Having recently returned from India, I am much struck, on seeing myself and my wife in sundry mirrors, how we both look as if we have been painted with several coats of Ronseal.

Highlights of our visit:

Swimming off Palolem beach. Cycling through the back lanes of Benaulim. Crossing the ferry at Old Goa. Sipping hot lemon tea in Colva. Eating Tuna, chips and salad at George Ferandes. Spooning in papaya flesh at every opportunity.

Lowlights:

No gears on Indian bikes. No pomelos. Sunburn on first day. Gokarn.

On our way out, at Gatwick, in the early hours of the morning, there were only two flights besides ours, both to Madrid. One was full of disgruntled Real Madrid fans, who traipsed through the airport looking forlorn. The other was reserved for the players, all wearing identical suits, large knots in their ties, and pulling behind them the same sized suitcases on wheels. One weasel faced individual with blond hair and a half smile looked vaguely familiar. I only realised who it was when people started calling out, ‘Hey, David!’, snapping their cameras and asking him for his autograph, as he passed within a couple of feet of us.