SARK, the smallest and most intriguing of the Channel Islands, appears idyllic - a last bastion of feudalism where there are no cars, paved roads or street-lights and where the tourists clip-clop back in time in horse-drawn carriages. With the island's first full election earlier this month I jumped at the chance to go.

After two nights on the island I was desperate to get off. When a gale blew in and it appeared that I would be stranded I was tearing my hair out.

I fell in love with small islands when Arthur Ransome transported me to Wild Cat Island in Swallows and Amazons. Since then, several of my top-ten travel experiences have been on islands you can walk (or at least cycle) around in an afternoon.

As I stood on a headland on San Juan, off the coast of Washington State, gazing out towards Vancouver Island, a pod of orcas erupted from the water to give a private performance of one of nature's greatest shows.

On the other side of the continent, in Chesapeake Bay, lies Smith Island, a tiny archipelago of marshy islets doomed to be swallowed by rising sea levels. The inhabitants are mostly descendants of Elizabethan settlers and still speak with West Country accents.

You can walk round Tylerton, where I stayed, in 20 minutes but you could watch the sea forever. And the nap I took, with the wind blowing round the Inn Of Silent Music, surrounded on three sides by water, was of a bliss unmatched in the decade since.

I spent a week of my honeymoon on Eilean Shona, a tiny Scottish isle with scrambling walks, tiny white sandy beaches and just a handful of other human beings. It was the most relaxing island experience of all - except for the 90 minutes I spent battling against a fearsome current to avoid being swept out to sea with my bride in a rowing boat.

A small island makes for a magical holiday, giving you plenty to explore along with the satisfaction of getting fully to grips with the geography. Such havens are less enjoyable when you are working as a journalist. True, it is easier to find the people who you want to talk to. But there is also no escape from the people you would rather avoid.

I once spent New Year in La Digue in the Seychelles following the Blairs on their holidays. Two minutes after I checked into my hotel room the phone rang. It was the President's special adviser demanding to know what I was up to. I tried to keep a low profile, but every time I stepped outside I bumped into the Blairs.

Every other person on the island was on honeymoon. I spent New Year's Eve talking to the barman, getting sympathetic looks from couples who assumed I had been jilted and had decided to come on the honeymoon anyway.

It is impossible not to look ridiculous rushing around with a notebook while everyone else is on holiday. And the inaccessibility of islands, such a delight when you are holidaying, is suddenly a bore. The only way I could get away from La Digue was by helicopter.

Even that mode of transport was unavailable on Sark. The islanders' opposition to plans for a helipad was one of the reasons the Barclay brothers got trounced at the polls. Two boats a day if you're lucky. Fortunately, one did eventually turn up to take me off.

The atmosphere of the election campaign was so toxic it made you choke. And there was no getting away from this underside of island life. The claustrophobia was horrible.

But I did spot a rather nice isolated cottage I wouldn't mind renting for a quiet holiday some time.

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