Riptide

Why is it that old guys who know everything always have to be wearing a fawn coloured raincoat?

“It’s because it’s smart, functional and I like the pockets,” he replied.

“Sorry, I didn’t realise you were telepathic as well.”

“Well I’m not but I get that look all the time and I guess I play the rule of averages and that’s pretty much what I reckon on what you folks are thinking.”

“Oh right. So what’s the deal here?  I mean why am I here?”

“Well I guess it’s because you’ve done something.”

“You guess?  I thought you knew everything?”

“Well I s’pose during a lifetime you get to know things.  Trouble is no one wants to ask us old timers.”

“So I’m here because I want to ask you something?”

“I guess so.”

“Hmmm.  There’s that doubt again.  What if I’m not entirely sure what it is I want to know?”

“That’s just fine, son.  You can ask me anytime you feel ready.”

“Right.  But what if I’m not ready for another day or week even?”

“Suits me, I’m not going anywhere soon.  Least not until the winter breaks.”

“What if I’m never ready?”

“Oh sure that happens from time to time.  Nothing I can do to change that.  We just kinda accept that.  It’s part of the job.”

“Are you for real?  So let me get this straight.  I’ve done something.  I don’t know what it is and I need to ask you something but I don’t know what that is either.”

“Seems to be, yes.”

“And you’re not going to help me, are you?”

“Sure I’ll help.  Didn’t I say earlier that no one ever bothers to ask?”

“So you’re here to help me but I’m not even sure what I need help with.  You’ll know the answer to a question I’ve somehow got inside me but I just need to find a way to get at the question.”

“Yep that’s pretty much it in a nutshell.”

“You going to give me any clues, mister, or am I just going to have to figure this one out for myself?”

He looks at me and raises an eyebrow.

“Okay, right, you’re going to help me but you’re not going to help me.  All I’ve got to do is know what help I need.”

He nods.

I’ve suddenly had a thought.

“Yes it’s probably got something to do with where you’re standing.”

“I thought you said you couldn’t read my mind.”

“I can’t.  I took a guess.  Nothing wrong with taking a guess as I see it and you did take a good look around.”

“Right.”  But that’s a million miles away from how I’m feeling.

“Don’t worry I can see you’re going to be one of the faster ones.”

“Sorry, would you mind just humouring me and saying that again?”

“You heard me.  Don’t make me change my mind on that opinion.”

“Or else what?”

“Or else nothing, kid, calm down.  You came to me, remember?”

“Er, actually no I don’t remember doing that at all.  I was just admiring the view and all of a sudden you’re there with your coat and knowing look.  This is beginning to give me the creeps.”

“Well I guess you just have to give it a little time and by the way, I’ve got time.  About the only thing I’ve got, apart from my raincoat as you so kindly point out, is some time.  Anyway I best get going before the next squall comes in.  So long!”

He walks off hands in his pockets bent to the wind.  I watch him until he’s gone behind some rocks on the coast path.

This has got to be the craziest thing I’ve ever seen, done, experienced.  Did it really happen?  Maybe I dreamt it.  I take one last long look out at the breakers, turn and trudge back to the camper.

“Where the hell have you been?  You said you’d be five minutes.”

“You’ll never guess.”

“Go on try me.”

“Okay so I’m standing by the edge looking at the surf and then this guy’s standing next to me wearing a mac and saying all sorts of weird stuff about being there for when I know what to ask him.”

“You sure you haven’t had a smoke?”

“No I’m serious.  Totally freaked me out.  Must be some kind of lonely nut out for a wander with his dog except I don’t remember seeing any sign of one.”

“Hmm a likely story.  You sure you weren’t chatting someone up?”

“Aw come off it, Deb, I’ve only got eyes for you, right?  Come here!”  I give her a hug and take a deep breath inhaling her intoxicating smell.  “Let’s go and have a cuppa, my treat.”

The kettle’s still warm from filling the hot water bottles.  I top it up and light the flare, reach for the tea bags, rinse the mugs and lean over to grab the spoon I left on the dashboard.

“So there really was a guy out there?”

“Yep.”

“And he said you had a question for him?”

“Uh hunh.”

“But you didn’t have a question for him?”

“You’re catching on fast.  I just don’t get the bit about him saying I came to him.  I mean sure he was already standing at the point when I got there but I was going there anyway, not just to see him.”

“What so you were going to see him?”

“No, I mean I just wanted to see the surf from the point and he was just there.  Just like it could have been anyone else there.”

“How’s the surf?”

“Not today.  Big swell.  Squalls.  There’s nobody out there today.  Not even Max with a hangover.  Talk of the devil.”

“Morning lovebirds!  Remind me never to have a flaming Sambuca ever again.  Jeez that music.  It was seriously pumped.  I can’t get the ringing out of my ears.”

“Tinnitis.”

“Yeah whatever, spare a cup for your old mucker, Max?”

“No.  Last tea bags are in the cup.  Go away, Max.”

“Now that’s friendship in action.  I save your ass after a wipeout yesterday and how do you repay me?  What’s a little sharing between mates?”

“He’s just had a ‘weird experience’ at the point.”  She does this with finger quotation marks.

“Weird experience, eh?  He is a weird experience.  Thinks he’s either a dolphin or a merman most of the time and I caught him surfing the internet checking out chicks with webbed feet.  Gross out, man!”

“With friends like you two who needs enemies?”

The kettle’s boiled.  I rinse a third cup then reach for another tea bag inside the cupboard.

“I can’t believe you lied about the teabags you toe rag!  That’s bad karma, mate.  No glory sets for you out there today, son.”

Which took me back to the man on the point.  I leapt out of the door and started running back to the point.

“What the…where’s he off to in a hurry?”

“I’ve stopped asking.  He’s probably forgotten to chuck his lucky stone in the surf from the point.”

“Deb, don’t s’pose you’ve got any paracetemol in there?”

She holds a finger up then fishes the tea bags out with her fingers, squeezing them against the side of the cup, pours in some milk and plonks the sugar bowl on the table.  Then out of the red first aid box she snaps off two tablets and pushes them across.

“So is he ready yet?”

“I’m not sure.  Maybe.  Maybe not.  Sometimes I think he is and then the next minute he couldn’t be further away if he’d wished it.”

“Anything I can do?”

“Oh you’re a sweet love and a rogue, Maxy, you’d be the first on my list of gentlemen helpers.”

“A gentleman you say.  Whahay I think I’ve just pulled my best friend’s Sheila!”

“Max, do you ever think we’ll make it?”

“Course you will, love, it’s written in the stars.  Or is it planets?  Anyway delighted you’d even consider listening to what I’ve got to say.  Ahh, now this is tea how it’s meant to be!  Not like the muck he serves up.”

“I mean I love him and I know he loves me it’s just like I’m not me when I’m with him sometimes.  It’s scary.  It’s like diving off a height into the sea and you’re never quite sure whether you’re going to hit the water right.”

“Christ I never hit the water right.  See this scar here?  Ouch.  Four stitches and a whole lot of wounded pride.  Worst of all your fella was watching and couldn’t stand up straight for a full five minutes he was so busy wetting himself.”

“Max I’m trying to be serious.”

“So-rry.  I’m the one nursing the hangover remember?  Let’s just say you’re a good pair and I’ve never seen him looking so happy before.  He’s totally smitten and even though I don’t see him as much, he’s definitely improved.  You’re good for each other.  He’s a lucky guy.  You’re a lucky girl.  Simple.  Look I’d better get going or the customers’ will be wondering why they can’t get into the shop this morning.  Cheerio and thanks again for the tea.”

*

“You again and so soon!”

“It’s about life, isn’t it?  The question.”

“Yes I reckon it is.”

“It’s about our lives.  I mean me and Deb.”

“If you say so, son.  I don’t know any Deb.  But I can see there’s some fire in you.”

“It’s something to do with the sea as well.  I can feel it.  I’ve always felt it.”

“Yes it is.  No great surprise seeing as you all like surfing and that.”

“No but we see things in our dreams.  About the sea.  We see,” I pause for the right word, “life!  It’s all around us.  It’s colour and shape and texture and smell.”

“And?”

“And I guess I want to know if we are the sea?”

“I had a sense you were one of the quicker ones.  I guess I was right.  What is the sea?”

“I thought I was the one asking the question?”

“Indulge me just this once.”

“Well it’s big, blue, it has currents, it’s water with a lot of salt in…”

“Yes it is.  But what is the sea?”

“What do you mean, what is the sea?”

“I mean the emphasis on the ‘is’.”

The emphasis on the ‘is’?

“Yeah that’s right.”

The mind reading trick again.

“No just an educated guess.”

“Ok, what ‘is’ the sea?  It just is, I guess.  It’s there out to the horizon.   It’s there all the time.  It just is.”

“Okay so back to your question about you and…”

“Deb.”

“That’s her name rightly so.  And what are you?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean what are you made of, what’s your essence, what’s your being?”

“Is this a ying and yang thing?”

“Don’t joke I’m trying to help you but you’ve gotta help yourself here.”

“Okay so cells, blood, bone, skin, memories, DNA, thoughts, feelings.”

“What about chemistry?”

“What about chemistry?”

“What are you made up of?”

“I thought I just said that.”

“No, be more specific.”

“Oh christ you don’t want me to name every bone in the body!”

“No think chemistry.”

“You mean elements and compounds?  I wasn’t paying that much attention in class.  Dully Dulverton didn’t have the fieriest delivery.”

“Come on kid.  You started off talking about the sea.  Stick to the sea.”

“Um…well everyone knows that water is H­2O and I vaguely recall salt has sodium and chloride.”

“You’re being too literal.”

“Too literal?  Okay, so the sea is liquid and is made up of billions of atoms.  We’re not liquid unless you count, blood, saliva and the contents of my stomach after last night’s pub session.”

“I can see you’re not ready.  I thought you were.  Sorry.”

“What do you mean I’m not ready?  What is this?  You’re not going to help me?”

“Okay ask your question then.”

There isn’t a single thought in my head.

“See, there isn’t a single thought in your head.”

Apart from wishing you’d accidentally fall off the edge and fall 200 feet to a certain death on the rocks below.

“Charming.  I never said this was going to be easy.”

“Water!  We’re made of water!”

“And?”

“And what?  And nothing.  That’s it, we’re made of water, so is the sea.”

“Hardly a eureka moment, son, but I can’t deny that what you say is true.”

“So what you’re trying to say is we are the sea.”

“No, not exactly.  Think through the question you want to ask.”

Talking to this guy is like trying to  get blood out of a stone.  Maybe he was a Trappist monk stuck up a mountain in a previous life.

“You mean Yamabushi.  The mountain hermits in Japan or the Zen Buddhists in Tibet, maybe.  And no I haven’t had a previous life.  Just this one.”

“Rich?”

“Deb, this is that man I was talking about earlier.”

“Pleased to meet you miss.  Wondered how long it’d take before you came looking for us.  Seems you’ve arrived at a very opportune moment.”

“Oh, um, I’m not entirely sure about that.”  She holds my hand and looks at the man intently.

He roars with laughter.

“No, don’t worry, I’m not some kind of evil maniac.”  He takes a white hankie out of his pocket and dabs at his eyes before replacing it.

“My names Palaemon but everybody calls me Pal for short.”

“You don’t mean as in the Greek sea god?”

“The very same.  You’ve got yourself one smart lady here.”

“Wasn’t he the one depicted riding dolphins?”

“Yes ma’am.  And protector of sailors and fishermen although these days with forecasting technology there’s less call for that kind of thing, I guess.”

“I know you.  I’ve seen you in my dreams.”

“What?  Deb?”

“It’s him.  He’s the one in the sea except he’s not him, he’s just…” she tails off, “he’s just not like a person.  It’s more he just is the sea.  I can’t explain it.  It’s like a comfort.”

“Yep well you know I try to do my best.”

“You’re not trying to tell me you’re actually the original sea god!”

“Well as a matter of fact I am.  What’s so bizarre about that?”

“But I bet you can’t even speak Greek.  Go on, say something in Greek.”

“Can you speak Greek?”

“Nope.”

“Well how in the hell are you going to know if I’ve said anything in Greek if you can’t speak the language?”

“It really is you, isn’t it?”

“Yes, child, it’s me.”

“And we’re children of the sea.  We spend our whole life in the sea.  We’re surfers.  And you protect surfers.”

“Yes indeed I do.  And if I might say so I think I do a pretty good job.”

“So what are you doing here on land?”

“Oh that is a good question at last.  She’s better at this than you, I see.  I guess I’m allowed to on special occasions.  And it seems to me like this is a special occasion.”

“What special occasion?  What on earth are you two on about?”

“He’s here to see if we’re ready.”

“Ready for what?”

“Ready to be the sea.”

“You what?”

“She’s right, son, you definitely picked a good ‘un.”

I close my eyes.  I’m reaching inside to my very core to make some sense of this.  Deb kisses me on the cheek.

“What did I do, though?”

“It’s not what you did do, it’s what you are doing.”

“And what’s that?”

“You love me.”

She looks at me.  Here eyes are glistening.

“Yes I do.”

“Well ask the question, then.”

Oh no I am not going to propose on a cliff top in front of a complete weirdo who thinks he’s the incarnation of a Greek sea god.  And I am certainly not going to propose to a girl who is seriously weirding me out now.

“No that’s not it.  Just roll with it, son, take a chance.”

Huge relief.  Thank god it’s not the marriage thing!

“Okay so what could I possibly want to ask you?”

And then it strikes me.  The is.  The sea.  This woman.  Christ I’m going to miss that camper van.

Crrronk!

Nothing quite saps the spirit quicker than a 'crrrronk' grinding noise coming from somewhere under the car that appears out of the blue when you're over 1,300 miles from your local friendly mechanic.  Vicky and I look at each other in panic.  She checks she really has put the car in gear, lets the clutch out gently but there's still no response.

"Oh no!  This happened to me with the Audi once," I said.  "I'll get out and push, you steer."

The problem is that we're stuck at a motorway toll booth.  It’s two o’clock in the afternoon.  We've just paid the two euro fee and there are about six cars waiting in 40 degree heat behind us just south of the road rage capital of Italy, Naples.  I look at the toll man and make the universal car is dead sign by pointing and miming slitting my throat with the back of my thumb.

Now I’m pointing at him to see whether he can help us push the car over to a safety lane by the crash barrier I can spot about 200 yards over to the right.  And since even my moderate running exercise regime is unlikely to have registered enough strength to push a fully laden Ford Galaxy with roof box, bike carrier and the kids in-car entertainment paraphernalia, I reckon it'll probably take a couple of people to haul us up the very slight incline.

He shakes his head.  He's making it perfectly clear with both arms outstretched palms up that he can't leave his post.  He sympathises etc. but I'm on my own.  Then I remember the guy hanging around hawking tat for a euro?  He's eyeing me suspiciously.  I play the dead car mime again and beckon him over to start pushing.  He pauses for a minute and then comes over.  Business must be slow.  He shovels his merchandise into a plastic bag and helps me to push.  I'm thrilled and get a rush of adrenaline, legs pumping and then out of the corner of my eye I see there's a car coming straight for me at speed from one of the toll lanes on my right.  I know I can't stop or we won't reach the safety spot.  At the last minute he swerves round me horn blaring and shouting in Italian.  I carry on straining and pushing and a moment later we reach the safety of the crash barrier.  I thank the man profusely but all he’s interested in is some money for his trouble.  I’ve clearly mistaken his public-spirited gesture.  He’s hit a raw nerve.  I'm so incensed that he didn't do it as an act of kindness that I shake my head and wave him off.  It's not until much later once we’ve sorted out how we’re going to fix the car that I realise how tight-fisted I’ve been.  All I had to do was buy a two-inch orange plastic skeleton or a pan scourer for a euro.

I chewed over it all night. "Bad karma," Vick said.

I felt so ashamed that two days later, when we were approaching the toll from the south on our way back up north, we looked out for him across the dozen or so gates in the hope that we could repay him.  But sadly, he was nowhere to be seen. 

Lost in Italy

You need bread.  It's a national holiday.  All the local bread shops and supermarkets are closed.  You stop and ask a local woman where you can buy bread.  You only catch that it begins with a 'P' and that it's 10 kilometres away.  You don't have Sat Nav, you’ve never been to this area before and you realise you've left the Italy road atlas on the villa kitchen table.  Do you:

a)    Drive back to villa to fetch the road atlas;

b)    scavenge from the two local restaurant bins and pass the scraps off as all that was left in the bakery; or

c)    take a punt, aim in the general direction of the pointed finger and hope you'll pick up a road sign with the town beginning with 'P'?

Clear blue skies, the optimism of 9 o'clock in the morning, sun, high spirits, peace and quiet in the back of the car and a rare opportunity to hunter gather.  No contest.  I drove out of the village heading East and was immediately rewarded with a sign that included Ponte di Ferro 10.  Bingo!  That must be what she'd said.  Spirits high.  I cranked up the Scouting for Girls CD and wound the windows fully down.  I lost the signs after about 8 k's, took a left turn, passed two puzzled locals, sensed I'd gone wrong, turned round, passed the puzzled locals again and then carried on heading down into a gently undulating but very twisty Umbrian potholed road edged with lush hedges and well-tended fields.  At the bottom, there was a sign for Ponte di Ferro and soon after a set of traffic lights and just opposite the lights was a queue of people outside a shop, which I presumed was the bread shop.  I parked up and ambled over to the shop doorway which was open wide with about 10 people queuing quietly and smiling.  It was all very good-natured stuff.  And it was definitely the bread shop except there wasn't any bread.  There were the telltale breadbaskets behind the counter, little glass display counters with cream cakes and a few token rolls.  Against all the odds I'd found the only bread shop in Umbria open on a national holiday.  Just no bread.  I went back to sit in the car to wait.  Three other cars arrived and parked up.  Their owners swung out, poked their heads into the shop, ambled out again and sat back in their cars.  Two ladies arrived on foot and joined the queue.  The question was, did I wait for something to happen and trust that the queue being Italian wouldn't have the patience to wait around for too long or did I go back to the villa since I'd only nipped out for five minutes to get some bread?  Twenty minutes elapsed.  Just as I was about to throw in the towel, a dusty white Fiat Doblo van arrived, reversed into the parking spot next to the back of the shop and out stepped a vision in a baker's cap that left me wondering whether the male punters were here on time for the bread or the chance to flirt with the staff.  She began unloading tray after tray of fresh, warm wonderful bread, which was still toasty warm by the time I got back to the villa.  Sadly, however, my triumphant return to the villa with two 'grande' breads was punctured by the discovery that they were both unsalted.

You need a supermarket shop for that night's campsite meal.  It's 40 degree late afternoon heat.  You're on your first ever solo driving trip in Italy.  You can't speak Italian if something goes wrong.  You haven't a clue where the local supermarket might be.  Do you:

a)    stop and ask for directions at reception on your way out of the campsite;

b)    turn left out of the gate, heading towards Venice; or

c)    turn right out of the gate, heading towards Jesolo

Vick didn't stop at reception.  It was too hot to wait in the queue and how hard could it be to locate a supermarket in outskirts of one of Italy's major cities?  She turned left and within five minutes was completely lost.  An hour went by.  Then another half an hour.  I kept checking my mobile for bad news.  I started to worry. Where on earth was she?  And then just when I was starting to seriously panic she returned, rolling her eyes as she whizzed past.  Success!  She'd found a supermarket but had absolutely no idea where it was.

Which left us in a bit of a quandary when our new Dutch neighbours, seeing that our tent was already pitched and that we were all eating supper, asked where the nearest supermarket was.  Vick stayed silent.  “Try asking at reception”, I said.  “If you’re feeling adventurous, I spotted a sign saying 'Casino' just outside the campsite on the right.  I know that Casino is a major supermarket brand in France so maybe it’s also a supermarket here.”  They returned two hours later with take-away pizzas from the camp restaurant.  The 'Casino', in fact, turned out to be, well, just a casino.  And they'd failed to find Vick's supermarket.  So you can have your Sat Nav and road atlas, but when it comes to getting lost and hunter gathering in our family, we shan't go hungry.

Italian Campsites

A few minutes spent surfing the internet yielded three possible campsites within striking distance of Venice, Rome and Sorrento.  Friends were lending us their camping fridge so we needed an electric hookup.  Check.  It was going to be blisteringly hot.  With car space at a premium, we'd double bluff the rain gods and pack our raincoats just to make doubly sure it wouldn't rain.  Also the four nights we’d spend at each pitch we'd break up into two days' sightseeing and two days by the pool.  Surely all the sites would have a pool?  And stone me, Fusina, overlooking Venice from the West with a very handy 20-minute vaporetto shuttle service, didn't have one!  Back to the drawing board.  Another quick search and a check on Trip Advisor for Alba d'Oro, which my online translator defines as "golden dawn", which sounds lovely and I suppose makes sense as, facing East, it should pick up the morning sun rising over the lagoon.  And it has a pool.  Then we had a bit of a wobble over Sorrento's Santa Fortunata ("holy lucky") write-ups.  Comments about having to pay for the pool and the steep walk down to the beach seemed to be taking the edge off the fact that it had a pool, sounded clean, was within range of our day trip to Naples to taste the original Italian pizza and had sea views across the Bay of Naples.  However, the alternatives came in for a pasting from a variety of contributors busily laying into the ants, expense, traffic, unfriendliness and uncleanliness.  Conclusion: stick to our original plan.

Interestingly all three were billed as four star sites presumably on the basis that they all had a pool but thereafter the similarities ended.  Whereas I Pini ("the pines"), 30 minutes north of Rome, had friendly staff, kids entertainment that actually entertained kids and the Dutch, a cool pool slide and reasonably priced food, the other two didn't.  I Pini was so far in advance of the rest that we stayed an extra night betting that Santa Fortunata wouldn't even come close.  We were absolutely right.  Despite the blatant profiteering in evidence throughout Italy, the I Pini matriarch, who'd originally come over from Melbourne and fallen in love with an Italian, trusted me to pay her back when I was five cents short buying some cheese and beer from the shop.  We'd been having an animated discussion about the state of Australian cricket as I searched in vain for enough change.  I was so shocked at this simple gesture that I got a lump in my throat.  The kids pool was the size of two tennis courts roughly shaped like a peach and barely more than ankle deep.  Whilst the kids raced energetically down the slide clutching giant rubber rings sporting "vacanze.it" logos, the adults wallowed on the lining edge lapped by the cool water ripples relieving bodies of the ferocity of the 36 degree heat.  The restaurant food, whilst basic fare, was by far and away the best food we ate throughout the tour and, as an added bonus, was served by smiling staff.  Although the kids might argue that it was trumped by the piece of Pisa pizza in Pisa which we used as a photo prop for our last minute cheesy tourist snaps.

Arguably the most bizarre place was Alba d'Oro.  If you're looking for a place to lay your hat, within striking distance of Venice, with beds from £13 and makes no attempt to hide its toga partying reputation, then Alba D'Oro is the campsite for you.  Quiet it isn't.  In fact, for decibel level, the partying comes a distant second to the commercial aircraft taking off and landing at Marco Polo's runway a stone's throw from the campsite.  Part of the unguided site tour was to climb the two-metre grassy knoll and view the air traffic taxiing and roaring off so close that you could actually see the pilots.  There was no let up to the ear bashing from 6.30 in the morning until midnight, when the backpacker toga and foam parties were in full swing.  So, in essence, your choice of pitch is reduced to neighbouring the Aussie and Brit backpackers at the eastern end of the camp or skirting the runway to the western end.  We opted for the western end and settled down to a competitive game of airline bingo.  For sheer noise level, the proverbial 11 on the amplifier crown was taken by Ryanair taking off, which shook the drinks on the camping table.

A note on the Italian practice of charging full adult fares for over sixes.  Nothing can prepare you for the sheer cheek of being charged adult prices for your kids.  It made my blood boil every time.  I might be sympathetic to full priced seats on a plane or a train but a campsite?  When faced with, "how many are you?" I'd claim a pyrrhic victory with, "two adults, two children you'll charge for as adults and one child under six".  But the prize for the worst profiteering offender must go to Santa Fortunata, which, drawing on its wholly lucky proximity to the Amalfi coast, was the only place mean enough to charge us an additional cost just for the privilege of being able to bring our own car into the site.

So, in summary, I Pini was everyone's favourite.  The wooden spoon must go to Santa Fortunata for the gross profiteering, the dust bowl ground conditions and the awful signage – whatever you do, don't go down the 150 steps to the private beach mistakenly thinking it's the campsite beach just because the sign says "beach".

But however awful Alba d'Oro was, I'd like to think that the next time any of us comes into land at Marco Polo airport, we'll look out of the window just as we're coming into land and smile sympathetically at the poor campers braving the aircraft din and remember what a wonderful time we spent in 2011 touring Italy with the tents. 

Italian Wildlife

A scream pierces the siesta heat haze.  It's coming from the pool area.  Adrenal glands fire into action and I'm on my feet spilling the book that lay on my face.  As I get to the door my senses are on full alert, eyes sweeping the terrace and pool in a trouble diagnostic pattern.  Issy and Will are both alive, sitting in the shade looking at Moll quizzically, there's no blood anywhere.  Adrenal glands downgrade the threat hazard to amber. 

"Ugh!  That's disgusting!"  she screams.  As I bend over to look at what she's pointing at I see it's a frog taking shelter in the top corner of pool just where the water lips the stone edge of the filter system.  He's almost entirely hidden by the ledge minding his own business and no doubt cooling down from the intense heat.  Unfortunately eagle eyes has spotted him and has decided that frogs in any bit of water anywhere near where she is paddling is not acceptable.  She's fallen into the horror movie trap of being so terrified she's compelled to lean even closer to eye the frog almost invisible in the shadows.

"Moll it's only a frog, he's just cooling down for a moment, he's not doing you any harm…"

"Ugh!  Disgusting!" she cuts in not listening to me.  Is that another thing you do when terrified?  Not listen to your dad?  I can either try and fish him out or persuade Moll to ignore him and he'll climb out perfectly happily on his own steam.  Moll backs away scrunching up her face in disgust.  Can't think why we thought she'd need the drama classes she's booked into once the new term starts back in England.  The frog edges himself out with his back to the side wall, climbs up onto the poolside and then hops nonchalantly off to find some shade under Will's pool chair.  He's not as excited as I am about the frog's progress as he's too busy nuking storm troopers in his Star Wars  DS game.

In the evening, the pool attracts a sine wave of swallows combing the surface of the water for an evening aperitif.  I can't work out if they're thirsty or hungry as there's a good concentration of bugs littering the surface.  There are too many to count with any degree of accuracy as they're in perpetual motion until they take their bow with the sun dipping behind the western hills.  And then it's the turn of the bats in the twilight strafing the water for a drink, which I think is an incredibly clever feat of sonar navigation as they're coming in at pace.  And then the chirrup of cicadas reaches into your consciousness.  Thick, noisy and yet strangely comforting.  We had some in the pine tree above our tent just north of Rome which Vick insisted were birds until she conceded that most birds would be tucked up snugly in their roosts at 11 o'clock at night notwithstanding the racket coming from the camp entertainment area.

Gecko-watching was a popular sport in Sorrento.  Walking anywhere in the campsite was rewarded with a rustle of leaves, twigs or pine needles followed by a flash of green, scurrying of tiny feet and accompanying tail.  What is it about geckos that instantly puts a smile on your face and reduces you to pointing and yelling, "Look! Geck!", like a demented idiot?

Whilst the ants busied themselves around us in all our campsites, it was the impressive wasp population we shared the villa pool with that were arguably the most impressive.  Not one of them misbehaved all week even with Will and Moll wandering around barefoot through the 'drink zone'.  The drink zone was a small area, about a metre square, just by the top of the steps where the kids would get out of the pool.  Little water puddles collected in the indentations of the terrace stones, which the wasps happily arrived at, drank their fill and then flew off over the villa to a hidden colony in the woods surrounding.  At any one moment there were a dozen hovering about like helicopters landing on an aircraft carrier.  During the siesta, without any pool activity, they were forced to land on the pool surface - a precarious operation.  Losing their balance meant an epic struggle to free their wings from the extra weight.

But the creatures I felt most sorry for were the six ants that emerged from our camping gear back in England and shivered about the kitchen floor when exposed to the shock of the high summer temperature UK-style before being summarily squished by Will's flip flops.  Or maybe putting them out of their misery was a blessing in disguise.

Busking in Montpellier

As I turned the corner, my heart started thumping.  Eyes scanning the crowd, muscles on red alert.  Fight or flight?  What if I played dead?  What if I lay down on the ground and did my rasher of bacon impersonation?  I try looking at the people walking past.  Eyes not focusing properly. Blink. Blink again. I try rubbing my eyes with the back of my sleeve.  I can only focus on the first two or three people streaming past me.  And there on the left is my spot.  Walk past my spot.  Turn 180 degrees.  Walk towards my spot.  Eye my spot. Visualise myself at the spot. Walk past the spot one more time. Then just as I'm turning the corner, I get a voice in my head.  It's my gran.  Well okay it's not actually my gran but it's her voice, calm, thoughtful, not at all ghostly, resolute. 'You can do it,' she says gently.  'Seven deep breaths.'

I breathe in once.  Heart pumping so I'm sure people can see it through my shirt.  The question is do I get to the spot and take the breaths or do I time the breaths so I've hit seven by the time I arrive back at the spot?  Second breath and I'm back at the spot.  I put my case down and take another breath.  Look up.  Still can't focus properly, hands clammy. A sweat droplet just brushed the underside of my arm. Fourth breath.  I look up.  It's a beautiful day – vivid blue above, squintingly bright sunlight and Shit!  How many breaths have I got to? Either four or five. No, it must be four.  Take another one but not as slow and steady as the others. A lady with a neat red suit pretends not to see me. Breathe in, breathe out. Flip the first of the three stainless steel case hasps. Then the second. I've got to do this bending over, which makes the seventh breath too shallow. I can feel my lungs contracting.  I'm going to need an eighth breath.  But, do you know what, I'm really going to do this.  Third hasp popped. Guitar lid open.  It's one of those beautiful solid wood acoustic guitar cases with real leather that wouldn't look out of place transporting illicit liquor or tommy guns in an old black and white depression-torn 1920's American gangster movie. I look at the guitar.  Heart screaming. Show time.  Except it isn't really show time.  Just a bunch of shoppers, lovers, restaurant-goers, cyclists and dog-walkers ambling along Rue de la Loge.  But I flip the lid back down. I can't do this. I'm gripped with terror.  I've almost given myself a D-I-Y lobotomy.  I'm not thinking straight.  Another drip. A Jack Russell sniffs the case and is dragged away before it can lift its leg.  And then the voice comes back.  No, it's two voices.  'You can do it!'  'Run!' 'Just open the case and start'. 'Run away!' 'You're hungry.  You have no money. Just do it.' 'Now!'

I open the case again but just as it flips back against the hinges I close it again.  I'm in the middle of some bizarre fan ceremony with a guitar case lid.  This time I close my eyes as if I'm summoning up the spirits of my ancestors and open the case. Pick up the guitar. Put the strap over my head.  Reach into my trouser pockets, search round and then take out a black Gibson plectrum.  It's warm. I drop it on the ground and realise I'm shaking.  In fact both my legs are shaking too.  I rotate the case so it's facing the passers by and then wait.  Not the faintest idea of what I'm waiting for.  It's like waiting for the wind to drop just before you play an iron shot on a links or before you serve a tennis ball when the breeze is up.  And then the fingers in my left hand move automatically to a chord.  They are not my fingers.  An invisible force has taken them over.  I pinch the plectrum with the fingers of my right hand.  Pinch harder.  Hold my breath like I'm about dive below the surface of the pavement and then I start with the hardest and loudest strum my guitar has ever made.  I'm Pete Townsend on speed.  My eyes are tightly closed. I'm wind-milling and find my right knee bent double and my left leg outstretched like a half-Cossack dance.  Then I open my eyes and there's a crowd of three girls watching me giggling, pointing to my hat, which is an old explorer's Pith helmet jigging up and down.  They walk off.  A man in a dark suit with sunglasses pretends to ignore me.  But I don't care. I'm playing. I've done it.  I'm really doing it and I'm smiling.  And then out of the corner of my eye I notice a tall thin guy wearing black.  He's unshaven.  He's relaxed. He's looking at me quizzically.  He has warm eyes which belie his biker's jacket.  He's takes a cigarette from behind his ear, smells it, lights it with a bronze zippo and takes a long satisfied drag.  He seems to have made his mind up about something.  He waits for me to finish my song, steps in close, clapping with the fag in his teeth smiling and hollers, 'Bravo!'

'You are busker, no?'

A comedian.

I nod.

'Zeez no good 'ere.  We French not give money to busker 'ere in street.  You want money, zen eez better in front of cafe.'  He's pointing over to La Place de la Comedie.  He takes another drag of his cigarette and I notice he's got black finger nails.  He thrusts his hand out. 'Vincent'.  I must look either as if I haven't him or am sceptical about what he's saying because he tries again.  I nod.  'Thank you,' I say, 'I'm Charlie.' 

I shake his hand, walk out into the street, put the guitar back in its case, bend down to click the hasps back shut and when I stand up, I find that Vincent's gone.