ALONG the crowded coast of the Mediterranean, there are few places that aren’t covered in houses. The Riviera is full of Russians, the Germans have taken Croatia, while everyone is in Spain – even the Spanish. So it’s good to know that there is one place at least that isn’t full of Irish bars and sunburnt foreigners.

The Golden Isles make up a small archipelago off the southern French coast, west of St Tropez. You can get there in a fast boat in an hour. But the journey takes you back 100 years in time.

Porquerolles, the largest of the three islands, is the most developed. It has a handful of hotels, a sprinkling of shops and that’s about it. There is no motorised transport. It is the quintessential landscape of the Mediterranean: pine trees, holm oaks, olive trees, rosemary. The air smells like a marinade for a leg of lamb. We arrived for a weekend at the end of September, but the weather was still gorgeous: clear blue sea and sky, with a gentle breeze.

First mission was to check in to the pretty two-star hotel Villa SainteAnne in the Place d’Armes, the island’s main square. Laden with luggage because my wife insists on travelling with more clothes than Madonna, we took one of the small electric carts up the hill. Our room was small but bright, with yellow walls and a lovely old wardrobe.

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Next step was to Le Cycle Porquerollais to pick up our hire bikes (on Porquerolles everyone rides a bicycle). Then we were off, exploring our very own treasure island.

It is said, probably with a touch of literary licence, that Robert Louis Stevenson based his Treasure Island on Porquerolles. He did visit the area, but some time after he finished the book. Even so there is a Caribbean feel to the islands, without the steel bands or sense of danger.

Over the centuries pirates came to repair their boats and bury their treasure. Before them, the Romans were here. Then in 1912, François-Joseph Fournier, an entrepreneur who made his fortune in Mexico, bought most of Porquerolles. Some of it is now a national park; the rest is vineyards and beaches.

First stop on the bikes was to the vineyard of Domaine la Courtade, where the winemaker is from Alsace and the wines are surprisingly good. Because we were cycling, we were able to swallow the wine we tasted, rather than spit. A little unsteadily after the wine-tasting, we cycled to the eastern tip of the island, down to the Galère beach. You have to abandon the bikes and walk down a steep, rocky path. The beach itself was deserted and the water clear as glass.

The next day we headed west. The island is rocky, but not particularly large, less than 20km (12.4 miles) long and 5km (3 miles) wide. Even in September there were cicadas singing in the trees. My wife had a sense-of-humour failure as we cycled up the final hill, but once we had glided into the courtyard of Le Mas du Langoustier she perked up, especially when she learnt that the restaurant has a Michelin star. Sipping pink champagne, I polished off rougets and scrambled eggs, followed by lobster and a selection from the cheeseboard.

Back at the Place d’Armes for dinner, we sat under the eucalyptus trees and listened to the clink of the boules as old men with large stomachs threw metal balls in the air. The food at Villa SainteAnne was mediocre, but at least it prevented us from developing a boules-player’s physique.

If you find Porquerolles too crowded and the nightlife too racy – some people stay up beyond 11pm – the best option is to take a small boat to Port Cros, the island next door. In F. Scott Fitzgerald’s short story The Diamond as Big as the Ritz, a family discovers a mountain made entirely of diamonds. This makes them incredibly rich, but also worried that somebody else is going to unearth their secret. Passing travellers are kidnapped and kept in a jail. Lovers of Port Cros feel the same way about their island. I was nervous taking notes for fear I would spend the rest of my days in a small cell and my wife would have to carry her own suitcase.

Port Cros is a small island, just 700ha (2.7 square miles), covered almost entirely in pine and holm oak trees. It is a national park and highly regulated. You can’t even smoke there. There are no forms of transport, not even a bicycle.

There are three small beaches, but they are at least half an hour’s walk from the hotels. The only mechanised vehicle is the Mini-Moke that carries the luggage up to the island’s main hotel, Le Manoir d’Hélène.

This is a place so dreamy that it would be worth swimming from St Tropez to stay there. The main building is colonial in feel, with whitewashed walls, green shutters and turrets at all four corners. There are palm trees, oleanders and eucalyptus trees, a large pool – and that’s about it. Breakfast is taken either in your room or at turquoise metal tables. Dinner is served under umbrellas overlooking the bay, or in the elegant dining room. Le Manoir is a place to lose oneself, to read Proust, or work your way through the cocktail list.

One morning we walked across the island to the beach at Port Man. The walk winds up and down through the forest. The place was deserted. There was nobody on the beach by the bay except, minutes after our arrival, a jogging Frenchman, who stripped naked and swam in the clear water.

Eating and drinking are two of the major pursuits on the island. A stroll away from Le Manoir is the village of Port Cros, where there are four restaurants, a post office and a couple of shops, a row of palm trees and a bay full of sailing boats. We had Sunday lunch at L’Anse de Port Cros. The tables were full of French people doing what they like best: sitting round a table. I had fish soup followed by a fish called beaux-yeux. Its eyes may have been lovely but so was its flesh. Washed down with a bottle of Bandol rosé, this was as good a lunch as one could ever hope for.

There are plenty of people who won’t want to go to Porquerolles or Port Cros. Anyone who likes busy beaches, noisy restaurants and night-clubs will be disappointed, as will people who don’t like to ride a bike. Sometimes at the height of summer they shut all the forest walks in Port Cros for fear of fires, and there are jellyfish in the sea, so there is nothing to do. I rather like that.

The islanders call the mainland “ le continent”. For them, it is a place of worry and stress. I’m with them: you can keep the Balearic and the Dalmatian Islands; I’ll take the Golden Isles.

Need to know

Getting there There are daily boat services to the Golden Isles from La Tour Fondue (20 minutes to Porquerolles, about £12.25 return, 00 33 4 94 58 21 81, www.tlv-tvm.com) and to Port Cros and Ile du Levant from Le Lavandou with Les Vedettes des Iles d’Or (about £17 return, 00 33 4 94 71 01 02, www.vedettesilesdor.fr).

Best time to go Spring or autumn when the weather is milder and the islands are less crowded.

Staying and eating La Villa SainteAnne, Place d’Armes, Ile de Porquerolles, 83400 Hyères les Palmiers (00 33 4 98 04 63 00, www.sainteanne.com), rooms from £50pp a night, room only. Le Manoir d’Hélène, 83400 Ile de Port Cros (00 33 4 94 05 90 52, monsite.wanadoo.fr/hotelmanoirportcros/), half board from about £105pp a night. Le Mas du Langoustier, Ile de Porquerolles (00 33 4 94 58 30 09, www.langoustier.com); three courses about £50.

Bike rental Le Cycle Porquerollais (00 33 4 94 58 30 32, www.cycle-porquerollais.com)

More information www.franceguide.com

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