Around this time last year, I somehow managed to sneak into the summer opening party at Billionaire, Flavio Briatore's nightclub on the Costa Smeralda, Sardinia. It was an interesting evening. Briatore, entrepreneur, playboy, Benetton Formula One team boss, and dishy fiancé of Naomi Campbell, had managed to pull quite a crowd of hi-rollers and big cheeses. Through the happy fog of my Bellini-induced inebriation I spotted Gianluca Vialli, chatting to Serie A superstars Filippo Inzhagi and Francesco Totti, Sarah Ferguson, Ghislaine Maxwell, and Eddie Irvine. And, of course, the beautiful Naomi Campbell.

In between flutes of champagne and above the thumping din of the Mambo Number Five on the sound system, the insouciantly elegant Flavio, dubbed "bello Flavio" by the Italian press, took great pride in boasting of his club's recent success. "Under previous ownerships it was bankrupt seven times, now it is packed every night from July to September," explained Briatore. What sort of clientele, I asked. "Ah," he said, grinning broadly, and casting his gaze at the throng of casually dressed, perma-tanned millionaires frugging to the Euro-disco. "We have the highest concentration of beautiful girls anywhere in Europe."

And with that alluringly bold statement, Briatore neatly summed up this little bit of Sardinia's well-heeled, enduringly hedonistic, riotously self-indulgent and shamelessly pleasure-seeking appeal.

You see, Costa Smeralda, is the anti-Chianti. More trashy than Capri, less snotty than Portofino, Costa Smeralda is where Italy's fast lane likes to pull in for a mid-summer pit stop. If you're looking for dusty olive groves, stirring medieval architecture, and a sighting of Cherie Blair wearing Gap cargo shorts, fly to Florence, point your hire car in the direction of Volpaia and spend a fortnight sucking up to Contessas trying to blag a ticket for the Palio. If, on the other hand, you're feeling flush and flash and you are one of those uncomplicated, glamour-loving types who subscribes to Hello! magazine, likes to wear studded driving shoes around the house and fancies himself as a bit of a Flavio-style lothario on the quiet, then head for Costa Smeralda.

You'll certainly be in good company. The wiggly, 35-mile stretch of coastline just half an hour north of Olbia airport somehow manages to incorporate 80 bays and has a high concentration of photogenic A-listers. Before the 1960s, it was famous only for its bandits and mosquitoes. Mussolini tried to his hand at attracting tourists by banning the word malaria, changing it to febbre intermittente (intermittent fever), but the Americans, who used the area as an early testing ground for DDT, came along eradicated the problem altogether. Then, His Highness Karim Aga Khan, flying over the coastline one day, looked down from his private plane, observed the jade-coloured sea lapping against the white sands, saw its potential, and set about creating a holiday resort for the world's most wealthy people.

The Aga Khan brought in famous architects and laid down strict rules about design and build quality. Waste, he instructed, would be processed by the most expensive treatment plant in the world. Telephone wires and electrical cables must be buried underground. Another stipulation, which remains in place today, was that no apartment, hotel or house could be visible above the Holm oaks or tamarisk trees.

The prince also made some extraordinary statements about the area. "This is obviously a place for people with above average material possessions," he once announced. "I wouldn't even want to have the others here as guests." Such heavy-handed arrogance didn't seem to put anyone off, though. Almost overnight, the Aga Khan's attractive brand of understated, luxurious chic turned the area into a ready-made summer playground for the likes of Princess Margaret, Peter Sellers, Princess Caroline of Monaco (who enjoyed two honeymoons here at the Pitrizza hotel on Liscia di Vacca), King Juan Carlos, Audrey Hepburn and Jean Paul Belmondo.

Costa Smeralda continues to attract Europe's glitterati, too. Land prices have gone up 600% in the past 10 years, and some 12,000 people flock to the coast during July and August, when the simple 30-minute ride to the airport can sometimes take 2 1/2 hours. The Olivetti family (of typewriter/computer fame) still keep a villa at Romazzino, Mick Jagger is a regular visitor and Princess Diana popped in on what was to be her last summer holiday aboard Dodi Fayed's chartered yacht.

The Aga Khan would, no doubt, be rather disappointed to learn that the likes of yours truly are managing to sneak under Costa Smerlada's velvet rope these days. Still, reassuringly-expensive package deals, via the posher brochures, can be had, and off-season, if you're lucky with the weather (it's usually boiling by May), you can avoid the crowds, evade the stratospheric high-season hotel rates but still get a good idea what all the fuss is about. And when that first warm waft of potent summer breeze, heavy with the scent of the macchia - a mix of rosemary, lavender and myrtle and pine forest - hits your olfactory zone, you'll understand why they say that this where the wind was born.

Of course, to see the place properly you have to have the right car. I mean pulling up to the valet parking area at Billionaire in a Fiat Punto hire car, just wouldn't do, sweetie. So I managed to scrounge a spanking new Jaguar X-type for my short visit to the area, the perfect vehicle for cruising Costa Smeralda's Grand Prix standard roads.

I started off with a visit to Porto Cervo, the hub of Costa Smeralda's buzzing, summertime social scene. This is where Flavio Briatore berths his beautiful yacht, the Lady In Blue, and where the holidaying plutocrats compete in the one of the prestigious yacht club's many regattas, such as The Sardegna Club and the Settimana della Bocce.

The glowing pastel-toned hues of purpose-built Porto Cervo, with the pleasant, blue-chip rustic construction of the Hotel Cervo as its main attraction, suck you in just like the first few pages of a trashy airport novel. You don't really want to like it but you just can't help it. Anyway, how could you fail to fall for a place the size of Trumpton that boasts stores by the likes of Versace, Prada, Dolce & Gabbana and many others? Having said that, Lord only knows what the people here do when they want to buy a pint of milk.

Indeed, the entertainingly compact atmosphere puts one rather in mind of BBC1's ill-fated sex and sangria soap opera, Eldorado. You can whiz around the whole of downtown Porto Cervo in less than five minutes but you'd be much better off taking it at a shuffle, showing off your tan, and your model girlfriend as you go. To this end, one street in Porto Cervo has even the brass neck to call its self La Passeggiata (also the word for that rather exhausting, all-pervading Italian obsession with cutting just the right amount of indolent dash when one takes a slow, show-off stroll of an evening), presumably in order to encourage people to walk at a leisurely pace and reduce the chances of having to air-kiss the same acquaintances twice in one evening.

Back in the X-type, having passed on those cashmere Supergas, I cruised past thick hedges of comical cacti, just like the ones you see whizzing by on Roadrunner cartoons and climbed coastal roads where the emerald-coloured sea glinted below as clear as grand cru Pellegrino. I stopped at pretty Porto Rotundo, (a sort of mini Porto Cervo), then cut back to check out the rocky, multi-coloured Bay of Sardinia, clocking the best beaches as I drove. I'd recommend Long Beach or, if the mistral is playing havoc with your girlfriend's 300 quid Nicky Clarke hairdo, the more sheltered Petra Manna Beach. If you have a boat, go to Spiaggia della Rosa, where, I was informed, the sand is a gorgeous rose colour. Oh, and have lunch at the Beach Club at Romazzino Beach.

Inland, the villages - the ones that have been untouched by the Aga Khan's hand - can look rather grim and ordinary. That is to say they are not "charming" in the indigenous-wrinkly-old-fellas-sitting-under-a-tree-playing-checkers-and-drinking-Punt-E-Mes kind of way that the English have come to expect from every corner of Italy. Of course, this means that they actually have plenty of charm, albeit often rather hidden. Have a look, ask around and you'll find fantastic food at substantially more reasonable prices than at your hotel. I especially enjoyed a stop at inland Arzachena, where I ate fresh seafood and Carta di Musica, (literally, music parchment) that delicious, olive oil-drenched, paper-thin bread which was invented on the island, is served with just about everything and is the most moreish bar snack.

But if the villages are a tad disappointing, the countryside is quite spectacular and constantly unpredictable. One moment, it's wild, rolling untamed Iranian Steppe, the next bleakly beautiful Balearic scrub. Around one corner, you're looking at Scottish lowlands; around another, you're suddenly in High Chaparral territory, scanning the crags in the extraordinary, wind-sculpted rock formations, half-expecting to see Clint atop a donkey and chewing on a cheroot. Not surprisingly, this kind of geological terrain and effulgent flora attracts a few rucksacks and anoraks. In fact, I even noticed a rather out-of-place-looking campsite somewhere along my travels.

Me? I decided against the campsite and slummed it at the five-star Cala di Volpe Hotel where they shot bits of the MGM movie Wizard of Oz and a scene in a James Bond film. A Roger Moore Bond film, naturally. Indeed, one can well imagine Moore, feeling very much at home in this superannuated stockade.

Originally a medieval castle with an ambitious, jet-set adobe extension (think Sedona, Arizona, meets Harold Robbins using a Gaudi-esque palette), the hotel has everything you need on campus and you could quite happily spend four or five blissfully shallow, lazy days here without ever venturing outside the hotel lobby.

There's a mini port, complete with hotel-owned boats, cute little shops, a vast sea-water swimming pool, several awesomely romantic bars, a picture postcard view incorporating sea, sand, mountains and speed boats, a couple of blackened, rickety, wooden jetties jutting out to calm water, sybaritic food, an extraordinary level of service and endless Bulgari cosmetics in your room. In some corners of this wonderful hotel's labyrinthine complex, even Tony Blair could be convinced that he was in the depths of Tuscany. No wonder Cala Di Volpa consistently makes US Condé Nast Traveler magazine's list of the world's top 10 hotels.

But such hi-rolling indolence doesn't come cheap. Mick Jagger pays $3,000 a night for the benefit of staying in the hotel's Presidential Suite with its own private pool. The regular rooms are cheaper, but not much. Good job Flavio put you on the on the guest list at Billionaire, eh?

Way to go

Exclusive Italy (01892 619650, www.exclusivedestinations.co.uk) offers seven nights' half-board at the five-star Cala di Volpe from £1,285 low season, £3,335 high season (July/ August) based on two sharing a twin or double room with a balcony and sea view. The price includes flights from Gatwick to Olbia, economy class (Club Class upgrades available from £140 per person return) and transfers.