By Tim Luard BBC correspondent, Diafani, Greece

Some areas of Greece are still untouched by tourism

But there are parts of Greece that have yet to encounter such things as club-reps and pub crawls - let alone stripping contests.

As my ferry pulled in, taking up most of Diafani's small harbour, my landlord Manolis was waiting on the quay.

I had organised a room in advance and he had been told to look out for a tourist with a guitar.

In fact I was the only tourist. I told him I'd had a rough voyage. "Iss good" he said, "iss OK".

Manolis's English is limited, despite the years he spent working in America.

The city of Baltimore, for some reason, is home from home for many Diafanians. But he is also very easy-going.

He took me to his rooms. He lives in one, and there are four others he lets out - if there are any takers.

Grapes and peaches

But he makes little effort to go looking for any, and for the next few weeks it was just him and me.

After one attempt to cook me fried egg and chips first thing in the morning, he readily accepted my idea of a simpler breakfast - we just reached up to pluck grapes from the vine and peaches from the tree, adding them to our yoghurt and honey as we sat on the terrace looking at the turquoise sea.

Diafani is not a picture-postcard Greek village - its houses are not all perfectly whitewashed.

The mountains rising up behind are scarred by forest fires. "Iss OK. Iss good," said Manolis when I asked about them. "The trees - they grow again."

It is true, enough had grown again to make for any number of beautiful walks.

The nearest town boasting a bank or newspaper or souvenir shop - let alone nightclub - was two hours drive away on an unpaved road.

So I contented myself with the footpaths that led, past goats, olive groves, abandoned windmills and little white chapels to a series of wonderful, empty beaches.

Faliraki is known for its night clubs and cheap alcohol

Some are best reached by boat. Manolis suggested I go with his cousin. At least half the village are his cousins. But this cousin had a bad reputation and I told him I preferred to use the other boatman.

He shrugged. That was OK too. In fact, it was good.

But it soon became clear just how strong clan ties and rivalries are.

I had come to know various local characters.

There was Ilias, a seaman visiting his family, who sang his way through my entire Beatles repertoire. There was Kosmas, who could barely speak Greek let alone anything else, but who in return for a drink would sit for hours scribbling out poems.

I've come home with dozens of them. Each one starts with his name and age, which varies between 50 and 54.

Yorgos, a master diver, kept giving me treasures from the deep - a freshly caught fish, a strangely shaped sponge or a huge, purplish oyster.

United families

But he took me aside one day and told me seriously that I'd been having too many of my meals at just one cafe.

The other bar owners and their extended families were jealous. I should spread myself around - balance was everything.

The families unite as one when it comes to death. I saw four funerals, and each time the entire village turned out, forming a long ragged line as they trailed up the hill to the cemetery, the women outdoing each other in the shrillness of their wailing.

At other times, the women sat outside their homes embroidering their shawls and arranging marriages in their minds as they monitored the passing scene.

It was a slowly and quietly passing scene - partly on account of all those deaths.

'No tourism drive'

Many of the men were keen musicians - but almost all of them said they did not feel up to playing their local varieties of lutes and lyres and bagpipes just now because some relative had recently passed away.

That did not stop them enjoying life - or the music of others, including the not-so-local songs I and a few other foreigners sang in the taverns of an evening.

I just hope I wasn't starting Diafani off on the slide towards becoming another Faliraki.

I somehow think not, recalling those women in their shawls and their disapproval of even the slightest bit of public hand-holding among the young - even those just back for the summer from Baltimore.

And if Manolis is anything to go by, there is no great drive for more tourists.

During my last week, he disappeared for a few days. When he returned, he found he'd acquired two new guests in his absence.

They had turned up and assumed I was in charge, so I'd given them a room. Manolis looked mystified as to how I'd done it.