IT'S almost five o’clock in the afternoon and still 36 degrees when I board a ferry bound for a tiny Mediterranean island in the Bay of Naples. I’m clutching a sweetened ricotta pastry, a sfogliatelle, and the last of Elena Ferrante’s Neapolitan novels.

I am making my yearly pilgrimage to an island that stole my heart many pastries and paperbacks ago, Procida.

I was 18 when I first encountered this little idyll in the Mediterranean while on the year abroad of my Italian degree. I had watched Il Postino, the 1994 film starring Massimo Troisi as Mario, a beleaguered fisherman turned postman who is unable to express his love for the local beauty. The film was largely shot on Procida and its emotive mood and settings convinced me to seek out this place of poetry and deserted beaches. I’ve come back here ever since, searching out sun, sand, the ripest tomatoes and the spirit of my 18-year-old self.

It takes an hour to leave the shadow of Vesuvius and reach Procida’s main port, Marina Grande. As the ferry docks, I look out over the row of pastel-hued fishermen’s houses that line Via Roma. It’s a sight that hasn’t changed since I first encountered it.

Procida measures just 4.1 square kilometres but has a population of around 10,000. Its history is maritime yet this is also a place with rich cultural associations. Writers and artists have always flocked to its shores. In 1957, writer Elsa Morante immortalised Procida in her novel Arturo’s Island and in 1999, Jude Law lit up its cobbled streets as Dickie Greenleaf in The Talented Mr Ripley.

As I roll my suitcase off the ferry, tiny taxis scaled to suit Procida's maze-like streets, bustle for business. I am staying in an apartment only 15 minutes inland, and board a small bus which is narrow enough to weave its way down tight streets, past walkers who press themselves into doorways. The bus ride is an initiation in itself.

The only accommodation needed on this island is a bed, a kitchen and a view. My apartment doesn’t disappoint, with fantastic views over the island and to Procida’s better known neighbour, Ischia.

I come eager to cook – so much easier when the shops here are like Wholefoods on steroids. Bright yellow local lemons overflow in crates and watermelons lie awaiting dissection.

I get to know the local grocers in Piazza Olmo. My daily order of a half-kilo of pomodori, fruit for breakfast and a variety of greens for supper is met with patience as they weigh each item on the scale and always give me change from a five-euro note.

I start my days like this, with a shopping list while I witness the island awaken. At Bar Roma, a bustling hub in the Marina Grande, I grab a cappuccino and a lingua – Procida’s very own invention. This long flattened pastry, shaped like a tongue and filled with vanilla cream, is named, so legend has it, after the gossipy islanders' wagging tongues. It’s delicious.

Afterwards I walk uphill to the Terra Murata – the oldest part of the island, 90 metres above sea level. A steep climb is rewarded by extraordinary views back over Procida’s pink and orange houses. In the old town I sit on the wall of the Palazzo d’Avalos. It was once the second royal palace of the Bourbons, but later became a prison, rumoured to be one of the most fearsome in Italy until it closed in 1988. Now graffiti and weeds are its only inmates. I am struck by the beauty of its isolation – its prisoners had a cell with a view.

Nearby is an atmospheric little museum, named after Graziella, the young Procidean orphan with whom French writer Alphonse de la Martine fell in love. Their tragic romance was the inspiration for his 1852 novella, Graziella.

The museum’s walls boast a myriad of local antique objects, beautifully installed to resemble an art installation. Tools, kitchenware and paintings greet you as you walk through what would have been a typical 19th-century island home. All the items come from the family of its young director, Riccardo. By the time I reach the bedroom, with its crib, iron-framed bed and prayer stool, its windows open wide to a view of the bluest ocean, I feel like I have stepped back 200 years in time.

There’s a shop which sells items made by the old prison’s inmates. "They were kept busy," laughs Riccardo. It’s an image that stays with me, rows of captive mafiosi sewing bed linens and nightgowns while looking out to sea.

I wander back down the hill and along to Marina di Corricella, the island’s most picturesque fishing village. Painted houses seem to tumble down towards the sea and into the fishing nets which are still repaired by the village elders who sit by the water’s edge. I sip a lemon granita at La Locando del Postino, the setting for Mario’s romancing of barmaid Beatrice in Il Postino. I’m in an Italian reverie.

Climbing towards the Piazza dei Martiri I spot a contemporary bar, l’Unico. Owned by Neapolitan architects, it has a small roof terrace where you can order an aperitif and watch the sun setting over the bay.

My routine here is shaped by mealtimes and by the heat of the sun. I often walk to one of the island’s many beaches. My favourite is a half-moon shaped beauty, Pozzo Vecchio, where Mario and Beatrice fall in love in Il Postino. It’s an easy place to while away a couple of hours spent reading or swimming, or awaiting the arrival of one’s very own Mario.

Every summer some islanders open their gardens to the public. On a narrow street I spot a sign and wander in – it takes a dozen rows of the most purple aubergines for me to find this garden’s owner, Giuseppe. From his vines, he makes his own Falanghina wine and presses a bottle into my hands as I leave. There’s a generosity of spirit here that’s welcoming.

On my last evening I find myself outside the church of Sant Antonio di Padova. Among groups of men in white robes carrying the sign of the cross, I spot Giuseppe. I’m here to watch the Corpus Domini procession – a Catholic celebration. The priests speak while babies are held aloft. We are all told to go home and WhatsApp our friends, professing faith. It’s a swift reminder that amongst the timeless symbolism, we are in the 21st century. I just have time to tell Giuseppe how much I enjoyed his wine.

Before I prise myself away from this verdant idyll and board the ferry back to Naples and to reality, I just have time to visit the Luigi Nappa gallery. Luigi, now in his 70s, was born here. His work is bold, colourful and full of poetry – just like this island. He was a ship’s engineer and tells me how he was once in love with a girl in Aberdeen who took him to the beach but sadly "the northern waters were too cold". He shows me a photograph: "I was a good-looking man."

I hope that one day I might show someone a picture of myself on Procida: "There I am on Pozzo Vecchio – I was waiting on the beach for my very own Mario."

Procida, I’ll be back.