Strange things holidays. I love them, then want to get home, then when I'm back I wish I was on holiday again. No-one can exist on a diet of the best of everything all the time; it would simply raise your standard of what is the best and you'd need to earn more money to afford it.
Gozo, where I have been for my holidays these last few years, is a small island next to Malta and its principle attraction (forgive me) is that you're not there. In summer it is hot, dusty and the insects nip. It is interesting but not particularly beautiful. People are helpful but not over-bearing.
I relax, swim, sit in the sun, read, eat good food (restaurants excellent), explore a little and reacquaint myself with Mrs T.
'Is it me,' I say to a colleague, '...or has the parish speeded up while I was away?' We conclude that indeed it has, but also that I've slowed down and the combined velocities are a mismatch.
In late 2007 I joined a health club, a step up from the council gym. I confess that the attraction, inter alia, of a large outdoor pool round which to sit and read on a day off, was very powerful. Last year the number of Fridays when this was facilitated by the British weather was a no score. This week has been hot and dry and I thought I might break my duck. Clutching for the positive I count the rain falling on my green garden and my pitter-patter amplifying conservatory as a blessing.
This is a green and pleasant land. All the birds are not sparrows and pigeons. Yesterday 36 starlings breezed into my small garden and cleaned the lawn. Martins and swifts swoop overhead. Dust lasts but a short time, dismantled by water. It's good to be back.