On Sark, you'll find the "Old Hall". It's called that because there's a New (Town) Hall nearby - then again, everything on Sark is nearby - and the Old (Town) Hall is now a cheerful pub/restaurant. "It's got a good chef," said Linda, my host on the island, whereas "the New Hall serves pizza and sandwiches."

This nugget was not likely to take me to Old over New, or vice versa. But Linda's next words would. "On Wednesday nights," she said, "they have an open-mic music session at the Old Hall."

Point to note: she was telling me this on Wednesday afternoon, only minutes after I had arrived on the island. I made a mental note: Old Hall tonight. Until then, though, I wandered south on Sark, crossing the awe-inspiring La Coupée isthmus that connects to Little Sark.

Well, ok, some explanation here. Sark is a tiny island in the English Channel, an hour's ferry ride from much-larger Guernsey. A young man I know visited a year ago, and when he sent me a photo of himself on La Coupée, I said to myself "That's where I'm going." Admittedly, what also makes Sark attractive is that the only motorised vehicles there are a few tractors, and that it is home to about 500 people. Five hundred.

And oh yes: it is a designated Dark Sky island, meaning that with so few lights, on a clear night you can see essentially forever. Splendid views of the stars.

And the island is shaped like an awkward top-heavy dumbbell: Little Sark to the south, linked by La Coupée to the larger blob to the north. With the winds and the terrifyingly steep cliffs on each side, the isthmus must have made for a daunting traverse. Until 1945, when German POWs were put to work building a walkway and railings. The result: the most photographed spot in the Channel Islands.

So yes: I crossed over into Little Sark, taking my share of photographs. Returning, a couple overtook me on their bicycles, the man with a guitar strapped to his back.

"You going to play that somewhere?" I asked.

"At the Old Hall!" he said.

"Think I can join you on my harmonica?" I asked.

"Oh sure! We'd love that!" he said.

And so it was that I found my way, an hour or so later, to the Old Hall. David from La Coupée was setting up the equipment, other Sark folks were sitting around chatting and drinking, and even alone I felt right at home. Theo and Simon turned up with their guitars, and Christopher the 23rd Seigneur of Sark - lord of the manor of Sark - pounded the keyboards, and they played a stream of songs by Ricky Nelson, the Beatles, Van Morrison, and many more too many to count. And I played harmonica with young Megan on "Somewhere Over the Rainbow", her mother Gemma on "Amazing Grace", Theo and band on two songs I didn't know but belted out harmonica riffs anyway. And I even gave the evening's clientele a rendition of Chala Jata Hun, the Hindi film classic.

"That was great! I had no idea Bollywood tunes can be played on the harmonica!" Theo said.

Anyway, the fun continued till late at night, with various friendly Sark folk - one an Alec Baldwin doppelganger - and visitors curious about what had brought this visitor all the way from Bombay. What the chef produced for me wasn't memorable, but when I went to pay for it, I found Gemma had paid for me before leaving. The kindness of a stranger, there on Sark.

Outside when I left later: completely, utterly dark. Black. I could see simply nothing. I had a flashlight, and Linda's place was only a few minutes walk anyway. But I didn't want the light and didn't want to get to Linda's anytime soon. I wanted to sink into, soak up, this blanket of Sark dark. Because when else? Where else?

At a crossroads, I looked up. No trees, so a nearly uninterrupted view of the sky. Not quite clear enough to see the Milky Way, but still a sky dripping with stars. On a good night in Bombay, I've counted 26 visible stars. That's laughable. This night on Sark underlined just how laughable.

I stood there, soaking it all in. Then I pulled out my phone, fired up its camera, set it to a 16-second exposure and laid it on the ground, there in the middle of the intersection. Took one shot. Set it down for a second. From behind, a quiet tinkle of a bicycle bell and a stifled "Oh my God!"

I turned. A shape nearly fell off her wobbling bike, its headlamp - of course I noted - ruining my 16-second exposure. "Are you ok?" she asked. "I nearly ran into you, you're just standing here with your phone on the ground! Is everything all right?"

"Oh yes, I'm fine!" I said. "Just trying to get shots of the stars," I said, resisting the temptation to say "and you just ruined this one."

"Ah!" she said. "That's lovely! Good luck!" And she got back on her bike and rode off into the dark.

Next evening, Scrabble at the New Hall. Two women sitting at the bar. One stopped me as I walked by. "I ran into you yesterday," she said. Turned to her friend: "His phone was lying on the ground last night, I thought there was something the matter. But he said he was photographing the stars!"

"Right!" I said, and pulled out my phone to show her the result. Not the one she ruined.

Her friend looked at me and asked, "Where are you from?"

"India," I said.

"The south?"

"No, but I have roots in Tamil Nadu," I said.

There in the New Hall on Sark, population 500, this woman of Sark smiled widely and ... spoke to me in Tamil.

That did it. In Tamil, when you leave somewhere, you say to your host: "I'll leave and return." I thought the same that evening on Sark, and Linda Ronstadt's soaring tune came to mind:

I'm going back someday, come what may, to Sark.

Where the folks are fine and the world is mine, on Sark.

Forgive the clumsy paraphrase, Linda Ronstadt - but I'll make it up to you. When I return to Sark, I'll stay again with Linda. And on a crisp Wednesday night at the Old Hall, when the stars are magnificent overhead, I'll play "Blue Bayou" on the harmonica.