They say you should never meet your heroes

Since I was a kid studying Latin and Classics at school (I was that nerd who also did public speaking, and studied art because I genuinely enjoyed it and not because it was the easiest class to bunk off from) I've wanted to visit the Acropolis. Six or seven years ago a very brief work trip saw me in the Greek capital, but I had a few hours spare into which I'd factored the metro and a schlep up the hill with my bags, just so I could gaze and the Parthenon and see the Caryatids. On that occasion I ended up working till about four in the morning and had to help with a presentation of something (entirely in Greek, I sat there mute and seething), and the chance was lost.

The couple of nights in Athens were tagged onto this trip almost entirely so I could rectify that sorry state of affairs, a necessary evil to enter a big city after a holiday of countryside walks and quiet towns and villages and sea views. But the morning had arrived (I'd really secretly wanted to go the day before, but heading up early-ish in the morning seemed the sensible option with respect to the heat and attempts to avoid too many other tourists). Standing on the balcony of our hotel, gauging the weather (overcast and much cooler) and whether the clouds would split for any blue backing for photos, the sheer number of tour coaches driving past made it clear there was never going to be a particularly good time to be doing this, a realisation given flesh when we arrived at the ticket office, into a scrum (for queuing still remains a peculiarly British ability) with huge groups, stickers on their tops with numbers or symbols corresponding to boards held up by their tour leaders, blocking the way as that leader went to sort the tickets at the 'tour leaders only' window.

It's all geared towards as much throughput as possible, the board wavers bellowing instructions to their charges, who are looking glum in their sheep-like procession, or staring off into space and not really paying attention. The problem comes when you enter the main gate, and the path up to the Acropolis top is narrow, and slippy, worn-smooth marble. There's a stop-go traffic jam as you find yourself entirely surrounded by mainly aged Americans and Italians (which makes for a lovely atmosphere as two of the loudest nationalities on holiday have to crank up the volume further to make themselves heard above the hubbub to people whose hearing has started to fail); or groups of schoolkids who, released from the little desks for the day, are a little bubble of excitement that spills over frequently. And then there's the modern phenomenon of, not just the selfie, but the selfie taken with your camera or phone held out on a long stick. They've been in all sorts of places around Greece, but here they abound, and it's not long before you realise the usual reserve of not wanting to spoil someone's photo has to be thrown out the window otherwise the trip would take numerous hours. It's all a bit of a stramash.

By the time we break out onto the hill, where people can at least fan out a little, I'm already getting a bit fed up. Epidavros and Mikines were busy, but not on this scale, and at those sites if there was a large tour group you could sit for five minutes, let them pass, and there would be fives minutes before the next came along, in which peace you can have the corner to yourself and pace yourself accordingly to maintain it. Here there are people. And some more people. And the noise of works going on in the Parthenon itself. The grandeur of the place seems to be lost a bit under the need for everyone to record that grandeur - it doesn't feel 'special' in the way quiet sites like Nemea or even Mystras old town did. It feels like a living postcard for tourists to snap, without ever really 'experiencing'. So we join in. I make sure there's a shot of the entire Parthenon, and photos of each of usin front of the site, before descending once more through the marching mass, and down to the quieter slopes of the lower hill and the Odeon of Herodus Atticus (where that night we hear a concert taking place and wish we'd known about earlier) and the Dionysos Theatre.

Thankfully on the rest of the day Athens showed off her charm. It's certainly a big sprawling city when seen from the top of the hill, but this little corner is pleasant to walk round. In fact we circle the hill from our hotel, taking in numerous sites and little quarters along the way.

Thissio is where we've resolved to stay the next time we visit, with perhaps a better angle view of the Acropolis, and a nice vibrant feel in the evenings (we headed back here later in the night).

Keramikos used to be the red light district of the city, but is a cleaned up area now, and hosts the ancient cemetery of the city, with ancient gates and a brilliant little museum of statues and trinkets.

From here we're heading to the Agora, in the midday sun, so there's a quick stop in a fast food joint (Greek style, funky souvlaki, served in, as expected, giant portions) before heading into the type of place I'd hoped the Parthenon would be. It's helped by the Temple of Hephaestus being the best preserved there is, but there's also a tranquil calm of this leafy bit of town (despite the cicadas pounding out their incessant buzz), sitting in the shadow of the Acropolis. There are interesting archaeological features, and an atmosphere that can only come from not being surrounded by swarms of other people, or constantly hearing the sound of cranes and machinery (ever present within the ongoing restoration of the Parthenon). You get a true feel for this being the main part of the ancient city of Athens, and try to figure out how people lived, what they did, conjuring their spirits into the streets.

Opposite the Temple is a reconstructed Stoa (one Tripadvisor review declares this to be remarkably well-preserved, which would seem unlikely with the rest of the site being in ruin) that gives you another very real sense of the type and size of buildings that were here, the grand scale impressive, and the outlook over the greenery to the Temple beguiling. I would honestly say that a trip to Athens is not complete without a visit here, and that while the Acropolis dominates the skyline, it is probably best viewed from afar, and in a straight choice between the two I'd head into the Agora.

We walk through the tourist tat laden streets of Monastariki to reach the more tranquil surroundings of Plaka (which looks another lovely place to head in the evening for a meal), and take one diversion to the Temple of Zeus (once the biggest temple in Athens, cruelly cut down by gales and a domino effect), before Mel's feet need a rest in the hotel.

I've only just got time, after a recharge of the camera, to nip up to the Panathanaikon Stadium, where the first modern Olympic Games were held (as a sports fan I thought it daft I wasn't visiting it) and get round and out ten minutes before it closes. It's an interesting visit, and at only 3 euros I can recommend it, but Nemea stadium beats it for me in terms of atmosphere (if not grand scale - there are 83 million tonnes of marble seating here). There's a little podium for people to have their picture taken, with everyone, without fail, standing on the top step. I ponder asking someone to take my picture looking glum on the third step, but the moment passes.

Heading back I end up having a conversation with an old Greek gent called Antonio who asks where I'm from, where I'm staying, tells me about how he got to support West Ham, passes comment on the referendum result, and invites me for a drink in a local bar. Having said to Mel I'd be about an hour, and already being over 20 minutes beyond that, I try time and time again to say no (politely) as we walk towards the junction to my hotel ("If you come now for five minutes, only five minutes, I will not let you stay longer, because for now you are free, but when you go back to your wife you are no longer free"). I feel, as I walk off, having thanked him profusely for his company, but having to refuse his offer of a 'small' beer, that I've let him down, and tarnished his good memories of British people he has told me about. But it's our last night, and frankly the bar looked a bit like a strip joint, and we're heading out for a commiseratory drink in the evening warmth.

Athens has surprised in its charm, and we've only seen a fraction, and talk that evening turns to return visits, to Greece, the same areas and new, and to Athens, maybe one more night than this time, to take in some more of its hospitality. Maybe I'll bump into Antonio again and I can offer him a drink instead.