Norman Mailer wanted "a stick of the finest marijuana", John Major the Oval cricket ground, Arthur Rubinstein a revolver, Simon Cowell a mirror and, last week, Nick Clegg a stash of cigarettes.
When guests on BBC Radio 4's Desert Island Discs are asked what luxury item would pass their time as a castaway, they miss the obvious thing.
Me, I would take a telescope. I know this because I've just been to some desert islands in the Bazaruto archipelago off Mozambique. And at night, the better than high-definition, 3D Imax planetarium display evoked Shakespeare's "majestical roof fretted with golden fire". I could see gleaming constellations, coruscating planets and a meteoroid streaking across the Earth's atmosphere – a shooting star.
Such clarity, away from urban light pollution, came one night on Benguerra island, a 10-minute flight from the Mozambican coast. I was here at the invitation of Benguerra Lodge, set up by Zimbabweans 20 years ago as Mozambique limped out of revolution and civil war. Back then the archipelago was a new frontier for tourism, and even today there are still only five lodges on Benguerra and its bigger neighbour, Bazaruto.
Travel writers are constantly in search of the undiscovered. Phrases such as "unspoiled paradise" or "best-kept secret" have long become worn and deadening. But these islands of forest, savanna, sand dunes and freshwater lakes, surrounded by aquamarine ocean, can make legitimate claims to seclusion and rarity in a crowded world. They offer the privilege of playing Robinson Crusoe without having to scavenge for food or make your own fire.
First, anyone flying from Britain would probably land in Johannesburg.
Then it's a Federal Air flight to Vilanculos, followed by a small plane to the islands. Benguerra is six miles long and three miles wide and the airport runway is simply a stretch of flattened grass without so much as a windsock. Local children and tethered goats hang about nearby.
Benguerra Lodge, lying among milkwood trees, has a thatched roof, Moroccan-style lamps, an old gramophone and well-travelled trunks and suitcases that might have been carried by David Livingstone or William Boot. Outside is one of the world's most unusual beach bars: a weather-beaten dhow that now rests permanently ashore.
For sheer desert island remoteness, Mrs Smith and I tried a safari picnic. We were driven to a beach where a canopy had been erected, blankets and cushions put down and a cold lunch laid on. We were then left alone, utterly alone, in the still and the silence, our footsteps leaving a trail in the otherwise virgin sand.
The sunlight bounced off the beach with dreamlike brightness.
Translucent ghost crabs scuttled in the sand before being consumed by the tide. It was trippy, and I half expected to find a knight playing chess with Death, or to find myself weeping for the Earth's destruction by the sun a few billion years from now.
Driving back, we were taken to a local primary school, built with the help of funding from the lodges. A boy showed off his English by chalking a sentence on the blackboard. All the hotels here are careful to point out their eco-tourism credentials. Benguerra Lodge has a community fund and provides daily meals and a guardian to two albino sisters in the village.
Across the water, on Bazaruto, visitors are also encouraged to interact with the local population of around 3,500. As guests of Indigo Bay, we were shown a community centre, water pumps and a school, where the children rose and sang a welcome, then couldn't stop giggling. A teacher said he was grateful for the money that tourism brings in, though he felt his living conditions could be improved.
Our drive on Bazaruto – 22 miles long and 4 miles wide – took a couple of hours, bumping up and down, left and right on dirt roads, stopping at lakes to view the crocodiles, or at sand dunes to climb. Along the way we saw the thatched-roof rondavels of the villagers, the daily labour of subsistence farming, often seemingly carried out by women, and thick, untamed bush that looked positively Jurassic.
What Indigo Bay lacks in hippy charm and isolation – our fellow guests included the South African edition of FHM on a photoshoot – it makes up for in modern comforts. There's also a spa, and Mrs Smith and I ended up with face masks and body mud.
Bazaruto is 18 miles from the mainland, where we spent a weekend at Vilanculos Beach Lodge. It's a more affordable option for anyone who wants a stroll on the beach to view the work, and salesmanship, of local artisans.
We found the sea reassuringly warm and took a dhow cruise at sunset. I did my best to look cool as the sail flipped over, the boat rocked wildly and young men at the back rapidly cupped their hands to bale out.
All these lodges offer much by the way of fishing, horse riding, scuba diving and snorkelling at some spectacularly pristine reefs. We took an excursion to Santa Carolina, otherwise known as Paradise Island, and wandered in the ruins of an old hotel where Bob Dylan used to play the piano and, more recently, wannabe celebrities filmed Survivor South Africa.
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