“Hello,” I said politely. “I’d like to book a tour for two around Kalaupapa on Saturday.”

A voice on the other end of the phone snapped back: “How you come?” “Erm, I’m not sure,” I answered. “Is the only way by foot or by mule?” The voice got agitated: “We no mule!” it shrieked. “You want mule, you book mule company!”

This misunderstanding went on for several increasingly frustrating minutes until finally I yelled: “I don’t want a mule, I want to walk.” At which point the voice calmly said: “Oh, OK,” and promptly hung up.

“So much for the Friendly Isle of Molokai,” I thought as I failed to book any diving and got scolded by the condo owner for having the presumption to ask for directions and entry information earlier than his agreement required him to send them.

And flying across the island, first impressions were little improved. The western side of this Hawaiian island is dry and looks like it has had some sort of devastating ecological accident. The long ribbons of beaches looked gorgeous but the surf pounding them put swimming there out of the question. When our tiny 10-seater plane landed, I felt a little glum.

People don’t so much book, as rock up when they want to go. If the tours get full, well so what? There’s always tomorrow

Any Molokians reading this are probably guffawing amiably now. Because as it turns out, I was just coming at the island in the wrong way.

People don’t so much book, as rock up when they want to go. If the tours get full, well so what? There’s always tomorrow. Who knows whether the diving will be going ahead until the new day dawns? And everyone is family or a friend here, so if you couldn’t get into your Wavecrest condo, why, you’d just ask the neighbour what the key combination was.

This all became apparent in the airport as we wandered unsupervised over the tarmac and the Alamo lady left our car running in the road while she greeted us warmly and swept a most perfunctory eye over the paperwork.

As we stocked up with provisions in the very basic supermarket, the short queue idled while the check-out girl got the latest news from a customer. And dinner in the Paddlers Inn in the main ‘town’ of Kaunakakai took 20 minutes to order and nearly an hour to come. But in the meantime, the local band played, people danced and slapped each other on the back and there was so much people watching to do, I didn’t notice the time pass.

The next morning, we were up with the sun to give us time to hike down to Kalaupapa. This is the infamous leper colony on the island, which forged two new saints (Fr Damien and Sr Marianne who ministered to the sick) and inspired the novel Molokai.

The colony is caught between a horseshoe of towering sea-cliffs. In the 1800s, being sent here was a death sentence in exile away from family and friends and initially without even decent shelter or sufficient food.

This priest and nun really did work miracles here to improve conditions for the patients, and in Damien’s case, he contracted the disease and died for his troubles.

At the bottom of the steep cliff path, we milled about on a huge green admiring the view and wondering faintly whether we were in the right place. Eventually, an ancient, yellow school bus toiled up, bearing the passengers who had chosen to fly.

A delightful man collected our money (€36, cash only), told us half a dozen random facts about the colony and then smiled engagingly while we all waited some more for those people coming on four legs.

Almost an hour later, the mules plodded slowly into view, their human cargo squirming uncomfortably in the saddle. At the head of the mule train was a man in a very battered, black cowboy hat and ancient, sleeveless denim jacket which may have once been blue. Local legend Buzzy Sproat had arrived.

Buzzy loaded us all onto the bus, gunning the engine to hurry up stragglers, and we lurched about 200 metres down a muddy track and got out. We could have walked more quickly.

First stop on this most haphazard of tours was the bar, where we looked at some photos of the village’s inhabitants. This being America, we were given the opportunity to buy Funyuns or a can of coke.

Nine patients still remain at the colony (although apparently one has been incarcerated after getting involved with crystal meth) and, slowly, the buildings that used to house over 1,000 people are falling into decay.

Leprosy can be cured now, but damage caused prior to treatment cannot be reversed. The patients run the businesses in town or work for the State and can remain here until their deaths, a small comfort after an early life of hardship.

Slowly, the yellow bus cranked around the churches built by Damien, past the village hall decorated with photographs of the inhabitants (including one of a cloud purporting to show the profile of St Damien).

With Buzzy’s lively and meandering commentary, Kalaupapa’s past emerged in the rustic, muddy lanes and the incredible sea vistas to the east.

The climb back up the cliff left us panting. As a reward, we stopped at the local coffee shop. Buzzy’s Christmas stocking hung behind the counter; his wife is the manager. On this island of 7,400 people, everyone knows everyone.

With Molokai’s premier attraction out of the way, we contemplated our options. We did not have the requisite permit or four-wheel drive to get into some of the more remote Nature Conservancy land, where endemic plants are clinging on. (The bird population is doing less well. Of the nine native forest birds that used to live here, six are extinct.)

The weather was a little rainy. And so we abandoned ourselves to the true joy of Molokai; not really doing anything at all.

All habitation had receded and the place was just as nature made it, wild, with sea spray in the air and the ocean thundering onto the fine sand

Yes, we got up late. We breakfasted slowly, watching the sun creeping higher into the sky over the pebbled mudflat and beach opposite our rental condo.

We meandered east along the only main road, past headlands and sickles of yellow or black sand until the road became a single, narrow track that arced up one side of the mountain and then switch-backed down the other. And we landed up in quite possibly the world’s most perfect bay.

It was actually a double bay called Hawala, with a dome of black, volcanic boulders between. A freshwater river ran down from a waterfall in the mountains just behind.

The hillside in the perfect hollow behind the beach was loaded with lush, green vegetation and a single house was half-hidden behind a small grove of coconut trees.

Locals surfed the powerful waves or passed the time of day sitting in the back of their pickups relaxing. The only location snag was that the Hawaiian village previously located there had been washed away by a tsunami. Twice. Consequently, all habitation had receded and the place was just as nature made it, wild, with sea spray in the air and the ocean thundering onto the fine sand.

Last stop on the laidback tour was Kaluakoi Resort. In the 1980s, this was a premier resort. Now, it’s a dilapidated disaster, interspersed with beautifully maintained condos, whose owners are feeling the isolation that the failed hotel and golf course have created. The water only remains running thanks to an intervention by the council.

On the plus side, this meant that the seemingly endless stretches of beach were almost deserted. We climbed a headland to get perspective and the bronzed strip of sand went on as far as the eye could see.

From there, we returned the car and were greeted cheerfully by a man who quizzed us intensely about the weather in Europe and didn’t even bother to check the vehicle for dents.

We wandered over the strip of rough ground to the airport. This time, there were no boarding cards, no security; nothing, in fact, apart from a bench in the glorified garage that served as departures, arrivals and baggage claim.

They weighed us with our luggage and the pilot had a scrap of paper with everyone’s name on; he knew most of the passengers anyway.

As the plane rose steeply, we looked idly out of the window at the island, where we’d really not done much of anything. We were feeling positive, rejuvenated, relaxed.

Molokai’s greatest gift is to send a little bit of its friendly vibe home with you.

Flights with www.makanikaiair.com from Honolulu to Molokai cost from €36 each way. Accommodation at Wave Crest can be booked through www.vrbo.com from €55 per night.