The old villages with their apparently ad-hoc street patterns and haphazard alignments seem to reflect light and warmth into every nook and cranny. This may well be a good thing for much of the year, but on the few days that the temperature is approaching forty degrees it is not terribly desirable at least from our perspective.
We had been smart enough, or perhaps lucky enough to notice not long after we arrived yesterday that there was a spot in the harbour being vacated, which seemed to lie in the shade of a tree for much of the day, and in the shadow of a large wall for the entire evening, and promptly made a move to fill it.
In the face of a forecast promising temperatures in the high thirties, we thought that being moored out of the sun would be a sensible idea, but a British gentleman of kindly although somewhat underdressed disposition immediately took it upon himself to warn us that we would be in the shade in the afternoon, as though it was a bad thing not to be slowly burning oneself to a crisp.
His look of astonishment, then bemusement when we explained that we were hoping that that would be the case, was worth bottling. “But you are Australian!” he exclaimed although the connection between being Australian and wantonly frying oneself to a bright red tone was never made clear.
Here we sat then in relative comfort, under our tree in the shade, with our roof slid back, once again holding court until the wee small hours of tomorrow, glad that we had no pressing business in the morning.