Another flight, and the ritual stiff-the-tourist cab ride later, and I'm in my home for the next fortnight.

It's a 5-star gin palace, whose very name causes my cab driver to suck sir through his teeth and push a secret button marked 'mother load' which simultaneously accelerates his meter and sends a complimentary bottle of champagne to his bank manager.

But I can check out the hotel later. Now I want to lock down my surf lessons. And there are literally dozens and dozens of schools to choose from. I'll let you know how I fare...

One thong my iPhone simply cannot capture is the diversity of kites being flown by the local urchins. Bit of bin bag and some lolly pop sticks? Done. Carrier bags on discarded windscreen wipers? Done. I half expect to see one made from a car door, or perhaps a midget sub.

But there are proper grown-up kites too. The finest of these are two galleons. Yes, galleons. Eight sails, a mast and a hull each. And as the wind pulses, they sway and roll as if on a choppy sea, backlit by a beautiful sunset.

Which is nice, as it effectively drowns out the slightly Costa Del Boy quality of the hawkers pitching their valueless wares.

Time to potter home.