Rain

It's not supposed to rain on Mediterranean islands: the guidebooks don't mention it, the glossy brochures don't suggest it and the PR chicks pretend it doesn't happen.

But this morning it rained fat, warm drops that seemed determined to screw with our day's activity. By late morning, we had tired of our room and our paperbacks, so skipped between the puddles to visit the island's famous salt pans. Fortunately, we only had to seek shelter in a cafe once and the pain was alleviated by cups of thick Maltese coffee and slabs of fresh almond and orange cake.

Speaking of food, Mama's dinner last night was superb: salad, potatoes and fish so fresh it had probably crawled out of the sea minutes earlier. And to finish, a ricotta cheesecake that was so delicious I immediately demanded the recipe. Like their Italian neighbours, they take their kai seriously here. So it would be churlish to refuse. I'm grateful it hasn't quite reached beach temperatures, because I fear I might be mistaken for a whale and harpooned accordingly.

I must now get a wiggle on for that most civilised of Mediterranean traditions: the siesta. Oh that the rest of the world would embrace this practice...