Buoyed by the unwearying energy of youth, 35 years ago my then boyfriend (now husband) Neil and I stepped off a plane from Athens to Santorini. Our plan was to hop around the Greek Cyclades, with vague plans to also visit Mykonos and Paros.

There wasn’t an airport terminal, and we watched as our backpacks were dumped unceremoniously on to the runway.

‘Er, excuse me,’ said a young guy with a Brummie accent. ‘Do you have somewhere to stay? We’re not sure what happens next...’

This was John, accompanied by girlfriend Viv. ‘We’ll follow one of them over there,’ replied Neil, gesturing to a line of keen-looking Greeks, all calling out the same thing: ‘Cheap room!’

Little did we know that this would be the start of an enduring friendship.

This year, to celebrate 35 years of being great chums, we are heading back to relive our trip. No accommodation booked. We’re going to wing it, stick to a budget and pretend we are in our early 20s again. At least that’s the plan.

This time we fly to Mykonos, which has become a more expensive destination since 1991, synonymous with hedonistic partying. Predictably, on arrival, not a single person steps forth advertising rooms.

We find a two-bedroom apartment in Mykonos Town on Airbnb (but double what we hoped to pay). So how has Mykonos changed? A lot. Traditional bakeries have made way for designer fashion shops, cocktail bars and upmarket restaurants.

Prices are high. We watch the sunset in Little Venice, eliciting comments of: ‘Bloody hell! Fifteen euros for a cocktail!’

The next day we rent quad bikes to get off the beaten tourist trail, heading north to the untamed sands of Fokos beach, home to the lone Fokos Taverna, where life – wonderfully – appears to be frozen in time, and is just how we left it.

With moods buoyant we spread our towels, sharing the sands with a handful of others. ‘This is more like it,’ says Viv, as we take a swim before a lunch of grilled octopus, tzatziki and Greek salad (only £7 a head). Realising that winging accommodation is going to be tricky, we book our next stay through an online hotel site.

We’re bound for the far quieter Milos, 77 miles south-west of Mykonos. A three-hour, high-speed boat ride whisks us to the pretty port town of Adamas. Here we pick up a 4x4 rental car that is needed to reach many of Milos’ 70 beaches.

The only problem is that our luggage doesn’t fit in the boot. So while Neil and John do a luggage run, Viv and I settle down with a half-litre of rosé (£4) at a seafront taverna, giggling over guys strutting by in Speedos. It feels just like old times.

With our base in Pollonia, a fishing hamlet/low-key chic resort, we spend four days discovering the island’s diverse geography, from wind-sculpted Sarakiniko, where John and Neil leap from cliffs into turquoise waters, to Firopotamos, where the sea laps at fishermen’s huts.

At Paleochori beach, we lunch on taramasalata and dolmades (stuffed vine leaves) at Restaurant Pelagos, before an afternoon of swimming and sunbathing.

It’s an hour by ferry to the smaller island of Sifnos, awash with olive and almond trees, and known for its traditional gastronomy and potteries.

Here, our two-bed apartment is located off Platis Gialos, a large crescent beach lined with restaurants such as Omega 3 (Tom Hanks and Bono have visited).

Trying to keep to our food budget, we dine at To Steki taverna, where the mastelo (lamb slow-cooked in red wine) is hard to beat. By day, we walk the cliff path to Moni Chrysopigi, a 17th century monastery built on a tiny islet, then doze on the beach at Faros beneath tamarisk trees.

The small, church-studded capital of Apollonia is an attractive higgledy-piggledy tangle of white-washed lanes, but Sifnos’ jewel is the town of Kastro, which tumbles down a hill and boasts views to the blue-domed Church of the Seven Martyrs.

OK, so we blew our accommodation budget, yet this wasn’t an expensive holiday. And the essence of the Cyclades on its quieter beaches, and especially in its family-owned tavernas, remains all these years on.