I'm perched on the stone wall that borders the pathway from our hotel to the bay. At the wall's bottom, lazy waves gently lap against the rocks that form the edge of a sunbathers' havens - rocks of varying sizes that make hard, consistent sunbeds for the tan-lusting tourist as well as a robust dinner table for a happily-picnicking family spending the day basking in the salty spray spat on them by a fleet of jet skis racing past.

In front of me, the only thing I can see is the royal-blue expanse of water that softly ripples onto the shelled shore. Peripherally there are short trees gathered in mass to create a duvet of green leaves on the hillside. Dotted here and there are firefly lights that gather in small armies at specific points along the peninsula, marking out the hotel complexes and resorts that have sprouted in the last several years or so.


I love looking out onto the islands that surround the coast in tiny clusters.Their lighthouses flicker, greeting the hoards of crowded tourist tour boats that commute across the waves on their usual routes. My favourite boat is the pirate ship. They officially call it a "replica 17th-century ship", but it's a pirate ship: no one can tell me otherwise.


This area is most beautiful in the mornings and evenings, I think. When I wake up I can still make out the faded watercolours of that morning's sunrise linger on the horizon. I prefer the sunset, though, as it's something I'm able to see in all its glory. I can witness the steady transition of the sky. From a jolly paling blue, it morphs from yellow to magenta to blood-orange-red, each stage illuminating the world's container in its own unique way.


The most spectacular light show of them all.