One of the many joys of Google is that you can use it to go on holiday so often.

And I don’t mean just to try to pay some lippy Irish bloke online a tenner a seat, and then sit back in amazement as the final bill comes in at three times what you’d been expecting. You mean everything’s extra? O’Leary?

No, I mean you can dip into the holiday as much as you like before you actually get there. So ever since I booked us a week in Paxos in September, I’ve been taking regular aerial tours of the little Greek island courtesy of Google Maps, looking at hundreds of photos of the beaches and harbours and tavernas on Google Images and even trawling through internet forums to see what other people think of the little hamlet we’ve picked to dump an entire year’s worth of stress in.

Which is how I came across the Donkey Steps. They crop up in loads of posts. They’re very near our villa, and are the best path down to the harbour and beach. Donkey steps! How romantic and rustic is that? You don’t get donkey steps round our way! Oh, no. We have quite ugly paved ones with rusting Victorian railings. You might have the odd dog wandering down them, But not lovely, long-eared donkeys. I read on. The steps get mention after mention. Take a torch, because they lead through olive groves, and olives aren’t renowned for their luminous qualities at night, and wear sensible shoes because they’re a bit uneven, and watch for the corkscrew bend as you get down to the really steep bit…. I sit back in my chair and bite my lip.

I returned from our last holiday in the autumn to a cold, miserable Britain, and my reaction to the damp that started getting into my bones was to mostly stay inside and eat a lot to gradually cover them up.

Now, as spring starts unveiling her brand new collection of lambs and daffodils and builders in shorts, my bones are so deeply buried in my newly acquired bingo arms and extended middle aged spread that you could be forgiven for thinking that they’ve left the body altogether, and that I have morphed into a catering size portion of lard. And what with staying in so much – staying in my chair, that is – I’ve lost any last scrap of fitness I may have had last summer. If the Donkey Steps are corkscrewed and steep, not to mention uneven and dark at night, the chances of my ever returning to the villa at night without an iron lung are zilch. (That’s Greek for not terribly encouraging.) Which is why I find myself at a gym one lunchtime. This isn’t any gym, it’s one for women only, and when I look around I see that not one of them is wearing a stitch of Lycra (that’s Greek for flamboyant and tasteless clothing sported by those who are just lucky enough to have good genes) and also there’s not a running machine in sight.

Despite having been dragged here almost screaming and kicking – not too high, though, it’s exhausting – I’m looking at the gentle, methodical pace of the exercise machines and hearing the calming voice that tells ladies to stop and move on after two and a half minutes, and thinking that maybe this wouldn’t be so bad. I have a consultation with a lady who doesn’t fall over laughing when I tell her when I last broke out in a sweat (it was when it looked like Sarah Palin could possibly be in with a chance of high office) and who thinks it’s quite feasible that if I come three times a week and try to stick to three meals a day and snacks (that’s Greek for alcohol) I could manage the Donkey Steps quite easily.

I sign up and get back to the office. Someone tells me I look better already.

I open my mouth to explain that I only looked at the gym. I didn’t actually gym myself. But I shut it. No one’s told me I look good for a while. It seems like this gym lark is really going to pay off.