It was a miserable day in early spring; April, to be precise. For a week or more the wind had blown steadily from the north-east, bringing with it low, scudding clouds that from time to time precipitated a cold drizzle on the long-suffering pedestrians who had to go about their business regardless of the weather.<br />The interior of my study-cum-sitting-room, cosy though it unquestionably was, began to pall, and I was at my wits&rsquo; end to know where to look for distraction. &ldquo;Oh, to be in England now that April&rsquo;s there,&rdquo; sang the poet&mdash;and took jolly good care to keep out of it. Obviously, he was a shrewd fellow. The thought struck me, why should I not follow him to the sunny blue skies of the Mediterranean? Yes, that was the thing to do. I would go and see about booking a passage right away.