A Filthy Paradise

By Connor Newson

Here in the bay of Laemsak village, the fine seabed gradient slopes almost unnoticeably towards the open waters of the Andaman sea. As the moon pulls its metaphorical leash on the tide a shallow chasm appears, leaving a thick layer of mud to stretch across the expanding open space of the bay. Then, as the evening sun retreats behind the mountainous horizon, a palette of explosive orange shades form a thin yet marvellous mirror on the film of water left behind. Twice now I have spotted a small silhouette of a man, far out in the distance, gliding effortlessly atop the glassy surface. In the stillness and silence of his movements, a captivating narrative is painted right there in front of me. One in which the mysterious figure is the protagonist escaping to the tranquillity of his vast reflective canvas to dig for shells and shrimp. It is a story that is almost romantic in nature, his elegance awakening my curiosity. So evening, when I come into possession of a large plank of wood identical to the used by the silhouette, I decide to attempt my own version of his story.

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In all it was about two metres in length and a lot heavier than one person could easily carry – much larger than I expected. It too k the three of us – Teo, myself, and a local boy called Nigh – to haul it fifty metres to the edge of the bay. The tide was a further two-hundred metres out, and we needed to be somewhere in between where the wood can skim easily across the surface. So we hoist the overweight surfboard above our shoulders and begin tiptoeing across the broken-shell shoreline until we reach a thin layer of wet mud. My feet slide momentarily before submerging slightly beneath, simultaneously allowing the waterlogged seabed to rise and squeeze through my toes. I cringe at the sludge as it consumes my feet, lifting each one in the hope that this would somehow relieve the slimy texture. However, after a minute of hopping from one foot to the other the gluey sensation begins to feel comfortable.

We march ahead towards the glimmering sunset, sinking deeper into the marsh as we advance. My steps become more difficult as the earth swallows my feet, and then my ankles. We drop the plank of wood that is now contributing to our gradual descent, and instead decide to pull it using the rope attached to the nose. It slides with ease. We push on, deeper still, and soon my white knees are peeking out of the concoction of green and brown sediment. I feel the vacuum sucking my right leg beneath as I attempt to pull it out – unsuccessfully. I point my toes and pull once more in the hope that it will ease my leg’s escape. It does, however I fall onto my hands from the excess force.

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I look at my limbs that are now half caked in sludge before standing again. All of a sudden my right foot feels significantly lighter, so I lift it only to find it is now sockless. The earth has eaten my sock. It seems that nature is beginning to show its almightiness. I turn back and throw my arm elbow-deep into the hole that was left behind by my foot but feel nothing besides the squelching mud enshrouding my arm. It is lost. Nature wins this time. And as I step forward with my right foot it claims another point with the second sock as it too disappears into the depths. And then a third point is won as I fall face-first and undignified into the dirt.

Having successfully transformed into a muddy and faceless creature, I decide that the most logical course of action is to embrace the territory and my new form. I bury my hands deep and pull out a mass of thick black marsh, black as coal and as viscous as crude-oil. I lather it on every visible inch of my body, with Teo and Nigh following suit. Then we throw ourselves forward and begin crawling on our fronts like soldiers.

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After fifteen arduous metres of attempting to swim through the sludge we stop for a break to catch our breath. I look over to Nigh who seems unaffected by the rigorous exercise, and seeing how he is now plunging his hands below the seabed to pluck out shells and shrimp confirms just that. Then Nigh’s face seems to express concentration, or maybe confusion as he feels below once more. With one swift movement, he retrieves his hand from below with a thick rope-like creature clutched in his hand. It falls limp and we stare for a moment before realising its slight movements as it slithers through Nigh grasp.

“Snake” he shouts.

He launches the snake a metre in front and we dive in the opposite direction, desperately hurling ourselves forward despite gravity making our attempts relatively futile. We stop after securing a bit of distance, but the thought of snakes and other unknown creatures lurking just below the sloppy surface makes me shiver. So I decide its time to attempt the mudboard. The three of us climb on, each with one knee resting on deck, two hands clutching the sides and the other foot digging into the dirt to push us forward.

Immediately the nose of the board digs down and thick gunge buries to wood. We are forced to get off and pull it to the surface, fighting against the vacuum that sucks from below. Once again we mount, and once again we sink. It seems that the weight of three people is too much. So Teo and Nigh climb off to rest, but I remain on top, determined to be that silhouette and glide across my squishy sanctuary. I reposition myself at the rear of the board to allow the tip to hover an inch above the seabed in order to avoid cutting into the mud and piling on extra weight. To my surprise this works. I am suddenly liberated from the powerful grip of marshland gravity – more so than two minutes previous to this anyway.

I fly forward, skimming over the bay, faster with every deep push of my right foot as I grip tightly onto the board’s edges. And there in the distance I see the same figure that I have seen twice before. Once again he glides elegantly, stopping occasionally to pluck a shell from the bay and put it in the bucket that rests on top of his board. I beat my foot down hard to catch up with him, feeling now the burning ache of my muscles as I travel another fifty metres on top of the two-hundred we had already crawled through. Finally I reach him, and watch as he moves swiftly past me. I try and keep up but fail miserably as the nose dips once more into the mud, halting my board and causing me to eat the dirt once more. I lay on my back exhausted and defeated, watching the silhouette in the burning mirrored sunset as he sails away.

Slowly, I return to Nigh and Teo. We are two-hundred metres away from where we began. Although out here it’s impossible to gauge any distance really, and moving anywhere takes enormous effort and time. It feels much further, and to return the same way would mean getting home after dark. I wasn’t prepared to stay out here that long with such creatures hidden beneath me. So instead we agree on an detour. Pulling ourselves an extra fifty metres to the sea and swimming around.

As we heave ourselves into the Andaman sea, I can’t help but feel my attempt at becoming that mysterious protagonist on the sunset-coloured seabed wasn’t quite as tranquil and effortless as my mind had made it out to be. And despite the quest being incredible messy and fun, I guess that this filthy paradise is best watched from afar, and left to the professionals to conquer.

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The catch-22 of tourism expansion: an exclusive Longtail Boat ride in Thailand

By Connor Newson

Part of why Thailand attracts so much foreign tourism is down to its exotic and natural beauty. Beauty that in the last twenty years has helped boost its economy significantly. However, in many cases these inherently magnificent sights are overshadowed by the thousands of hostels, bars and other infrastructure that is needed to cater for such an industry. It is this sort of development that is constantly susceptible to overconsumption, to a point where the aesthetic romanticism of such landscapes are overwhelmed by relentless tourism that can bear heavily on the environment and its inhabitants. Places such as Koh Phi Phi, Phuket, and other crowded southern islands are an apt example of this. Still, not everywhere has been engulfed just yet. Laemsak, an isolated village in the south, is one of those.

I have been volunteering here for three weeks now, teaching English to the local community for a project that aims to bring community-based tourism to the locals in order to have a fair share of Thailand’s growing capital that hasn’t yet managed to reach them. An advantage of my role is being offered excursions to locations that not many other visitors have been before – free of charge! The catch? There are cameras following to capture the action and promote community-based tourism in the area. I can only assume that a show of my foreign genetics is a way of showing other tourists that this is a place worth seeing.

And so I have been torn between contributing to locals that want to gain economically from an established industry elsewhere, and the uncertainty that it may just expand hideously and tarnish the aesthetic of Thailand’s remaining beauty. My reluctance to deny the desires of my new friends who so desperately want to put themselves on the global map – and rightly so – causes me to agree to this latest adventure. In essence, today I am a guinea pig running the wheel that no other tourist has ran before. We embark on a new route, a trial run for future tourists, and what we are about to discover will be a surprise even to the locals and cameramen following.

After waking up at 6am and driving north for a while, myself and four colleagues (Teo, Sutima, Natalie and Jamie) arrive at a small pier on the river near Ban Lui. We climb onto a Longtail boat at 7am with a driver and a local cameraman. Five minutes down the river we stop at a floating fishing village where our cameraman jumps from our boat into a different one. The identical vessel is complete with a driver, two other crew members from the village, and three canoes squeezed on deck in which they sit. They come from three different villages, and so their coalition is based around this tour which would collectively provide money to all involved communities – community-based tourism. The drivers rev the huge engines, submerge the propellers, and speed away from the fishery down the widening river.

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As subjects we were given no instructions, although I had already assumed the appropriate attitude for my role. Chill and enjoy as a tourist would – especially when it’s free. I lay comfortably on the nose of the boat as the sun begins to peak over the surrounding mountains. Its illuminating light gives life to the flourishing and tangled greenery that climbs up the mountains on either side of the river. We are the only boat on the river for kilometres, besides the camera boat that has been weaving from one side to the other to catch the best angle. Soon enough, even that becomes a ghost that blends in as a picturesque silhouette on the canvas of rural, untouched Thailand.

We continue around a curve until our boat slows at the sight of a few figures in the middle of the river. As we get closer I notice they are the shoulders and heads of local fishermen. Their bodies are submerged as their arms dig deep, only re-emerge again with shrimp, crab or other creatures clenched in their hands. Each catch is thrown into a basket that is wrapped around their torso. I look to my right and watch as a single bamboo seems to drift past. Upon closer inspection I notice the bamboo stilts on which it sits only a few inches above the water. Detached from the land and only accessible by boat, it is the only structure visible for the entire day after passing the fishery.

Soon we become enclosed on both sides by bicycle tyres that are strung together by sticks and rope anchored into the thick muddy riverbed. Some tyres are partially buried beneath, some hove above water level, all confuse me as to their purpose. Fortunately, Sutima – local to the area – is able to explain that these are Oyster farms. The tyres are immersed in water twice a day due to the rise and fall of the Andaman tide. Eggs released by oysters near the mountain float down the river and attach themselves to anything they can – including bicycle tyres. Here they are able to grow before being harvested by fishermen. The tyres run for hundreds of metres until we come to a small sandy island in the centre of the river.

We dock on the shore and jump off, unwittingly stepping onto an island inhabited by thousands of red crabs scuttling about. They move in their masses and split as we approach. Some of the younger crabs become stranded at the sudden sight of us alien visitors, so they rapidly dig in a downwards spiral to hide beneath the sand. Noticing this as an obvious sign of intrusion, we decided to board the Longtail once more and carry on down the river, leaving the cast of crabs in peace.

Eventually, we come to an opening of a sprawling mangrove forest. We had travelled 20 kilometres down the river, and finally it was time to use the canoes that had been squeezed into the identical boat at the floating fishing village. We both cut our engines and the crew lift the canoes into the water for us to clamber into. Teo and I share one, Natalie and Jamie climb into another, and the cameraman and his driver occupy a third as we set off into the undergrowth of the mangrove.

Now, with no spluttering engine to spoil the silent serenity, this really feels like a hidden paradise. Even more so than the seclusion we had been experiencing for the past couple of hours. The sun flickers through the leaves above and onto the spider-like roots of trees that stretch sporadically, from the suspended trunks into the riverbed below. We weave in and out of the maze, watching in awe as mudskippers ripple across the water’s surface. The tiny fish below our canoe distract us and we become stranded on the shallow waters. But the warmth of the river is inviting enough for me to get out and pull our canoe into slightly deeper water. After half an hour of breathing in the fresh sea air that emanates from up ahead, we reach our Longtail boat which had taken an alternative route.

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Back on deck with the Andaman sea now in full view, we turn around head back towards the pier. Our promotional excursion was almost at an end – or so everybody thought. As I bask once again on the nose of the Longtail boat in the setting sun, reflecting on how gloriously exclusive the river has been, the engine suddenly cuts out. A serene silence blesses us once more. I look up at the cameraman who is now stood at the rear of the boat, staring intently a hundred metres to the side. I follow his eye line to the water and catch a glimpse of a what I initially think is a large fish momentarily surfacing. A couple of seconds later, just off to the right, it appears again. This time I see its pink head and shiny grey back elegantly rise and fall, and its heart shaped tail flick up before diving below once more.

This is no fish. What we are witnessing is an Indo-Pacific Humpback dolphin, more commonly known as a pink dolphin. In fact, we begin to notice a entire pod of about six pink dolphins working in harmony with a small fishing boat on the river rounding up their food. I was soon made aware as to why the driver and other locals seem just as surprised as us. These mammals are some of the rarest animals in the world, and it is a first sight for them as it is for us. We stay to watch them surface for air and spit water as they released air from their blow holes. I had never seen a dolphin before, and felt amazed that my first time is seeing them now, in the wild, in such an untouched part of Thailand. However, my amazement soon turns to concern as I am reminded of my purpose on this boat by the sound of a clicking camera behind me.

The cameraman is eagerly trying and catch the moment a foreign tourist watches as pink dolphins frolic about from the close proximity of his friend’s boat. This is a potential goldmine opportunity that he did not want to miss. And I was his guinea pig from which tourism would soon follow. After other areas have seen the influx of wealth flow in, it is understandable and justified for secluded communities such as this to want a piece of the moneycake. And to criticise this would make myself a huge hypocrite. However, after a day of being surrounded by genuine culture and raw nature, unscathed by the sprawling effects of tourism, my mind sits uneasily at the prospect of tourism completely consuming another beautiful part of the world.

As a tourist, it seems there is little escaping the chance of negative contribution. This is a concern that unfortunately comes simultaneously with exposing myself to cultural differences in order to understand diversity within the world, and wanting to help a community weigh in on the incoming capital. And so I feel it is important to draw attention to that. However, in light of wanting to enjoy the beauty and romanticism of the breath-taking landscape that surrounds me, I lay back down and relax. As our boat rocks gently on the water, my mind casts back to a fitting quotation by Scott Fitzgerald that I once read back in secondary school. “We beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past”. On one hand we are all entitled to benefit from tourism whether that is economically or culturally, yet at the same time we desperately desire to hold onto the exclusive serenity of beautiful and undisturbed places such as this that may one day become a memory. I can only hope that my input here will be put to healthy use and not overuse.

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Credit: Sutima

Deceptions of a coconut

By Connor Newson

A few weeks back I fell in love… Yes, this is a love story. However it is not a story between two people, it is a story of a man and his discovery of the marvellous coconut. But like so many love stories there are moments when not everything is as sweet it seems. And for me that sourness came unexpectedly within a matters of days after first being exposed to the greatness of an Indian coconut.

At this point you might be why I’m writing about loving the coconut, or maybe why it has taken a person so long to even try a coconut. After all the world is not so big when they’re readily available in supermarkets all over the world. Nevertheless, love is subjective and these drupes of healthy goodness are usually packaged or served with a delicious and unhealthy layer of chocolate around the outside – yes, I’m referring to the Bounty bar. So of course I’ve tasted the artificial essence of coconut before, but somehow I can’t ever recall eating an actual coconut – especially when its fresh from the tree itself.

The romance began on a warm evening in a small ancient town called Maheshwar hidden within the central Indian state of Madhya Pradesh. Myself and two friends, Ellie and Connie, are taking a gentle stroll down the bank of the Narmada River, admiring the sun as it bounces off the water onto the Ahilyabai Temple that towers above the boats below. As is quite frequent in India, we stop at a street vendor for some tasty chai.

The fire is stoked, a pan is set, and a concoction of cardamom, black tea, ginger, masala, milk, and other spices are thrown inside. As the chai guy works his magic, Connie spots a horde of fury brown coconuts sat on a vendor’s table opposite ours. Already enlightened to the taste of coconuts, she wastes no time in approaching the vendor. Now I’ve only ever seen coconuts being smashed open by desperate shipwreck victims who are stranded on an isolated Island in the middle of the ocean… Hollywood. So I follow Connie, curious as to how she is going to take on this challenge.

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Fortunately for her, the trader kindly begins to tear out the thick outer hair to reveal the significantly smaller shell underneath. Moving away from his station and placing a small glass on the ground where he is now crouched, he grabs the nut firmly in one hand and hurtles it at the concrete below. With one fell swoop a large crack appears which allows the liquid centre to spill into the glass. Then, wielding a 500g scale weight, he begins tapping at the shell to break off the pieces one by one, revealing the brilliant white sphere inside.

Immediately I am captivated by the raw method of fending for one’s self. I am caught in the crosshairs of curiosity, eager to taste the pure fruit that has just been revealed to me. But first, a sip of some coconut milk. With the heat of the Indian sun bearing down on me, the water runs down my throat fresher than the streams of Mount Everest. And now for the coconut itself. I take some from Connie and dig my teeth into the crunchy yet soft white chunk. I am hooked, and the initial attraction is obsessive.

We spend the next twenty minutes drinking chai and munching on coconutty goodness whilst watching the sun burst into shades of pink, red, orange, and yellow as it sets over the river ahead. The next morning we return, this time to open the shell ourselves to experience the arduous method first hand (simultaneously attracting a crowd of locals who were probably judging our inefficiency). The taste is as heavenly as the night before. I return once more before leaving for our next destination in India, uncertain on whether Omkareshwar would be as kind in fixing my new addiction. It was… But only temporarily.

Omkareshwar is 65km up the river with a huge temple built into the bank of its river. On our first evening we venture out to have dinner, treating ourselves (daily) to fresh and oily curry. Despite most places street stalls being closed this late in the evening, I manage to spot a friendly bunch of coconuts sitting in a basket outside a store on the way back to our hostel – one for me, and one for Connie. We cradle the precious things back to our rooms and devour them whilst reading our books.

The next day we leave the hostel and go for a walk, little did I know that my walk would soon turn sour. We arrive at what seems to be a market square with about fifteen wooden structures pitched up in a long row. To my surprise, every single one of them has a basket of coconuts waiting to be plucked. I waste no time in my choosing, other than to shake a couple of nuts next to my ear to decide which one sounds bigger – the hairy exterior can be misleading. I make my choice and we continue walking until we find ourselves perched on the edge of an elevated rock by the river, away from any noisy crowds and with a beautiful wide view of the river running for miles into the distance.

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As Ellie and Connie begin reading their books, I pull the coconut out from inside my bag and begin tearing out the straw like hair that covers the shell. My eagerness to taste the crunchy interior seems stronger with each one I consume. With the fury coating abandoned, I grip the nut tightly and force it down on to the rock at my feet. However nothing happens. I try once more, yet not even a hairline crack surfaces. I begin hammering down the nut hard against the ground until soon I notice my hand is slightly wet.

Finally there is a crack, but not where I have been hitting it against the rock. Upon closer inspection I notice a small hole at the top of the nut, and two other darkened circles that seem to have an unusual shade of mossy green. However, I continue to bring down the coconut with repetitive and heavy thuds against the rock until eventually it splits. All of a sudden my throat is wrenching at the stench unleashed. Thick white liquid leaks from the crevices as the shell falls apart, exposing a curdled creamy ball of mush that spills into my palm. Full of disgust and gagging at the repulsive smell emitting from my mouldy snack, I open my palm to let pseudo-coconut fall to the depths of the water like Jack from Titanic.

Feeling confused and rejected, I try to speculate on the cause for my mysteriously viscous coconut. Why would a coconut be so bad that its entire interior had managed to curdle? After a while we wander home, on the way passing the wooden shacks where just earlier I excitedly purchased the disappointing fruit. I avert my eyes and continue walking until I arrive at the store where I had bought a nut the evening before. I decide to confront my fears and buy one more coconut and take it back to the hostel, hoping the last was just a one-off.

Back at the hostel I ask for a hammer to assist the dissection. I place it on the floor firmly whilst simultaneously covering my nose with a sleeve. I raise the hammer above my head and prepare to slam it down onto the shell. Suddenly I hear a voice from behind.

“Are you going to eat that?!”, a German girl laughs.

“…Yes” I reply. “Shouldn’t I?”.

She senses my confusion and begins to explain her concern.

“Every day people buy these coconuts, and flowers, to lay in the river as gifts to the source of life that runs through the valley. After the coconut is gifted, locals climb into their boats and fish the coconuts back out of the water in order to sell again. In fact, once a year three-thousand coconuts are released into the river as gifts, and every single one of them is collected and put back into the system. I wouldn’t be surprised if that is a sour coconut”.

So there it is. The answer to my coconut’s deception. I had unwittingly purchased a coconut that had probably been circulating in and out of the river for months. Still, I have faith – or rather hope – that the one I hold in my hand right now is an exception like the one from last night. Before I can talk myself out of it I bring down the weight of the hammer onto the shell. Miraculously, the shell splits almost perfectly allowing the shell to be broken off with ease to reveal the pure white sphere underneath. Tonight I will once again enjoy the tasty snack. And so my love for a coconut persists. At least for tonight anyhow.

Relax with the fish

By Connor Newson

Recently I have found myself feeling weighed down with being constantly busy, however not from having to navigate around a different country or adapt to other cultures as you would expect when abroad. Instead my mind has been occupied with less exciting matters such as planning English lessons or where to go next, stressing over visas and money and what my plan in life shall be, even thinking of different ways to publicise this travel blog (suggestions are welcome – it’s tough). It all seems to be at the forefront of my mind right now. And no matter how ludicrous it seems, becoming mindlessly conditioned to the normality of life is easier than you’d think, even in the most spectacular environments. The reality of this normalisation means that the culture and beauty that surrounds me constantly can sometimes be taken for granted. Fortunately, it is my day off from teaching and the staff at Bulan Anda Baba Resort have managed to distract me from these overbearing concerns.

The day begins the same as it has for the past week – walking down to the bamboo restaurant for breakfast and continuing with some sort of chore on my laptop. The sights from this slight elevation are as breathtaking as it always is, so I really shouldn’t have much to complain about. Especially with a stunning panoramic view of Laemsak bay with its tall trees, calming sea, and towering rock islands. As I tuck into some delicious vegetable fried rice, with traditional dessert wrapped in banana leaf, a three-person canoe is carried down the short hill and left by the water. Prayo, a student of mine and Teo’s, explains that the three of us should grab our life vests because the canoe is waiting for us. It is at this point that I decide to sack off the work and agree to take a break to enjoy what is around me – something I feel we all tend to forget the value of doing.

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A few minutes later the three of us are sat inside our little red canoe, beginning to paddle as we sway gently to the small waves passing beneath us. Ahead of us is a vast openess of water, of which we need to cross. I’m not sure if it because my mind is stuck in work mode, or whether I am just excited to be out on the shimmering turquoise waters – perhaps a bit of both – but I begin with a overly heavy stroke; one that would suggest urgency. It wasn’t until Teo called to me from the back seat to relax and enjoy the moment that I realised my lingering tension. Despite being out in the open waters of southern Thailand, my mind and body remain stressed. So I begin to slow my thoughts and my breathing, and give the water on each side of the canoe a gentle push.

After half an hour of cruising, we had crossed the bay and drifted to the edge of a floating fish farm. Its vast crosshatched wooden structure is supported by the frequent positioning of large polystyrene blocks to keep it afloat. In the centre is a platform with a roof for shade where Pu, another of our students, had been waiting for us. She is harvesting seaweed from a net-like contraption that I can only assume is some sort of catalyst for its growth. We pull ourselves up and rest in the shade for a few minutes, watching as two local fisherman replant some smaller pieces of seaweed in new and empty nets.

However, a few minutes of shade is all we need before we begin diving and jumping into the fish-filled waters. Despite the warmth of the midday sea, to say that the sudden rush of water is refreshing is an understatement. In fact it is enough to persuade us to keep on swimming out into the open waters once more. I turn on my back and float for a while, staring into the clear blue sky with the sun beating down on my body as my submerged ears listen to the silence of the ocean. My thoughts are calmed once again. Soon enough we arrive at another isolated fish farm, not too different to the one we had just come from – only this one had its own little shack and hammock.

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With Prayo by our side we are able to communicate with the stranded farmer, Nong, who invites us on deck to show us around. I climb aboard the wood that runs around the large nets beneath the water. As I do so I spot a lobster clutching the inside of one of the nets. Nong, the fisherman, begins reeling in the net to allow for a closer look. He takes a few steps to one side, urging me to follow as he reels in the adjacent net to reveal a hoard of large fish splashing as they rise to the searing heat of open air. There are maybe ten more nets containing some sort of sea life on board this floating farm.

“Coffee?” he asks, in surprisingly well enunciated English.

We of course accept, eager to listen to the story and life of a floating fisherman. We walk over to his small bamboo shack which has two lightbulbs fitted to the ceiling and a solar panel attached to the roof. As he serves us coffee, I lay down in the hammock with a view of his birdcage, the rippling sea, and the mountainous islands in the distance. Nong begins to explain – with the help of Prayo translating – how he used to be a guide for tourists in Koh Phi Phi before building his fish farm here in Krabi. Much to my surprise, the life of a fisherman here is pretty comfortable. With two of his seven lobsters due to be sold next month for 200,000 Baht (approx £4600), this, plus the income from his various other fishy inhabitants makes for a fulsome living wage. Despite his success, what captivates me more than this is the location, or more importantly, how relaxed I feel now.

As I sway with the waves inside this hammock, effortlessly listening to Nong’s story, I am taken back to a few hours earlier. I was sat in the tranquillity of an deserted bamboo bar surrounded by sights that are otherwise seen inside exotic travel brochures, yet my head was buried in the world of a touchscreen laptop, stressed and tired from the worries of life. But for now I relax, breathing in the salty sea air and taking some time out to slow from the frustrated modern world.