Brian and I met in a bar in 1996 while I was holidaying in Crete with a friend. I had first visited the Greek islands many years earlier with my husband and, following our divorce in 1988, I started going back for regular holidays, either with friends or on my own. I loved the slow pace of life and the friendly people. Brian was a retired travel agent and, after his own divorce, had left his old life in the UK behind to reside in Crete full-time. Our shared love of all things Greek drew us together: he took me around the island in his car and we'd go for long walks in the mountain, or just sit by the beach. Brian would stop and chat with the locals everywhere we went. They all loved him and I could see why. He was kind and interesting, and by the end of the holiday I knew I didn't want our relationship to end.

Three weeks after we met, I returned to Crete to stay with him for two weeks. After that, I went back to see him two or three times a year and we talked on the phone regularly whenever we were apart. We kept up a long- distance relationship for two years, until one day when he rang me and, out of the blue, asked, "Will you marry me?" I didn't hesitate to say yes. Brian left Crete and moved back to the UK to live with me in the Wirral, but it was only a temporary move. I was due to retire in two years, and we planned to settle in Crete as soon as I collected my pension. Meanwhile, as Brian spoke better Greek than me, he put himself in charge of organising our wedding in the summer of 2001. We planned to have our reception around a beautiful lake in a mountain village called Kournas.

Brian had been living with me for 18 months when I got up one morning to find him collapsed on the kitchen floor. He was slumped against the fridge, the colour drained from his face. He no longer looked like the Brian I knew.

I raced to the phone and dialed 999. As I waited for the paramedics to arrive I kept leaning over his body whispering, "I'm so sorry." I'd had no idea there was anything wrong with him. Postmortem tests revealed that he had suffered a blood clot. It was February 2001 and Brian was only 59. The pain and shock of his sudden departure from my life was something I didn't think I would ever get over.

I worked part-time as a counsellor and probation officer, and it was months before I could face going back to work. Both jobs involved helping people with their problems and I couldn't do that while I was struggling to deal with my own emotions.

I felt so cheated. Brian's death had dealt me a double blow. Not only had I lost the man I was going to spend the rest of my life with, but also the idyllic future that we had planned together. I felt almost angry with him for leaving me alone, even though I knew it was irrational. We had spent so many hours picturing our new life together in Crete, and I grieved over the loss of that almost as much as I grieved over Brian.

Seven months after Brian's death, I had to go back to Crete to close his bank account and sort out other aspects of his estate. When I got home, it began to dawn on me that although Brian was gone, our dream hadn't ended completely with his death. I realised I had a choice; I could either stay put and carry on feeling sorry for myself, or go to Crete and live out our dream on my own.

I talked it through with my grown-up son, Martin, and he said I should go for it. Friends told me I was very brave to even consider it, but it didn't seem that way to me. Brian's sudden death had changed the way I felt about life. As the fog of grief began to clear

I realised how fleeting it is. I felt a new kind of urgency to experience everything it had to offer. I put my house on the market and gave up my two jobs. Then I found an apartment to rent in Kournas and in April 2002 I moved there with my two cats, Sasha and Jess. I was filled with apprehension. Even as I arrived on the island I kept asking myself what on earth I was doing. At the same time, I knew this was something I had to do, if only to get it out of my system. The village had a population of around 900 and although there were a few other Brits living there, they tended to be couples who keep themselves to themselves. But my landlords, an elderly couple called Filiana and Nikos, lived in the apartment below me and went out of their way to make me feel welcome. Filiana insisted on cooking for me most days and she introduced me to everyone in the village.

I also became close to Kostas, who owned the local pottery shop. He was about 30 and the only one in the village who could speak fluent English. I would pop into his shop every day for a chat and he became my mentor, advising me on the culture and helping me with my Greek. When I told him about what had happened to Brian, he didn't avoid making eye contact with me or struggle for something to say like many of my friends in England had. He explained that the Greeks accepted death more readily. They saw it as part of life.

It was immensely difficult living in Crete without Brian. Not only had I left behind my friends and family, but this was the place where we had fallen in love, and it was connected to so many happy memories. But when I found myself becoming maudlin over what might have been I would take myself off for a long walk in the mountains to get my head straight again. I bought a laptop so that I could stay in touch with my friends and family back home and when I got really lonely, I would often go and sit in the local taverna and read a book or practise my Greek from a phrase book. I soon became friendly with the owners, Maria and Nikos, and I would help them prepare the vegetables for their restaurant in return for a meal at the end of the night.

Filiana went to church every Sunday and she invited me to go along. As religion was such a strong part of village life I felt it was important that I joined in, even though I'm not very religious myself, and that taught me more about the way the Greeks deal with death. Regular memorial services are held for the first year after someone dies, which struck me as a wonderful way of remembering someone's life.

In England, people cross the street rather than talk to someone about the death of their loved one. Some months after Brian's death, I felt awkward about mentioning him even to my closest friends. Death was swept under the carpet. Here it was out in the open and constantly spoken of. This different approach helped me come to terms with losing Brian.

I began to think of our time together in a different way. My memories were something to treasure, not agonise over.

A year into my stay in Kournas I decided to move on. I had begun to feel isolated and wanted to relocate to somewhere less rural. Filiana cried when I told her, but I promised her that I would visit her often. I moved to a quiet beach resort called Kalyves and became close friends with two other single English women. I did voluntary work and even took on a part-time job as a travel rep. Kournas was half an hour's bus ride away so I would go there often to see my old neighbours and friends.

But three years ago, after much soul searching, I returned to England. I had been missing my friends and family and wanted to be closer to them. This time, I moved to Berkshire to be near my son and started my life over for a second time. I've been back to Crete once since then and I plan to go back in January.

I keep in touch with my Greek friends via texts and letters, but I still miss the fresh food, the warmth of the sun and, above all, the warmth of the people.

My four years in Crete weren't always easy but they helped me come to terms with what I had lost, and also to appreciate what I still had. They will always be part of me - just like my memories of Brian ·

• Cynthia Paine was talking to Danielle Wrate.

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