For my weekly writing spot on this site, see the One-Minute Mystic, with a new meditation posted every Monday. Also see The Village, the story of Misty Longings, England's most beautiful village, posted episode by episode earlier this year.       I'm looking out over the Aegean, and taking a big risk – because apparently, it can make you blind. Our tour guide had prepared us, as the coach wound its way up the perilous mountain roads. And this is what he'd said: "We're approaching the village of Monolithos. This means One Stone. Here we will find a drink so strong and illegal that it is sold only in unmarked bottles. You cannot drink it neat. If you drink it neat, my friends, you will go blind – or worse. It will do terrible things to your body. But diluted with honey, it is really very nice. And this drink is called 'Souma.'" And what's interesting is that when we get to Monolithos, we are all out of the coach, in our sun cream and shorts and queuing for our free sample of this drink of death. Why? Had someone approached me on the streets of London with that speech, I would not be doing this. Illegal? Unmarked bottles? Possible blindness or worse? I might have called the police – but I certainly wouldn't have gone back to his place for a taste. Yet here I am now, in Monolithos, about to take a swig. (He distinctly told us we couldn't sip it.) Both Thomson's Holidays and the Retreat Movement are based on this same premise: that taken from our natural habitat, we do different things. The organisations may differ in desired outcomes – but use the same tool: relocation. Place people in a different setting, and stand back. Away from home, old inner locks are unlocked, different doors opened, and depending on choices made, regret or adventure follow. Would I regret this drink? It actually tastes very good, and as I still have my sight, I buy one of the unmarked bottles. Souma looks just like water, so this is an act of faith, as is the Byzantine village church. I check the church clock for the time. We needed to keep an eye on this, because we don't have long here, and the coach driver is not a patient man when it comes to leaving. The clock is not helpful however, as it is painted on the side of the church – and forever saying 6.50. 6.50? It seems a strange time to fix in stone – or indeed paint – and I asked our guide. "Ahh, it is a local tradition – to fool Satan!" "And how does it do that?" "Well, the actual service is at 9.00am, and so Satan keeps missing it, turning up at 6.50! That is a clever idea, is it not?!" Well, it's quite clever, I suppose, through really, if Satan is that stupid, why the worry? We don't stay long enough to discover whether any people turn up to the service, for soon we are back in the coach, with our illegal and dangerous drink clinking in our hold alls, discussing how good it is to be away from alcohol-ravaged Britain. "Are they unaware of the damage it can do?" said the painfully red lady next to me. Too long in the sun. More writings © Simon Parke