We move on to a sequence of songs – ‘Loin des yeux, loin du coeur’; ‘Petite fille de casbah’; ‘Le monde est bleu comme toi’; ‘Au Macumba, Macumba’; ‘Moi aussi, j’irai là-bas’ – until silence finally falls. Until Hermann takes advantage of the break, gets out his violin, and strikes up with his bow before anyone has time to stop him, wresting from it notes of sorrow and passion.

He plays well, you have to admit. Even if we don’t immediately recognise the tune. It’s Maria-Chjara who works it out first. She sings the words to ‘Forever Young’ and, this time, everyone falls silent. It sounds as if he and Chjara have spent the whole summer rehearsing.

Chjara’s voice and Hermann’s violin rise softly towards heaven. No one speaks. There are times when words fail even the most gifted of writers. I just wish you could have been there, listening to Hermann’s violin weeping and Maria-Chjara’s voice consoling it.

It’s ridiculous, but when songs, even stupid songs about love, are sung well, they make you shiver, even if you’re wearing a Back in Black T-shirt.

Nicolas, a good musician, has let his guitar drop to the sand. Aurélia lacks his class; she stares at the German and the Italian with the eyes of a jealous little police cadet who dearly wishes that she could lock them up for disturbing the peace, exceeding the permitted number of heartbeats per minute, and the lack of a seatbelt in their rocket to the Milky Way. She darts loving glances at Nicolas, but there’s no danger of my clumsy brother catching any of them.

There they go, the last notes on the violin disappear into infinity, and then it’s over.

Everyone applauds.

Forever young.

They know that’s over too.

Hermann is sensitive enough to stop there, and go back to the circle, taking the hand of Aurélia, who takes the hand of Cervone and so on. Nicolas makes big eyes at me and I know why, I’ve been given a Cinderella pass and I’ve already disobeyed it. I have to add that I wasn’t granted a visit from my fairy godmother before the ball, just a threat from Mama Palma:

Bed, midnight!

I reluctantly head back towards the campsite, leaving the little men and the little women three years older than me to their utopia. The last image I have as I leave the beach is that of the circle scattering like confetti, usually in pairs. Aurélia’s hand in Hermann’s. Maria-Chjara’s head resting on Nicolas’s shoulder. Cervone surrounded by Tess and Candy.