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There were 23 Ferraris, the majority of them fire-engine red, in the cliff-edge car park outside the village of Kampen. Around them were gathered a sea of Mercs, BMWs and Audis belonging to families who'd taken their children for a romp along the beach. A solitary anarchist with a bulldozer could have wrecked millions of pounds' worth of big ends in seconds.

The Ferrari gathering was admittedly a specially organised get-together, but what other North Sea island could rustle up 23 Ferraris when called upon to do so? And as if to demonstrate that such gruntage is merely a matter of course in these parts there were three more up in the village centre, their owners presumably going about the normal business of the day - although I'm not sure what constitutes normal business in a village where jewellery boutiques outnumber the humble food store by eight to one.

The Germans have subtitled this 40km-long island the 'St Tropez of the North' (Miss Bardot was here, in her time, as were artist Kandinsky and author Thomas Mann) and it is a locally held understanding that when you are rich in Germany you have to have a house on Sylt.

On the map, the island appears like a badly dented glider trying to fly towards England but with its string still tied to the mainland. Its fine sandy beach runs the length of its 40km wingspan, and just under a million Germans holiday here every year, so why is it that we Brits haven't even heard of it? Far fewer Germans go to Gran Canaria, and we have certainly heard of that.

Perhaps it is because, during the last World War, Sylt was effectively an aircraft carrier packed with seaplanes and bombers all aimed towards us. One of its most original venues, the Kupferkanne, is an underground bunker converted by an artist into a labyrinthine Gaudi-esque tearoom with jazz, coffee and cake.

Perhaps it is also because the landscape of dunes, heather and a wig of grass - effectively a giant sandbar with restaurants - is an acquired taste, and its temperamental North Sea weather is prized by those who believe that soft sea air is better for the skin than any nourishing face creams. "When you have boiled yourself in the sauna, the idea is to run naked into the chilly North Sea", suggests the brochure - presumably at nudist beaches exotically christened Samoa and Zanzibar. Except that running naked into the North Sea is something that Brits don't tend to do, unless they're auditioning for Eurotrash.

Or perhaps it is also because the island knows its market. Not so long ago German railways introduced a go-anywhere family ticket for DM35. Sylt objected; its connection to the mainland is by rail alone (that aforementioned glider string is an 11km railway causeway across a sea so shallow that it only comes half way up the ducks), and the island didn't want away-day paupers flooding in to gawp at the rich.

Actually plenty of hoi polloi already take their holidays on Sylt, presumably attracted by the combination of glamour and competitive prices. Their first impression must be one of disappointment, because the island's metropolis, Westerland, is a German seaside town with no particular distinction other than a casino and well-heeled grannies meeting little Gunters off the train.

The high life is focused on a select couple of thatch-roofed villages (Kampen and Keitun) frequented by the over-tanned and the over-forty. Most of the celebrity visitors are German industrialists, actors and actresses, although I did catch sight of Victoria Chaplin in the hotel foyer, in town with her Cirque Invisible.

For these Sylterati the year's schedule holds the likes of the Ferrari rally, a polo tournament, a gourmet safari, and a visit from some particular old favourites from Britain, featuring names that some readers might be surprised to hear are still alive: Mungo Jerry, Barry Ryan, Chris Andrews, Middle of the Road, and Dozy, Beaky, Mick & Tich. In fact, you could safely say that there were more Brits on the stage that Star Night than there were on the whole island for the year.

In fact those old rockers put in such good performances that it made one feel proud. It was only a little less uplifting to be a guest in the VIP tent, amongst not-very-beautiful beautiful people in cream trouser suits who looked as if they'd eaten well, although they still had room for a snackette of champagne and lobster.

But all this is but a brief spurt of glory for Sylt. By the end of September the Prada and Escada wearers will have migrated to the Caribbean, or wherever, and Kampen's car-park by the sea will be empty but for the occasional twitcher come to watch the sea-birds gather for their own winter holidays. Only a smudge on the tarmac will indicate that 23 Ferraris were here.

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