Watching from the edge of paradise.

Here in the mountains, between plataneras and papas, the soil as fertile as Kent but the weather a little kinder. No Jack Frost to kill off early season agriculture, the lemons and oranges flourish as sadly do the weeds.

But I seem to have found a little piece of paradise, not just the stretching beaches under a bikini clad sun but the challenging trails of nature, tarmac an abandoned afterthought, where tiny lizards trumpet to one another, or a passing squadron of honey bees buzzzz their salutations.

The wind may blow and even deliver a teardrop of rain, but pale skinned tourists beware: don your sun screen, the climate will cheat you into payment by blister.

As I watch from the edge of paradise.