Plakias because I thought it would be a way to meet like-minded people, exchange stories over a fire, sing along to guitars and watch glowing embers fly into the Cretan air.

The manager at “Camping Appollonia” rented me a tent, some pegs, and a rubber mallet. I settled on a patch of sparse ground sheltered by bushes on either side. “Sun-dried” sounds romantic when describing tomatoes on a menu, but it loses its appeal when it describes the earth into which you’re knocking tent pegs.

After adding a few bent pegs to my depleted supply, enough managed to cling to the earth and I considered the structure solid after loading heavy rocks on top of the pegs.

Plakias is a small village that used to be a backpacker haunt, but now caters for all tourists. According to the locals “people either love Plakias, or the winds drive them mad”. I was to witness these winds that evening as I sat down for my auspicious first Greek meal, accompanied by the lapping of waves. It is no exaggeration to say that when the winds whip up, they do so with ferocity. Tables and chairs move with an unseen hand across patios; glasses complete with drink, menus, tablecloths, napkins become a flying menagerie of mayhem. I decided to check the local nightlife and my first stop was the Smerna Bar. Adonis, one of the celebrated local DJs who spins discs at the Smerna Bar, had a gleeful grin and happy disposition that belied the potency of his cocktails.

More trendy young things strut their stuff at Bar Ostrico but, by 3am when both bars close, attempting to strut is more like “attempting to stagger”.
There are also a couple of discos plying their musical trade. Hexagon resembles the Saturday Night Fever era, but Meltemmi melts back from the pumping action of “downtown” Plakias.

Past caring what the time was or, more critically, unable to see the hands of the clock, my first evening in Plakias ended. I located the campsite on auto-pilot, but the second target of finding my tent was more problematic. I identified my naked scrub area — it’s nudity touted flagrantly in the sun's dawning rays; it’s only modesty a few well placed rocks. After a search and sweep mission I located my tent 50 yards down a stony track, its structure intact with my backpack inside.

I dragged the tent back and re-pitched it. “Forget pegs, anchors would have been more suitable,” I thought as I snuggled into my sleeping bag.

I became aware of the heat, the muggy smell of canvas and something flapping in my face. On opening my eyes, I realised it was my tent flapping in my face. It seems the only anchor that works on a runaway tent is a 63kg horizontal one so, at 7am on a blurry Saturday morning, I once more re-pitched the tent. It was a routine I kept up for the next three days before succumbing to the luxury of four walls and a balcony.

With the parting words from the manager of the camping ground ringing in my ears: “We have better, stronger tent for you,” the only place I could think to tell him where to pitch his tent was where the wind certainly blows but the sun didn’t shine.

Plakias is ideally situated to visit sites such as Prevelli, the most photographed beach in Crete, but you should avoid camping in mid-July and August when the Meltemmi wind is most prevalent.