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Romance was called for. We’d argued in the midst of bustling Cannes. We’d argued in the tour-bus busy streets of St. Tropez. The Riviera was filling up for its summer invasion of eight million tourists and Liz was in the process of hating them all. We needed to get away, chill out and avoid her being arrested for multiple homicide.

Fortunately I’d heard of a place.

‘Oh yes, you’ve always heard of a place.’

She scowled all the way to Hyères.

I’d seen the Iles d’Hyères from the coast road between St.Tropez and Toulon. Three slender beauties, shimmering in the heat. Far from the madding crowds of the Riviera, these islands were rumoured to contain some of the most seductive hotels in France. Seduction, I thought. If only.

The boat-crossing to the biggest island of Porquerolles takes a mere twenty minutes. But you step off into a different world. There are few cars, many bicycles and a couple of golf carts. The island’s only village is adorned with whispering palm trees, wide spacious streets and a main square crowned by a vast Mexican-style church that seems plucked from a Clint Eastwood film.

We staggered with our bags, Liz cursing audibly in the heat, until we arrived at L’Auberge des Glycines. Tucked away at the top of the square this small hotel exudes tranquillity like perfume. We had a room on the interior courtyard, bedecked in Provencal fabrics. There was a bath big enough to swim in.

‘Ah,’ exhaled Liz as I left her bathing in bubbles, a glass of rosé in hand.

In the setting sun I could see why the islands are also known as the Iles d’Or, the golden isles, thanks to the colour of their rocks - or the status of most visitors’ credit cards. A bevy of day trippers ambled onto the last boat to the mainland at 6.30, and all was quiet. I sipped pastis and turned amber with the rocks.

We spent two days on Porquerolles, renting bikes at 60 francs a day and cycling (slowly) along the coast path between fragrant pines and rippling vineyards to the most beautiful beach in the south of France. Plage de Notre Dame looked like the Caribbean. The sand was white, the water as clear as gin.

‘Comme à Martinique,’ suggested a small French guy with a small French dog.

Liz started to smile once more, when she wasn’t sleeping. I tumbled into dreamless slumber each night, lulled by a chorus of frogs. But the best was yet to come. The neighbouring island of Port Cros makes Porquerolles seem a dizzy metropolis. This is perhaps the most beautiful island in the northern Mediterranean - a national park thick with pine and oak forests. Even the usually prosaic Michelin Guide gets a little carried away, calling it ‘a true Garden of Eden.’

As befits Eden, the main hotel is pulse-racingly romantic. Le Manoir is a palatial mansion with a colonial feel, caressed by ancient eucalyptus and palm trees. You dine beneath the trees, on the fringe of the Plage du Sud. There’s an outdoor heated swimming pool, and rooms with terracotta terraces.

‘Not bad,’ said Liz.

Feeling like F.Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald we sauntered, linen-clad, into dinner (announced by a small bell) and informed the lady that we didn’t eat fish. She looked like I’d just offered to kill her mother, but she accepted graciously and we dined like kings on lamb and raspberries, and retired to the cabana bar to nuzzle brandy in the moonlight.

At three miles by two you walk everywhere on the island. We took the narrow path from the small village of Port Cros, through undergrowth thickly scented with herbs, to Le Palud beach. Here an annotated underwater trail is marked with buoys, revealing the secrets of the Mediterranean. Free masks, flippers and snorkels are usually on offer, but we were late in the day and the underwater guides had headed off to their beers. Instead we splashed around. At the shore a French family were feeding a shoal of blue and green fish with baguette, although I’m sure they were wondering less about fishy beauty and more about how to get them into a frying pan.

On our last night we sat on our room terrace watching the stars. It came as no surprise to learn that DH Lawrence had stayed in the same house in 1928, recovering from a bout of typhoid. The lady-owner told him of her affair with her islander gardener, a tale DH then reworked into Lady Chatterly’s Lover.

‘Feeling romantic?’ inquired Liz, as we retired for the night. As the lights went out I remembered why I like islands.

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