Blue sky. Turquoise sea. White walls. Not a spot of Magnolia in sight, which is some kind of atonement for the most stressful final ‘March out’ last week.

Now I’m lying in a white washed room listening to the water lapping on the shore, just metres from our blue shuttered doors. Thankfully it’s all behind us and almost forgotten.

There’s nothing like packing your rucksack and hopping between Greek islands to put a bit of distance between us and those frustrating military systems.

We’re part way through our Greek summer adventure (part 1) and have sampled the delights of the magical island of Santorini. We enjoyed a roof top pool with a panoramic view and sipped G&Ts on our balcony looking down on cruise ships and yachts floating past beneath the soaring cliffs of the volcanic island. We also tried out the crazy local buses to the old town of Oia and wandered the paved narrow streets filled with blue and white pottery and scarves.

On Friday we set sail for Paros on our second ferry. I felt quite smug skipping past other foot passengers struggling with huge suitcases as I mounted the stairs, very happy with my rucksack. I was slightly less impressed a few hours later carrying food and water, plus the rucksack, and attempting to get on the water taxi to our beach. We perched on the front of the little boat with two girls and I was pleased that I managed the jump off onto a concrete jetty without a drama. We were almost there.

We had hoped to be collected by our Air BnB host, but her car was off the road, so we were on foot. It wasn’t far along the beach, but the bags and the rucksack were getting a bit heavy in 32 degrees plus. I tried to match the giant strides of my travelling companion ahead, marching beside the sea, with a row of sun beds on the left. “Not far now,” I thought. Seconds later I was flying headlong onto the sand, as a small trip sent me face first onto the beach. There was no chance to rebalance as the weight of my rucksack sent me hurtling forward. I was unhurt, but embarrassed, as a walnut tanned man came forward to ask if I was OK. Didn’t I know there was an age limit for wearing a rucksack? I laughed and struggled to my feet unaided and followed the long strider, who was totally unaware of my fall!

Dropping the bags beside a tree below a pretty blue shuttered building, I checked my phone for our host’s number and picked up a message from her to say she could pick us up after all, as she had managed to borrow another car! The phone had been off to save the battery… Oh dear, we’re here now anyway! She kindly carried my shopping into the room, which had another view of turquoise water, framed by a line of trees and pink flowered shrubs.

Having spent a large proportion of our budget on eating, drinking and transport in Santorini, we counted out the remaining cash on the bed. We needed to economise a little, so we stored away our food and downed some water. Luckily we had a bottle of duty free gin to keep our spirits up!

The first night we enjoyed a take away delivered to the door, which we managed to make last for two days. We would splash out on a frappe later – with 2 straws!

Looking at our beautifully white washed walls, I can only smile now about last week’s ‘March out’ fiasco, which left us both seething, but has now become something of a joke! Who will be first to spot something painted magnolia?

When we moved into our army house almost four years ago, we’d asked permission to paint a few rooms white. At the time the man in charge had said it was fine, and that we didn’t have to return them to army standard magnolia, as long as it was a neutral colour. We’ve really enjoyed our fresh white walls, looking out on the rolling hills and the sea beyond.

At the ‘March out’, the person checking the house shook his head and announced that all the rooms painted white must be returned to magnolia or we would be charged. No amount of explaining what we’d been told would do – we had nothing in writing and the man in question had now left his post.

The house, he admitted, was spotless and a good deal cleaner than when we’d taken it over. The white washed rooms looked crisp and fresh, but they were not “army issue” magnolia, so unless we painted them back there would be money to pay for redecorating. Adding insult to injury the same man had visited our quarter a few weeks earlier to check for any issues and told us all that needed doing was to tidy up the garden and do our best with limescale in the bathrooms. He had failed to spot the offending white walls, which would have given us a chance to redecorate or time to fight our case.

What should we do? On one of the hottest afternoons in June, the one of us that wears uniform asked him to return the next morning after we’d repainted. (The other one sulked and muttered about writing to the newspapers;) I have never engaged in decorating with such bad grace and I have never disliked the colour magnolia so much as I did that afternoon. After three days of solid and nail breaking scrubbing and cleaning in the house, we had planned an afternoon relaxing at our favourite beach. Instead we sweltered with rollers, paintbrushes and dust sheets, returning our rooms to a dull magnolia. The job was made even more infuriating knowing, as our neighbour pointed out, that the next occupants would probably prefer white walls.

It’s done now and thankfully the Greeks love white! You can be sure when we next need to choose colours for our home Magnolia will never be an option!