Twenty minutes later, when I reached the beach, I was too tired even to crawl. I lay in the shallow water, my hands resting on the corrugated sand, my face nudged by the curious waves. A speedboat swept past, two men towing a fifteen-year-old girl on water skis. They soared away, leaving behind a blare of pop music.

Untouched by the feet of holiday-makers, the white sand was like fluffed sugar. I stepped out of the water and sank into its soft quilt. I had nearly been chopped into bloody fillets under the critical gaze of hundreds of tourists clutching their Dalí guidebooks. Somewhere beyond the mole there was the sound of the inflatable’s outboard. Miriam had seen me, and was speeding towards the shore.

She expertly beached the craft as Henry jumped onto the sand.

“Are you all right?” Miriam knelt beside me. “What are you doing here? I’m married to a madman.”

Henry scowled at me. “Is he dead?”

“He’s pretending awfully hard.”

“Being dead must feel like this.” I sat up, glad to see the sun. “It was like trying to cross the Styx—a ferryman almost ran me down.”

“What a nerve! We’ll report him to the Guardia Civil.”

“They’re probably in league.”

“How many lengths did you swim?” Henry asked.

“About a thousand.” I leaned against Miriam, resting my chafed chin against her sea-cool shoulder. “What about Alice and Lucy?”

“They’re with the Nordlunds—they spotted you from their balcony. Henry, we’ll get Daddy back to the boat.”

“Hold on—let’s explore a little. This is some sort of island.”

“A real desert island, Daddy? With cannibals?”

“Definitely cannibals…”

We had come ashore on a long sandbar, separated from the dunes of Ampuriabrava by an arm of shallow water. Some fifty yards wide, the sandbar followed the curve of the bay, rising in a series of grass-covered hillocks. As we walked along the firmer ground we passed the remains of a rusting shack. Wine bottles, an old portable radio, and a bicycle wheel lay half-buried in the sand beside this terminal hut. In the hollows between the dunes small fires had been lit during the winter. Across the inlet the scrubland of creeks and inlets extended as far as the Figueras road, but already property developers’ signs stood by their marker posts, announcing a new resort complex of hotels, marinas, and apartment houses.

As we strolled along, my arm around Miriam’s waist, Henry rushed back to us through the long grass.

“There’s a Wendy house! It’s got a door and windows—and guess what? A real toilet!”

“A Wendy house with a toilet.” Miriam took his hand. “Are you sure?”

“Yes—I used it!”