We wandered down to the little town square for a late morning coffee.

Old man 1

This ancient chap has used up most of his words and hardly says anything. He watches the world passing by, which, with his memories, creates a muddy cocktail in his head. [And before anyone else says it, yes, he could be my younger brother.] (You’re not allowed to edit before I do. Lo,TG Ed)

Old man 2

This man suddenly shouts at demons that only he can see. He turns towards a bemused cappuccino congregation and mouths a silent sermon with frequent gestures towards his heart.

Sax 2

The saxophonist prepares to play. We were briefly his roadies – we trod on his power cable to help it pay out towards his sound system. We are his new best friends. He bends down low to high-five the little girl who is entranced by his music. She wiggles her little bum and moves her shoulders, very briefly actually keeping time. She gets diverted by a sweet wrapper blowing by on the warm North wind.

Sax 1

We finish our coffees and talk to the saxophonist. His father was blind and played the piano and the accordion, and told his son to learn a musical instrument. He studied the oboe which he played when he was in the army. He forgot all about music for the next 25 years ; then he decided to take up the saxophone and now earns a crust from playing for the tourists and the locals. He says he was born in Torres Novas and makes a joke that that means Newcastle.

Lo, she is a terrible Goddess and I wander back home, the tiny fishing boats to our right and the fish restaurants to our left. We take a short detour around the sandy beach.

I gather it’s a tad chilly in England.