Lake Malawi: a fine memory.

A boat lying at anchor in the bay, her rigging reaching effortlessly into the apricot skies of early morning, and hardly a ripple on the water. A low murmur of voices rises in the quietness. Three dugout canoes are paddled towards the beach through the light mists sitting on the face of the lake and men jump from them into the water to drag them up onto the sand. They unload their catches of fish; women appear from the bushes with straw baskets on their heads. The fish are soon spread out on mats to dry and I watch the scene from behind the fallen tree where I slept the night before.

A spring morning in the Mournes. Or the Italian Alps or wherever you fancy.

It's good to crawl out of a tent into the freshness of a new spring morning. Birds have beaten you to it of course and are kicking up a din somewhere off in the forest or along the edge on the lake. The sky is still kind of dark over in the west, bruised and purple looking above the water and the mountains but to the east the sun's radiance precedes it into a baby blue sky that's streaked with wisps of apricot clouds. There's no-one about for miles and the air is stained with the scent of the pine trees that grow almost down to the water's edge. You leave the tent and charge across the grass to throw yourself into the frigid, still waters of the lake and come out a few minutes later breathless, blue, teeth chattering and skin taut, and feeling more alive then ever before.