1st September 2005

As is customary on holiday, I start the day with breakfast alongside the family before heading off to the hotel gym in a valiant (and probably doomed) attempt to shed the holiday calories that sneakily accumulate the moment one steps off British soil. On my way, I paused by the beach to admire the postcard-perfect scenery before launching into my gentle bout of perspiration.

That’s when Jomo, one of the pool attendants, ambled over for a chat. After a little small talk, he homed in on my watch, gave it a hopeful once-over, and asked, without a hint of shame, if he could have it. Polite refusal dispatched, he moved on to asking what I did for a living. It was at that exact moment that I remembered: it’s the 1st of September, the official beginning of my retirement. I no longer have a job!

I gazed dreamily at the flawless blue sky, the serene, azure sea with its traditional dhows bobbing lazily in the breeze, and felt an overwhelming wave of gratitude for my financial advisor, the unsung hero who, 18 years ago, wisely set me on course for an early retirement. What foresight. What bliss.

On Saturday, as planned, we met Charlotte, Suraj and little Lucas at the airport. Their flight was a mere ten minutes late and, unlike ours, entirely uneventful. They looked rather weary, Lucas perhaps the freshest of the bunch, having slept most of the way. We spent a lovely twenty minutes catching up before they hopped onto their minibus transfer bound for their far grander hotel in Nungwi, up in the north of the island. It was wonderful to see them and reassuring that their travels had gone so smoothly.

After waving them off, we headed into Stone Town, where we managed to tick off all three of its rather modest museums before settling down for lunch in the Old Fort. Since then, we’ve taken countless little strolls both around the hotel and through the winding alleys of Stone Town, soaking in the sights, soaking up the culture, and, most importantly, checking out suitable places to eat.

So far, we’ve sampled a different eatery each time. Last night we tried a Chinese restaurant, which made a refreshing change. One memorable experience involved a truly local spot where a Zanzibari three-piece band struck up a tune just for us (the magic of tipping). The seating consisted of floor cushions, which might sound exotic but proved to be a test of character and cartilage. My rugby-scarred knees haven’t quite forgiven me.

Another unforgettable moment: as I sat poised to devour a delicious plate of Kingfish fingers and salad, a crow, perched above in a nearby tree, chose that very moment to unload the contents of its devilish little digestive system directly onto my head. It was, shall we say, unpleasant. Yellowish-green, suspiciously sticky, and evidently designed to stain. Zanzibar has no shortage of crows, and I am convinced they work in shifts to torment me personally. Just this morning, I found another ‘gift’ smeared across my drying shorts on the balcony. If I ever find a restaurant here serving crow pie, I shall order it with relish and extra chips.

Tomorrow, we’re looking forward to seeing Charlotte and co. again, as they’ll be visiting us in our rather more humble hotel. It’s her birthday, and we’ve told the staff, who are now keen to meet our daughter (possibly in the hope that someone glamorous might lift the tone of the place). We’ve spoken with them several times since their arrival; they’re absolutely thrilled with their hotel, which they say is breathtakingly beautiful. We’ll see it for ourselves on Wednesday when we travel up north for the wedding.

Retirement’s off to a flying start. Even if the crows are, too.