I got off the plane in Algiers and readied myself for a peaceful holiday. The marketplace I visited first was full of the tradesman I had only seen in films, selling wares so exotic and fine-smelling I was almost enticed to buy. Myrrh smells filled the air, the fumes rising under the barbaric midday sun.

Dragging my single suitcase to the beach found me staring dumbfound at perfect blue ocean brushing against the purest sand. I found my little cave at the end of the beach; the one I had scoured the coast for in my few breaks on the last hectic business trip.

I set myself up, hanging a make-shift curtain over the cave entrance and arranging my books in a suitable reading order. I was ready for the calm. No seagulls haunted the soundwaves like on the Cornwall beaches – instead, the air was filled with sound of wave running over wave, soothing all the aches out of my body.

I looked out over the sunset, and readied myself for two weeks of pure and unadulterated bliss.
Heaven was nigh.