Greener Grass, Bluer Sky

We stand on the balcony in the early morning sunlight. It is already unseasonably warm. Gazing at the view and flicking through yesterday's photos, we start to think in the way that I guess every holiday maker does at some point. We flirt with the idea of selling up and moving to warmer climes.

But when we go on to question what our new lifestyle would be like, all we can come up with is: shopping, eating and drinking - but in the sunshine. We don't speak any languages other than English, all our friends are in UK - even our hosts only live here part of the year - and though the Amazon fairy presumably knows where Spain is, man cannot live on books alone!

Today our touring covers a range of terrains and surroundings: we drive through the hills, up winding water-damaged roads - reminding us briefly of home - admiring the mix of traditional houses and modern villas, and visit a local market before heading for the coast, where palm trees soften concrete lines, where every roundabout bears an interesting monument or statue, and the esplanade is crowded with walkers and cyclists.

In the market, we manage to resist cheap handbags and other leather goods, while admiring the size of radishes and tomatoes on the greengrocer's stall. I am disconcerted to find that my head is officially neither small nor medium and am considering turning to the display of men's trilbies, but then find a soft floppy one that covers my ears and my neck, while being more flattering than my NYC baseball cap.

We adjourn to a beach-front restaurant for a melange of fish and seafood, while refusing the invitations to buy key rings or carved wooden animals from the hawkers who poke their heads through the window periodically. We finish the meal with tiny choc ices coated in chocolate sauce and hundreds and thousands. As I am among friends, I allow my inner child to wipe her fingers around the plate until all the sauce is gone - although I do draw the line- just- at letting her pick up and lick the plate clean.