After just a day off booze or cigarettes – or even after a serious detox – there can be few better places for a retox than the Four Seasons in Koh Samui, Thailand. It’s a luxury resort that deserves a squillion stars (and stripes.) They offer torpedo-sized cigars, burgers so big and fresh that they almost moo, and chips to love more than life itself. And the place is full of Eastern promise and Asiatic charm with an American twist – a perfect retox ambience.

Koh Samui lies in the Gulf of Thailand, the principal island in an archipelago of 48 islands. The 4S (as the Four Seasons is known to aficionados) is set amid lush tropical rain forest and beside a whiter-than-cocaine beach overlooking the distant islands of the gulf. The weather is hot and perfect for tanning, as it should be for a good retox.

Staff deliver chilled towels, Coca-Cola floats and cocktails to a supine me on the private beach; so there’s little reason even to walk the 50 steps from my recliner to the ocean’s edge. When I tire of lolling there’s an opportunity to have a Minor Affair for the day (such is the name of the resort’s vroomiest of high performance speed boats with a sound system, DVD and TV ). Otherwise I can splash around with kayaks and stand-up paddle boards – not too much exercise, mind. That would smack of healthy living.

After all, I’m at the resort purely to overcome any vestiges of my Kamalaya detox (see Lusso article, ‘OM, OM….OMG’). I’m here to try to raise my toxin levels to those of the average McDonald’s quaffing, midwestern American; and to do my best to pile on the pounds until I can go up two sizes and make a British size 16 dress look figure-hugging. Except, let’s face it, I am as unlikely to manage this as I am to live on air and juice on a serious detox. But I can dream.

Fortunately the resort is close to Chaweng – which is renowned among international fun-makers as ‘party central’. Forget Ibiza – so last millennium. The Chaweng discos throb with techno, rave, house and ambient DJ music – and there’s particularly feverish party activity on full moon nights. Starz Club gets top billing: it’s where party-goers sip Lusty Ladies and get into the Cage aux Folles spirit as the silver lamé curtain rises on the cabaret…and the kathoeys (‘ladyboys’) strut their stuff.

Back at 4S, my accommodation has good retox possibilities. I have a delicious private villa with my own infinity pool and panoramic views of Laem Yai Bay. More importantly, I have a panoramic view of a 42” flatscreen. For those of us on a serious retox, there are 34 channels, DVDs, an iPod docking station and copies of Newsweek and Time. Why on earth would I ever want a ‘no news, no shoes’ holiday when I can have lots of news and lots of shoes? (On which note, tennis shoes of all sizes are available at the 4S tennis court, should I wish to amble down there with a cocktail to watch people playing).

To achieve a full retox and to help my waistline expand, a golf buggy service is available 24 hours a day. Even for journeys of less than a yard. Unusual fact: it takes three weeks to pass the test to get a golf buggy driver’s license. Another good fact: it’s just a short buggy ride to visit the resort’s drive-in wine fridge: an electrical wonder that could double as an air raid shelter for several guests in the event that attacks from the mosquitos on a mission to kill escalate into full-blown mosquito war. (Joking aside, this is the sort of wine cooler you generally find in French chateaux….but here you can also follow up a visit with an elephant trek on paradise island.)

Once my retox is seriously underway and I’m having what can best be described as colonic irrigation in reverse, there’s little inducement for me to move from my room. Fortunately there are plenty of ways for me to try to rid myself of my luminous skin without stepping outside. There’s a fridge in my room with Mentos – sweets which, thankfully, have at least 500 additives and colours; a drawer filled with whisky and Scotch; another dedicated wine fridge; and a mini-bar plus an Espresso machine. Who in their right mind would ever want ‘barefoot luxury’ when you can have instead a key to this, your personal upmarket deli?

Yes, I’m now following a hardcore retox programme. The only exercise I’m prepared to do is to step into my delicious egg bathtub, a work of art in itself. I wallow in coconut bath salts, a breeze on my face and watch a boat bobbing on the waters below. Retox bliss? But with sudden dread, I realise this is all unhealthily healthy. So I order a champagne breakfast with scrambled eggs with white truffle oil with a side order of Shrek’s favourite corn chips and a cheesy Hula Hula Hawaiian pizza. (Detox fans say that giving your liver a chance to clean itself out helps eliminate nasties through the digestive tract and skin. But doing it in reverse doesn’t have the same nasty side effects.)

My order is delivered by staff with cigar-length smiles, and arrives in less than a nano of a nanosecond: service that puts the 4S in a league of its own. Even the most (four) seasoned retoxer will rarely have encountered service like this. The staff will probably stop the resort’s palm trees swaying if I ask. “An elephant, madam? I’ll have it with you in five minutes.”

If I want to join in, there are endless retox activitities: 24-hour business services; beach evenings of eating popcorn and watching Academy Award winners under the stars; tropical drink and cocktail mixologist classes; and beach barbeques with authenticity lite fire-eaters and Thai dancers. And, reassuringly, it’s all watched and done by honeymooning Americans, investment bankers and ladies with trout lips, pert boob jobs and full maquillage. Not for me the detox crowd in bad moods and kaftans.

As my holiday draws to its end, I reduce my retox activities, aiming to find a level that I can realistically incorporate into my life at home. There’s no point in retoxing, just to go back to my bad old habits of healthy eating and living. But I know that there will be social situations when I cannot be a hardline retoxer and still have friends. To prepare myself for a return to my real life, I eat Thai cuisine in the resort’s restaurant, Lan Tania. It’s sublime gnocchi from mashed ‘potato’ made of boiled jackfruit stones; and as for its green tea bread….mwah.

The resort’s spa provides another way to wean myself off the more drastic elements of my retox – another good way to avoid retox withdrawals and the possibility of going cold turkey on the return Bangkok Airways flight. Treatments take place in an enchanted kingdom of villas and salas (covered verandas) in thick tropical rainforest and reached via wooden plank walkways and wooden steps. It’s the spa that Tarzan and Jane would have chosen for their honeymoon. They should be so lucky.

I try the Siam Fusion. First there’s Thai massage, which is like being in a one-person wrestling match (the brochure calls it ‘Thai yogic stretches’). Next the therapist does battle with my pressure points. Then she rubs me with Luk Pra Kob (warm compresses of lemongrass and ginger) and finishes with an energizing deep pressure massage with essential oils. It’s A*. (The poor woman does an excellent job of trying to detox me; but, after my dedicated efforts to eat and drink myself silly, luckily there’s some way yet to go.)

I was a Four Seasons virgin. Now I’ve been deflowered, I’m a Four Seasons junkie. I’ll visit the 4S again when my retox levels become dangerously low. What’s not to like? The fine fast food? Ambience? Activities? The location? Nothing. It’s hardly surprising that I’ve become a 4S retox junkie. It’s a resort that’s luxurious and allows guests to replace toxins at their own pace: to overfeed, overindulge and listen to what your body really wants. As a pleasurable aside, the 4S is also the genius hotel group that introduced Wi-Fi airport transfer limos. The first service of its kind. Just to ensure that I can keep addicted to technology even on a brief car drive. Wi- Fi retox where have you been all my life? But then that’s another story….

The Sukhotai may be surrounded by the noisy concrete jungle of Bangkok. Yet it’s that rare thing – a resort hotel in the centre of the city. It boasts landscaped gardens with water features and even an Olympic-sized pool. The décor is stylish and contemporary Thai, with miles of sage and copper silks, vases of lotus flowers and jasmine-garlanded statues of Buddha and friends. But there are other details that are more Silicone Valley than Siam: bedrooms with adaptor sockets to fit iAnything; and iPad restaurant menus. Try dishes with ‘rice paddy herbs’, ‘pandanus leaves’ and ‘garden chillies’ or visit La Scala, their European eaterie with a visiting roster of Michelin chefs. Everywhere staff glide by with hands clasped in ‘sawasdeeka’ greeting. Ask for a room overlooking the courtyard with its decorative, pike-filled pond. Go for the hotel’s impeccable service and for its convenience. Go for the power of calm.

It’s time for me to rejuvenate a body more burnt-out than an old firework. Maybe have the opportunity to live on air alone. Or perhaps do the sort of intensive detox that leads, above all, to dreams of meringues and ice cream. You know, a kind of Victoria Beckham diet.

Hang on a moment – before I’m pushed into a week of juice, watered down water or of three anorexic squirrel’s meals a day – it’s not possible to get through a serious detox without having a dreaded colonic, is it? Maybe even a cappuccino enema. Another hiccup is that I’m not a fan of detox herbal remedies, either. It doesn’t take much to realise one thing then: that it’s a no to a hard-core detox programme for me.

One of the biggest growth markets in travel is of people investing in their bodies. And Kamalaya in Koh Samui, Thailand, is one of the planet’s – or possibly galaxy’s – leading destination spas and the place to invest in my-body-is-my-temple.

Kamalaya offer 70 fitness, weight loss or rejuvenation therapies. There’s a stress and burn-out programme that includes Thai and Chinese practices plus Ayurvedic Shirodhara massages (that’s the one that involves a continuous stream of warm oil drizzled onto my ‘third eye’, as if I were a poppadom).

There’s also a sleep programme which includes naturopathy, Traditional Chinese Medicine and enough massages to open a parlour. Once I put head to buckwheat pillow, it’s hard to remember all the detailszzzzzz.

Kamalaya integrates medical science and Eastern healing traditions – which means there are diagnostic tests and healing hands aplenty: think holistic made hip. There’s a crack squad of practitioners…Traditional Chinese Medicine doctors, naturopaths, homeopaths, Ayurvedic therapists, registered nurses, energy healers, an allopathic doctor, Thai therapists and visiting gurus. A kind of Carry on Doctor series de nos jours.

There’s an infrared sauna that burns 600 calories in 30 minutes. That’s if I have any calories left after climbing the hill every day for meals and treatments.

Kamalaya is a beautiful hillside retreat of swaying palm trees, looming granite boulders and tropical jungle foliage borrowed from a Gauguin painting – with an add-on of landscaped swimming and plunge pools. There are lotus ponds, ginormous orange butterflies, hot pink hibiscus and loadsa ribbiting frogs. There’s even a herbal steam cavern hewn into the rock and an ancient Buddhist monks’ cave. It all puts the ah into spa. Can there be anything better?

Well, yes, it overlooks an aquamarine lagoon and a beach that out-beaches the one in From Here to Eternity. Forget Gauguin: this place has been borrowed from a Hollywood studio fantasy landscape with bells and brass knobs on.

It is to Kamalaya that Oliver Stone came for weight loss. Best call him Oliver Lost A Stone now. Fergie went all spiritual here (in her autobiography, Finding Sarah, she devotes 35 pages to the retreat. Recalling a meditation session she wrote: ‘We sat cross-legged on mats around the fire, with everyone chanting, “Ohm.”’ Ohm indeed). Annie Lennox travelled the world and the seven seas to get here. Add to these slebs a number of stressed-out investment bankers, Ozzies in singlets and CEO’s in sarongs, and you get the picture.

There’s a programme called ‘Balance and Revitalize’ – detox lite – which aims to fight modern stresses and combat adrenal burnout. That’s what I opt for.

My programme starts with a body bio-impedance analysis – a conspiratorial electronic device which, it’s claimed, is there to determine an individual’s specific wellness needs, but is probably only there to tell me I need to lose some lard. Beam me up, Scotty. Next I have a naturopathic consultation.

Then it carries on through a detox body scrub, foot massage, head massage, face massage and even intestine massage (it’s called Chei Nei Tsing and is a Taoist therapy). There’s only a centimeter patch behind my ear that goes unmassaged. I’m saving it for next time. All the treatments work on an energetic, emotional and spiritual level.

Instead of lolling by a pool reading Fifty Shades trilogies, I spend time with Smitha Jayakumar – a monk who lived in a monastery for 10 years and is now a spiritual-life-coach (think Buddhism meets Hinduism and Cognitive Behavioural Therapy). There are no televisions here. If I want Made in Chelsea or Graham Norton, forget it. Instead the waterfalls and ponds are a recording studio for love-lorn frogs – and alongside them packs of local dogs howl at the moon.

Suddenly I hear the siren song of French fries. The lyrical lure of the Mars bar. But it’s easier to find a nun in a whore house than a super-size-me anything in Kamalaya. So far so good, for the likes of me – someone who has less discipline than a randy frog and who is wanting to detox (that much said, there’s an infrared sauna that burns 600 calories in 30 minutes. That’s if I have any calories left after climbing the hill every day for meals and treatments. Go forth and sweat).

The food isn’t just for raw-food junkies and lactose, peanut, meat-allergic weirdos. It’s spa food that makes me go ‘om’ and ‘ah’. It’s deliciously organic, fresh and pleasantly medicinal – but not preachy (I can eat pancakes and chocolate mousse if I want. And, boy, do I want…). The cuisine is based on ancient Asian healing traditions and the latest Western nutritional research Black cod and banana blossom salad. Mieng Kam – fresh green betel leaves with dried coconut, tamarind, ginger and shallots…. It’s enough to turn the hardest fast food junkie’s heart to tofu.

Kamalaya is young and sexy, in the first flush of youth. It’s a spiritual place that favours authenticity over luxury and pampering. It catches me by the toe and pulls me in gently, casting its magic spell slowly. It’s so addictive it should be a classified drug. At the end, I’m ready to do everything my team of therapists suggest – as long as it’s not a colonic. I leave trim, fit and with luminescent skin. Who wants a week-long detox affair? I’d like this to be a marriage for life.

I’ll be jumping off a mountain to dangle in the air. As if I were in a cable car – but without being in one. I must be certifiable. I sleep fitfully in a cold sweat of anticipation – thinking about this, my first paragliding flight. Will I bump into a bird or electric cable? Who but a lunatic flies with just a parachute and Swiss instructor for company? Then dawn breaks and the snow-peaked mountains opposite my bedroom window change hues of blues obligingly, like an al fresco cinema show.

We’re staying in the Walig Hut – the most expensive shack on the planet – near Gstaad, Switzerland.

It’s set above Gsteig at 5000 ft, a place where the Alps rise dramatically and the air is fresh as Listerine. Originally a 1786 summer home to farmers bringing their cattle to nearby pastures, it’s 30 chauffeured-Mercedes-minutes from Gstaad. (Much of it behind cows refusing to do the right thing and just turn into steaks.)

The Walig Hut offers intermittent solar-powered electricity, an outside latrine and no shower. And it costs £1150 (CHF 1600) a night for up to two adults and two children, dinner and drinks included. It’s possibly frequented by women like the Beast of Wildenstein, men who smoke plump cigars and people who wear diamond-encrusted boots.

It belongs to the Gstaad Palace, one of the world’s leading hotels. Most of its guests are people up for a night or meal from the hotel– one-time haunt of Liz Taylor, Roger Moore, Princess Di and Grace Kelly. But you don’t have to be a Palace guest to stay in this humble wooden dwelling.

And why would we overnight here? Its real lure is the mountain highs. The views over the Saanenland. The hikes. A sky that fills with a million stars.

Inside, the hut is more Ralph Lauren than impecunious farmer – with two bedrooms, luxury duvets and sheepskins strewn over chairs. Plus antique farm implements and red geraniums on the sills. It’s enough to make anyone don their dirndl.

A mountain stream doubles as a fridge. There’s no Internet, fax or phone reception. We collect mountain water, stoke the log fire and boil water on a wood-burning stove. But only because we don’t want our manservant to do it.

To save on too much reality, the Palace’s regal touch is bought to the hut. Its charming head waiter, Mauritzio, personally serves us a three-course meal of smoked hams and fruit flans. Afterwards, Mauritzio scarpers off and leaves us in a hut where the silence is so loud, it rings in our ears. And then I have that fitful sleep.

The real point of even of being in Switzerland is to go paragliding with instructor Thomas Rast. So now we drive down the mountain and up another to where this charming and enthusiastic man is waiting. Half an hour is all it takes from the comfort of the hut to the discomfort of the mountain. Am I terrified? Almost fainting at the prospect of dangling at a height of 500m? Yes. But all too soon we’re paragliding, floating peacefully above mountainous beauty.

Then descending over chalets surrounded by dahlias and streets clean enough to eat raclette off. Enjoying the silence. The sun shines, the trees sway gently below, the wind whistles gently. It’s unforgettable. And a fabulous first.

OK, I won’t do it again. I suffer from vertigo. But it’s definitely one of those things to do before you die. As for our accommodation, it fulfils the need for escape and some may like it hut. But I’m more to the Palace born.

Once the Brits thought that professional style advice was best left to Desperate Housewives and Mad Men. Americans, in other words. Women in the UK ran a mile from beauty consultants wearing concrete-mix makeup and men legged it at the idea of skin care, moob jobs or a personal stylist. We women preferred instead to be amateurish in our clothes purchases – going for the DIY approach – or, in the case of men, electing to be, well, man-ish. But now that’s all changed and the stylish and wannabe cool are hiring Annabel Hodin, erstwhile model (talent spotted by US Vogue’s Anna Wintour) and the fashion editors’ favourite. She is the ne plus ultra of stylists.

Annabel offers a bespoke service, from £350 for an initial consultation to meet you and look at your present wardrobe and discuss editing and/or shopping and budget. She arrives punctually for my appointment – sporting model’s face and figure and Celine–style outfit. “I like clean lines,” she explains. (Wear your best knickers when you see her – you’ll be trying on your clothes. And chucking a lot out!) With frankness and a twinkle in her eye, she goes through my clothes, jewellery, makeup….. And then through my husband Adrian’s wardrobe (albeit with him as an additional consultation on a different day).

It’s an epiphany. I put on my favourite coat. “It’s too angular for you,” she says. “Not doing you any favours.” I slip on a dress. “It’s furnishing fabric,” she says, but tactfully. During Adrian’s appointment later, it is suggested that he jettison several particularly unattractive garments that he clearly inherited from Fred Flinstone. Annabel’s directness gets results. In between doing the wardrobe clear-out, she’s giving tips: where to get the perfect eyebrow created (“Threading gives too harsh a look”), best his ‘n’ her laser hair removal (Joanne Evans at Kensington’s Medical Rooms), brilliant facialist (Vaishaly), where to get great grooming or even Bro-tox (Botox for him).

As we do the wardrobe exploration, Annabel highlights my good points. Perfect Fifties silhouette and beautiful, sculptural face, since you ask. “So keeping to simple, classic lines will enhance your natural look. Which is why,” she reveals, “I’m editing out the masculine shapes….” She takes notes and sketches what I’m keeping. “In case you call and say I need something to go with Y..” (Later, I tell her I’m going to Marylebone. When I’m standing in queue to buy some fish, I get a text. She offers phone support as part of a follow-up package. ‘Remember to go to Matches to look at the plum and taupe sandals,’ it reads. ‘Very chic.’ Equally Adrian receives a timely and useful text reminder of a garment he actually needs – rather than an impulse buy – when he’s in the middle of having a quick peek at wish-he-could-afford-them cars in a Knightsbridge showroom).

Annabel identifies a person’s style and is great on colour, proportions and what’s age appropriate. For me: out with tagliatelle straps and shoes that look like a dead lizard – and that’s just for starters. For him: out with the shirts that make his complexion look as if he’s feeling sea-sick. “I want to help you assess how to convey – with what you wear – the message you wish to get across about who you are,” she explains. “We’re going to build a capsule wardrobe of 20 or so classic pieces which you can accessorise for work or play – a look that fits your life.”

We pull all the pieces out of my schizoid wardrobe – a combo of bloke-ish tailoring and boho-not-chic. Over our morning together, Annabel does what she calls an ‘edit’ – but which I’d call a chic cull. She’s aiming with me more for Grace Kelly meets ’50s Dior than my series of sales oopsies and unmatching separates. (And for him? Well, hmm, a sort of Colin Firth in Tom Ford’s Single Man look.) “You’ve wasted tons of cash buying the wrong things,” she says. “Getting your look right saves time and energy and money.” (Until now, we have both considered ourselves to be fairly stylish and well-groomed!) “You’ve certainly got a good eye,” she continues. “It would take a one-day shop for you to have a fabulous wardrobe and feel incredible too. Cut out buying uncordinated items on a whim. The secret to great style is an uncluttered wardrobe full of key pieces that you love and staples that work.”

We put aside clothes that are too small, too cheap or never worn (mostly sale) mistakes. Things that I’ve been holding onto because I wore them at my 21st/my brother’s weddings/on my first date. High fashion that is dated. Garments that are tired or marked. Hey, even a fair amount of Prada and Pucci goes to that clothes pile in the sky. But apparently we wear barely 20% of our wardrobes; and streamlining, well it’s just so very now, isn’t it?

After her phenomenally efficient edit, I have a thin wardrobe (and Adrian has piles ready to adorn the rails of a second-hand shop that sells Gucci. Get ye there quickly). Then Annabel puts my clothes into outfits to see what’s missing, identifies the gaps in my remaining material possessions and we set out to fill them. “You should never go shopping unless you are looking for something specific,” she counsels wisely.

Ah, shopping. If you’ve got more pressing things to do (i.e. take out your speed boat/go sailing/take your Ferrari out for a whirl) than traipse around fashion boutiques, then it’s worth hiring someone like Annabel. She already knows precisely what shops have in stock, understands what suits you better than you know yourself, and knows where to find everything – whether it be a big name designer or high street – because she researches so very well.

Our first stop is Browns, where we get treated like royalty and pick up Hollywood dresses, statement shoes and Norma Kamali. “Delicious costume colours,” says Annabel appreciatively. (His first stop is Selfridges. Under her expert gaze, he buys a zillion-ply cashmere jacket, which costs more than ten arms and ten legs. “Quality over quantity,” says Annabel, ever the sartorial economist. “It’s better to buy fewer and better”.) Then there’s Matches for everything under the sartorial sun, and more.

We proceed to Joseph (St John’s Wood), where we’re helped by the indefatigable Elly. “They’re great at doing designer inspired looks, at a snip of the price,” explains Annabel. “All the fashion editors go there.” Morphing into a fashion editor, I leave with a few carefully selected items: cropped trousers, Prada lookalikes, pieces of wonderfulness at reasonable prices. But it doesn’t stop there. Soon Annabel has also kitted me out in retro sunglasses from Cutler & Gross – which look better than anything I’ve ever selected; and shoes in enough colours to make a paint chart from Tod’s in Bond Street – helped by manager Simone Artuso. (There’s nothing he doesn’t know about feet and handbags.)

There are financial benefits to all this. I save days of trudging around stores like a demented bargain hunter simply in order to waste lots of money on ill-fitting, mismatched outfits in styles that suit Victoria Beckham or Kate Middleton. Annabel insists on buying key pieces that will last. “The simpler the cut, the more timeless it is.” She avoids cheap fabrics, cheap cuts and cheap colours. “Select something,” she explains, “that is or looks expensive and timeless.”

She goes for multiple buys. Not exactly two for the price of one. And not quite stack ’em high and buy ’em low. But you get the gist. Who ever thought of splashing out on more than one pair of the same trousers? Not me. “It saves time later,” she explains. “If it’s a classic, you can have it in more than one colour.” Sales? “Only if you already know it’s the right size and colour. But I prefer Refund Shopping – if you are at all unsure and alone – only go where they’ll reimburse.”

For the first time in my life, I end up with what the cogniscenti call ‘a capsule wardrobe’ that works and can be updated (inexpensively) with accessories. “It’ll take you just minutes to pack whenever you go away,” she says reassuringly, “because everything cross coordinates.” As for Adrian, he’s now got a fabbo closet and has followed the Annabel Plan For Looking Good Inside and Out – raiding her little black book secrets for everything from how to get naturally white teeth (“Super white is too American”) to where to get the best massage in town.

Annabel has a loyal following including ever increasing numbers of male clients. “They want the makeovers, grooming and tips they’ve seen women get,” she explains. “They know that successful men look successful, and they want the transformation they’ve seen in a George Clooney or Daniel Craig. A smart, well-chosen suit won’t get you the job or the partner – but it helps.” It is, she adds, less about fashion than style.

“When I’m dressed right, I look the part, feel more confident and do better,” explains a bond trader friend, later. “But you have to get the guys over a bottle of Crystal before they’ll admit seeing Annabel – unless they have lots of public appearances. Hell, who wants to admit they cannot dress themselves?!”

During these times when people are tightening their (Louis Vuitton) belts, Annabel has seen a ten per cent rise in business. She’s not someone you want in tough times, she’s someone you need. She’s the person who simplifies life. The one who helps women/fellas get or keep their guys/babes/jobs.

In the autumn, she’s launching a service specifically for well-heeled Americans visiting London. “To give them the unexpected style accent that the Brits do so well,” she explains. Barack Obama? He could already be one of hers, he’s so well dressed. “Well, is he?” I ask. She smiles.

As for me, she’s worth her weight in clothes that I chucked out. It’s (almost) the best money I’ve ever spent – making everything work in a different way and creating a functional wardrobe. Wherever I go, people tell me now how fabulous I look. “Annabel,” I reply knowingly. Do you remember what Carrie Fisher wrote in Postcards from the Edge? ‘The only clothes I like are the ones I’m about to buy.’ For the first time in my life, the only clothes I like are the ones I’ve just bought. And my Mr Fisher feels the same way too.

There’s an area so desirable that the masters of the universe are snapping up islands and peninsulas there. The new, must-buy or must-visit place for the richest men on earth is the Ionian. So it’s bye-bye to St Trop, Tuscany and the Hamptons and hello to Meganisi – an Ionian island where there’s no tourist infrastructure and which only even got mains water and electricity in the Eighties. Are you surprised that that’s where the super-wealthy are going?

Well, listen up. If you already own enough camels, Chelsea barracks, Qatar and Al Jazeera, what would you spend your oil money on next? Ionian islands, naturally. In May, the emir of Qatar bought six islands just two miles from Ithaca. (Remember your Homer? Incidentally, Ithaca is also where designer Marc Newson is building a house.) The Sheikh’s islands include Oxia – roughly 20 nautical miles from Meganisi and the largest is 1200 acres – and cost a mere £7.35 million. They’re uninhabited and he fell upon them when he moored his superyacht nearby.

In April 2013, Aristotle Onassis’s granddaughter, Athina Onassis Roussel, sold a 99-year lease on Skorpios – another private island in the Ionian Sea. It went for a snip at £100 million – fortunately the lavish pink villa that the late shipping buhzillionaire Aristotle Onassis built for Jackie O and the nearby islet of Sparti were also included in the sale. The happy purchaser is Ekaterina Rybolovleva, 24, daughter of Russian billionaire businessman Dmitry Rybolovlev. (The potash man/owner of AS Monaco FC who has a fortune estimated by Forbes at $9 billion.)

British billionaire banker Lord Rothschild also caught the bug for the region by holidaying in Kensington-on-Sea, as his bit of Corfu is now known. Now he’s snapped up 8km of Meganisi – roughly 3500 acres of a peninsula – and the neighbouring 200-acre island of Kythnos. Roman Abramovich and sculptor Anish Kapoor are both keen to build homes on Lord R’s Meganisi estate. Enough said. You can’t get cooler than Kapoor.

History is repeating itself. Onassis could have bought anywhere in the galaxy – and snapped up Skorpios. Niarchos bought Spetsopoula, a small island off Spetsai. Fifty years later, the diamond-encrusted wheel has turned full circle – this little spot in the Ionian is turning again into the epicentre of the jet-set world.

Now Tom Hanks, Spielberg, Abramovich, Bill Gates and Madonna cruise its waters on super yachts – the £200,000 to £700,000-a-week type. Little wonder. It’s one of the lovelier places in the universe (or certainly Europe) for sailing.

And what of Meganisi, the place that Lord R has selected as his little bit of paradise? (Or Tafion as the island was known in the Odyssey.) It’s where Aristotle Onassis visited in the Sixties, alongside Maria Callas, Winston Churchill, and Jackie O – who went for ouzo and appetizers at the local tavernas in Vathy.

Go to Meganisi and you’ll find a place lost in time. You’ll reach it by boat from Nidri, passing Skorpios on the way. It’s small (just 9 sq km) with just 1041 inhabitants. It is little developed and is home to a lot of sheep and olive trees. Not hooked yet? Ah, but you will be.

The island is as naturally beautiful, secluded and unspoiled as it gets – one of the great and untouched parts of Greece. There are pebble beaches and ones like finest sugar crystals and waters so clear you can see forever, hidden bays and enough privacy to deter even the most determined paparazzi. There are wild green valleys, steep cliffs honeycombed with caves only accessible by boats, secret coves and ooh-ah views from the top of Lord R’s peninsula over to the mainland. The locals are also incredibly friendly – call it ‘philoxenia’ (friendliness to strangers)….they do.

The most wow! villas weren’t available before for rental. But because of the crisis, top properties are coming onto the open market. Alexandros Matsukis – director of Ionian & Aegean Island Holidays and market leader in renting out villas on the sort of islands on which the big boys have set their sights – is picking up the best. His villas currently have locations that would turn Zeus green with envy, with panoramic views over the endless sea and direct access to almost-private beaches. Book for next year, and Matsukis will be offering ones with splendid interiors, great quality builds and fabbo infinity pools too.

So get there. Go sailing on the aquamarine sea. Take out a speed boat. Whizz around the narrow traffic-free lanes. Sit in a taverna sipping Retsina. See for yourself why Giorgio Armani, Bill Gates and Madonna have been scrambling to buy in the region. And why party time is coming there again.