Paddling in the Med.

At one place I drive down a vertical cliff-face and dutifully paddle in the nearest available bit of Mediterranean; like the other time I did it, when I was working in Marseilles or wherever it was, I find the experience remarkably undramatic, certainly not one which leaves me dying to take things further, or even repeat it. I've known since I was little that the feeling of sand in between your toes is supposed to be a delightful sign that you're on holiday, but I still hate it almost as much as I did then.

But I promise myself I'll give it another try when I get to the south side, which they say is sub-tropical, and the furthest-south part of Europe ...

It's just this awful business that wherever you go, you take yourself with you and nothing feels as different as you think it ought to, looking at pictures is at least as good, and reading a Mary Stewart novel about it is very much better because then you really feel what it's like ...