The bed is blissfully soft and Paul’s mosquito nets, which he explains at length are imported from Australia and very expensive, seem to have done their job admirably. I get up at around 9am, having slept like a log, and get myself a drink and some fruit while I wait for the latest electricity outage to end so I can have a shower (water is pumped into a tank using an electric pump). The housekeeper arrives, and starts sweeping. A girl comes to the door with fresh bread, and George arrives to do whatever it is that George does. Suddenly I feel slightly underdressed and go to put some more clothes on.

We pack up all our day provisions and head for the beach. It’s about a half hour walk along the sand to Barra Lodge, a largish resort hotel and bar, with a pool. Since the ocean isn’t looking very inviting, we open an account, have lunch and decide to set up camp in the pool area. Nick has books and wants to sleep, so I head back to the beach to walk the rest of the beach. Barra beach is about 3 miles long, with our house at one end of it, Barra lodge in the middle and an area called ‘White sands’ at the end.

I write an email to Paul on the way, explaining that we’ve arrived, all’s well and passing on the news we’d heard from Artur. I decide that this is not proper blackberrying, but merely travel journalism. By the time I’m done I’ve arrived at white sands, and I look up to find I don’t have any land on my left any more. There’s still ocean on the right, but now there’s just sand, sand and more sand on the left, with a hint of ocean in the distance. The wind is blowing even stronger here, gusting across the sand and creating mini sandstorms that blow around and pepper my legs.

Going to the end and looking back, there is a vast expanse of sand with the dunes and developments of Barra in the distance, and great swathes of sand on the move, rushing towards me and out into the sea.

Walking around the headland, I get to mud flats, so I turn inland slightly and follow the road, which leads me to Flamingo Bay, an upmarket collection of chalets built on a mangrove swamp. The swamp is actually dry at the moment, and I can walk right around the *outside* of the hotel, where clearly there is supposed to be water normally.

Now pretty much considering myself lost, I got some directions and headed in the direction of Barra Lodge along the main road. I’d said I’d be an hour, and I was quite spectacularly late. A few minibuses, safari jeeps and quad bikes passed me, all beloging to various resorts and mostly empty. I considered asking for a lift, but thought this would be a bit defeatist, and anyway, Barra Lodge was probably just around the corner. Finally, it actually was around the next corner and I arrived at the pool to find Nick asleep. We texted Artur to find out where we should pick the keys up from (we had left them with the staff when we left the house), and while we waited for a reply I went for a swim in the lodge’s pool. It’s an interesting shape, with two pontoon bridges across it and an island in the middle with a palm tree.

While I have spent the afternoon on a 6 mile hike and 30 lengths of the pool, Nick has managed to read three pages of a book called ‘Getting things done’. I point out the irony, which is very much appreciated.

Back at the house Artur is waiting with the keys, and invites us to his place for some drinks and to show us where to come for the keys in future. We follow him about 150 yards, weaving through other houses built amoungst the dunes, and end up in a holiday village of about 7 cottages, which Artur manages as his main job. His wife and daughter are there and serve us drinks while we chat about all kinds of stuff. “Do you pray?” says Artur suddenly. I realise this may not be a short visit.

Having finished debating the existence or non existence of god, on which point it turns out Nick and I disagree, surprisingly, we walk back to the house in the dark, with Artur following us to make sure we don’t get lost. Too much.

Dinner is sausages, cooked on our gas barbeque (indoors, as it happens, since the roof is very high and the BBQ is smokeless), with a tomato sauce and hand made chips, and is unanimously declared a major improvement on yesterday’s effort.

An email arrives from Paul suggesting that there is a cable for the CD player somewhere that allows us to plug in our MP3 players, so one exhaustive search later we’re happily listening to our music while reading in the lounge.