"Don't go," they told us. "There's nothing there."

"They're as flat as a pancake," said some, "and they're tiny."

Most of our other friends, when we mentioned the Scilly Isles, merely nodded vaguely, politely. They simply had never heard of them - those forgotten fragments kicked off by England's toe into the boisterous North Atlantic.

Until I went there, I was almost as ignorant. And I had no idea how tranquil and lovely they really are.

The Scilly Isles are not well known to the rest of the world, but they net thousands of English visitors a year, many of them returning annually. And often with their dogs. So many of them come here that the Tourist Bureau in Hugh Town, the capital, thoughtfully provides a pile of plastic bags and a piece of heavy cardboard. Fold along the pre-stamped lines and you have a 'Dog Tidy Scoop'  - and lucky Rover can run free.

The Brits are a nation of ramblers as well as dog-lovers, and every grassy headland disclosed sturdily-booted folk each with one or two labradors or corgis, beagles or bassets in tow, the dogs eagerly memorising a whole new range of Scilly scents. Along the waterfront, crisply-painted white stone B&Bs are as keen to accept the dogs as their doting owners and each inter-island ferry usually has several wagging tails on board.

The Cornish peninsula is shaped like the toe of a winkle-picker shoe sending the Scilly Isles like scraps of gravel spraying off into the Atlantic about 45 kilometres away. A ferry takes several hours but we arrived the quick way, flying there in a 32-seater helicopter over Land's End, black-cliffed and lathered with waves far below. Half an hour after takeoff we were on English land again, although my UK motoring atlas neglected to include it.

It seems that map-makers, too, overlook the Scillies.

Not that the islanders mind, you realise. Dropped out here in the warm Gulf Stream, they enjoy a temperate climate many Britons only dream about. Flowers bloom from February to December, beaches are sandy and clean, and birdwatchers trek across the world to spot rare species.

The local population numbers only around two thousand but this swells enormously annually. The six major islands, each with a distinct personality, are near enough to Cornwall for a day trip, far enough to trick yourself into believing you are on a lonely outpost. At least in one direction you are - four thousand kilometres of Atlantic Ocean stretches west, with Labrador the next landfall.

Once the haunt of smugglers, the unfriendly coastlines have prematurely ended the journeys of many ships, and the seabed surrounding the islands is littered with wrecks. While you could pick up some treasures yourself, diving is hazardous, and there are many places on dry land where pieces-of-eight and other retrieved goodies (some with certificates of authenticity) sparkle again in harbourside showcases.

Because there are few cars on the islands, walking is an imperative. Our friends who warned us of lack of entertainment forgot this. Cars seal you off from people, but once free of that glass and metal cocoon we were released to meet the locals. One crusty gentleman, resting on a seat by the water, explained that he had been the council gardener until his retirement. "I'm next to Prince Charles for importance," he told us (the islands are part of the Duchy of Cornwall) "When I retired they gave me a mug filled with money  £50 it added up to." We talked briefly then left him, still squinting proudly into the sunset.

On the Scillies, time expands. Maybe it's the slower pace, perhaps the serenity. Who knows, but we loitered beside nine-year-old twins as they excavated a muddy crack in the sea-wall for crabs; we met Erica, collecting seaweed on the beach to make into 'business cards' for her mother, a stained glass artist of no little talent; and we talked to Roger and Margaret Smith with their vast collection of ancient instruments shaped as weirdly as they were spelt, as well as the man who can take you on an island tour in his meticulously buffed '52 Riley, and Jim the gig-carver. Gigs are unique to the Scillies and in season the races between these 32-foot six-oared boats are the year's hottest sporting events.

Then there was Gren (short for Grenville) the icecream cart owner, the friendly proprietor of the Man of War antique shop, and the unnamed couple who have holidayed here annually for the past twenty-eight years. "We haven't met anyone here we would not want for our next-door neighbour," they told us, as if they had made a priceless dicovery. As in fact they had.

And while you might imagine the average visitor to be older, prams and bicycles considerably outnumber zimmer frames, for this is a young person's paradise, a welcome respite for cautious and protective parents. These islands are safe.

So, back to those misconceptions: the Scillies are not flat. Although the elevation is only about 50 metres, there are steep cliffs in places and Star Castle built in 1593 looms over Hugh Town.

There is nothing to do - only if you dislike walking, swimming, fishing, cycling, boating, diving, photography, meeting people or rock-climbing. There is tennis, squash and even a disco on St Mary's.

Tiny? Perhaps. The total area of the Scillies is sixteen square kilometres but the fifty-plus scraps of land are flung over many times that area of boisterous ocean.

You can take a ride through the jigsaw puzzle of islands to the lush gardens of Tresco, day-trip with a boatload of intense and binocular-ed bird-spotters, or you can simply pick a patch of sand to watch the amethyst lights come on in the water and dinghies straining at the long ropes that maintain them through the changing tides.

Returning to the mainland after just a few days on the Scillies, we had a new perspective and a respect for the tenacity that has chiselled a close community from those scattered rocky islands.

Plus some stern words for our misinformants back home.