"Sherry, like the drink."- Table quizmistress, the other night.

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We head home tomorrow. Once we get off the plane, we have a wedding to attend. I'll have to change in the airport loo.

Today the hotel had a fire drill between 10.30 am and noon, so there was no lingering in the apartment as is our wont. The day was crammed with small pleasures, maybe necessities: coffee and pastries, a trip around the village in a road train, a languorous lunch of oysters and white wine, drinks in a cabana out of the rain, and a walk along the boardwalk at dusk. At the beach, Iberian magpies darted in the marram grass, flashing long blue tails in the crepuscular gloom.

At the cabana, I got a text from the director of the local art centre; as board secretary, I was required to sign a document. It was a reminder, not unwelcome, of the world I had left behind, if only for a little while. What is it about the last day of a holiday? Melancholy, mixed in with not a little excitement: oh, there was my dog, and my friends, and the woods; the view of the mountain from my bedroom window, a view that I could not get anywhere else in the world.

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