Having this morning killed around 30 flies in this village gite in the middle of winter, I’m not sure I’d relish being here in summer. Too many farms. Too much manure. But, as all the doors and windows are shut, where on earth are they coming from? Are they being born inside the house and dying on the same day? Within the same hour? Clearly, Spain is not the only mystery of life.

And here’s another one – Why do my daughters sleep until at least 10.30 every morning and then complain we’re not spending enough time together? Is it merely because they’re from Venus and I’m from Mars?

And something else that’s been troubling me . . . Why is the fridge in this place called Silence Plus? What lies beyond silence? A question which, presumably, has never been asked in the history of Spain.

Which reminds me . . . As we entered the restaurant for lunch today, my sister asked if we could eat in the upstairs room. “But, Madame” said the waiter, raising his eyeballs, “There are children up there”. If so, they must have had their tongues cut out and their bums glued to their seats for we heard no evidence to support this contention during our entire three hour meal.

Incidentally, my sister commented on the skill of the waiter in taking our order of four first and second courses without recourse to a single note. But my admiration promptly vanished when my duck came heavily disguised as a sirloin steak.

As if the non-availability of the internet were not enough, my mobile phone has no cover here. Which is rather ironic as my provider, Orange, is a subsidiary of France Telecom. I wonder if this company is as well-loved here as Telefónica is in Spain.

Finally . . . I was interested to read today that the what awaits Islamic terrorists in Heaven may turn out to be something rather different from sloe-eyed virgins. Recent Koranic studies suggest the word ‘hur’ - while being ‘houri’ in Arabic - means ‘white raisins’ in Syriac. As Francis Whelan has written, “Imagine the disappointment of a suicide bomber who arrives in heaven expecting a bevy of gorgeous maidens - ‘chaste as hidden pearls’- only to be offered a bowl of dried grapes instead. Once can but hope. And pray that the news somehow trickles back.