Wish you were here?

Sebastian and mum Tammy paddle about at Isola Rosso Daytime
I used to serve the work-weary, northern European middle classes – now I’m one of them. Towards the end of August 1996 I could have walked barefoot across an open bottlebank, my feet were so toughened by the sand and rocks of the island’s shore. Now, a midday stroll across the hot sandy beach makes me break into effeminate hopping. The closest I get to adrenalin sport is two brief bouts of sea swimming and, believe me, the shock of the early summer temperatures is thrilling enough.

I’m certainly no longer the shorefront celebrity I once was. That position now falls to my son. He is unspeakably cute in his blue and white trunks, and quickly gathers the kind of doe-eyed admiration from the bay’s beach babes that I only ever dreamt of.

Seb loves the attention, and we surprisingly find that he loves the waves, too! Although bath time often ends in tears, we’ve rarely seen him happier than when he is splashing about in the break. Sebastian can’t swim yet, but has taken to eating the odd handful of sand. However, as my wife and I alternate between leafing through a paperback on the beach chairs and proudly escorting our child about the strand, I realise that life can, indeed, still be a beach.

Getting Around
Are there many sadder holiday sights than a man of a certain age razzing about, alone, in a family sized hire car? Our son’s travel sickness has restricted us to the delightful beaches and cafés of Isola Rosso. But in the name of good journalism, I strike a deal with my wife and take off to revisit more of my haunts from the mid-nineties.