Spain

Most mornings in summer I awake to a cacophonous dawn chorus created by the parrots that live in a huge aviary behind my bedroom. The sun rises late and I switch on the coffee machine, then Tess and I sit on the terrace sipping strong, aromatic cafes solos. Half a kilometre away lies the Mediterranean, like a cloth of black velvet in a jeweller’s display case, scattered with handfuls of glinting diamonds. These are the lights of scores of small fishing boats heading back to the port of Estepona, with meagre catches of sardines, anchovies, squid, octopus, red mullet, dabs, shrimps, prawns and the occasional bass. Suddenly the sun is up, and across the date palms the Mediterranean turns from black to azure. The coffee machine hisses and splutters and I grind some more beans for another cup. As the sun climbs, you can see the Rift mountains of Morocco, and before the summer sea haze forms you can make out the Rock of Gibraltar. In our garden, with its luxuriant green foliage, huge bushes of red and white flowering oleanders surround the house. The figs are beginning to ripen, along with the apricots and peaches, although the oranges and lemons will not be ready until about Christmas. Chillies, peppers and coriander grow in tubs. We have bushes of rosemary and a bed of thyme.