Sleep. Sweet, refreshing, sleep. That, truthfully, is what I craved most after an early-morning flight from Heathrow to Cyprus. Still, as I slumped into bed, I couldn't resist grabbing the remote. Seconds later, after zapping past a blur of Eurotrash and pay-TV channels, I found BBC World, where some minor-league weathergirl was going through a depressingly familiar spiel. Rain. Wind. Cold. Britain.

But then she shifted her focus, away from London (13 degrees and wet) on the far left of the map, to a tiny island, not a million miles away from Baghdad and Beirut. "The weather in Cyprus is 34 degrees and sunny," she announced cheerily. It was a mid-afternoon wake-up call. Three minutes later, trousers off and trunks on, my sleepiness dissipated the moment I dived into the hotel pool.

The warm-all-year-round climate is one of Cyprus's major attractions. That goes without saying. (And it's especially nice in the west where I stayed, which is cooler in the summer and warmer in the winter.) Another plus, for most British holidaymakers at least, is that everyone speaks English and there's steak and chips aplenty. Ergo: around 80% of the island's holidaymakers are from the UK, while many ex-pats retire here, banishing the grit and grime of the traditional British winter to their nightmares.

That's good enough for a lot of people, I know. But you're a Guardian reader: you're not going to be happy merely sampling the five-star delights of the Coral Beach hotel (sumptuous food, modern spas and the rest) or lounging by a 40-foot pool, skin slowly turning beetroot. Well, not for a whole week. So what else can this part of Cyprus offer you?

History is the obvious place to start. Especially as Paphos, about 25 minutes' drive from our hotel, boasts some reputation: not only was it the birthplace of Aphrodite, the mythological goddess of love - a fact hammered home by the numerous shoddily made souvenirs in the market - but it was also, as our guide delighted in telling us, added to the UNESCO World Heritage List in 1980 due to its "tremendous significance in the ancient world".

In truth, the historical treasures aren't all triple A-rated. Our guide particularly warned us off Aphrodite-themed tourist sites, saying they were "a waste of time and money".

The grandly named Tomb of the Kings - dating from the Roman period, and with its design inspired by the monumental burial grounds in Alexandria - boasts a much better reputation. But, while the site is certainly impressive in scale, traipsing round miles of open holes and sandstone walls in searing heat quickly dulls the senses.

The same can't be said about Paphos's real gem: its remarkable mosaics in the houses of Dionysos, Theseus and Aion. Wonderfully preserved after 16 centuries under the soil, there are scenes from Greek mythology, images of Romans hunting tigers and intriguing pre-Christian board games. We spent a good hour or so gawping before heading back out to the busy harbour and buying ice cream.

So far, so good. But what of hidden Cyprus, you ask? Well, we were promised that, too - on an excursion to explore, conveniently enough, the "Real Cyprus".

Initially it was all a bit underwhelming: after a long drive into the hills we stopped at a house where we, and a militia of other tourist groups, sampled Halloumi cheese and Cypriot wine before walking through a village populated by old men playing dominoes. Not bad, I know, but not the sort of thing that'll distract you from topping up your tan either.

Soon, though, things picked up. We switched vehicles to a battered Bedford van and headed over rough terrain to a donkey sanctuary. (This qualifies as traditional, our guide insisted - not altogether convincingly - because Cyprus has the largest donkeys in the world).

"Don't worry," the instructor reassured us. "The donkeys won't go quickly - except one, who we called Schumacher because he thinks he's a horse."

Soon we were paired off: the size of donkey roughly relating to rider's weight. With just a few left, one particularly sad-looking specimen, mane grey with age and tiny body looking ready to snap, stepped forward.

"You," cried the man. I looked around but there was nobody behind me. So - for the first time in my life - I sat on a donkey, and immediately thought: "Oh my god, I'm going to kill it."

"This is Schumacher," our instructor explained. "Hold on tight and squeeze your thighs tight when he tries to throw you off." I looked down. My feet nearly touched the floor. All around people were laughing.

But Schumacher quickly proved worthy of his moniker. Barely had the gate opened before he charged forward, bullying donkeys twice his size out of the way. I spent the next hour trying to control this buckaroo who a) sped to the front of the pack before b) stopping off to eat/try to throw me off and then c) barging past every donkey that had overtaken him to retake the lead. Alpha male, clearly.

Eventually we ended up at the ruins of a monastery which, as ruins go, was nothing special, before enjoying traditional food and dancing Cypriot-style - can-can-style kicks and jaunty music galore - our way long into the night.

A better example of the real Cyprus came the following day, when we visited a taverna high in the hills. The owner, a strong-willed man who looked like Stalin, was passionate about the food he cooked - almost all organic and grown in his garden - and about the Greek-Turkish antagonisms which still divide the island.

We ended up talking and talking. And when we didn't talk we ate his fabulous meze dishes - at least 30 in total - till our stomachs bulged and we were the last ones in the place. "Much better than the tourist ghetto down there," he said, jabbing his finger as he spat the words out.

I stared at the neon-lighted fish-and-chip restaurants in the valley below, and nodded my head in agreement. During my time in Cyprus, most Brits seemed content with this: eating just-like-it-is-at-home cuisine and tipsily tripping from sunbed to hotel bar and back. Which is a shame - especially on an island as fascinating and varied as this.

Way to go

· Sean Ingle travelled to the five-star Coral Beach Hotel, part of Leptos Hotels Group, with Cyprair holidays, who offer a week's package holiday to the resort from £589 per person in October, including return flights with Cyprus Airways, transfers and seven nights' bed and breakfast. Prices this summer start at £609 in June, rising to £699 in the peak summer season (August 1-14).

· Prices at her sister hotel, the three-star Paphos Gardens start at £449 in October, £459 in June, rising to £535 in the peak summer season, including return flights, transfers and seven nights' bed and breakfast.

· Leptos Hotels also feature a choice of villas at Kamares, set in the hills outside Paphos. These cost from £459 per person for a villa for four, including return flights and transfers based on self catering.

· For bookings or further details on any of the above, contact Cyprair on 0870 230 2300, www.cyprair-holidays.co.uk.