Our days lack ambition. Idle in the hotel room with notebook and books, listening to the seabirds and the breeze-ruffled fronds of the palms bordering the cemetery over which our balcony overlooks. Dip in the pool. Walk into town to get a newspaper. The husband cannot resist getting an Irish breakfast fry, at a cafe run by a small dark haired woman with the prettiest hazel eyes and a soft Belfast accent. Look at the castle built on a Celtic castro in the 8th century by the Moors and partially destroyed by an earthquake in 1755, now four crumbling stone walls enclosing a children's playground and loos. The itinerary is loose-limbed and sleepy-eyed.

At night we wander after a late dinner of grilled whole bream and chips, me licking lavender and mascarpone ice cream while trying to not slip on the white gleaming cobblestones polished by centuries of feet. We sit under mimosa trees in a church square where grannies congregate, chatting and laughing, and a pregnant black cat has curled up on the tiles, which resemble fish scales under streetlamps. To eat ice cream, that is our only ambition for the night, even the day, this week. To immerse myself in the sea, even though I don't know how to swim. In the shadows, small cats slink about on obscure missions.

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