across to Samos but the sea has a life of its own. I watched it surge up on the west side of the island, biting at the shore. I’d want to stay close to land and I’d want those ranks of oars and fifty Argonauts – or an outboard or two – to keep me off the rocks. Even with the water blue as the cloudless sky it rages and churns. It’s calmer over at Faros where we’re staying, you can step over the pebbles and float out but where the island stops the wind bursts through and the sea comes bolting into the strait, slicing white along the peaks. I went walking the track between the thyme clumps on that headland, with the early morning sun lighting a path to shame Apollo. And my mind is full of dreams of gods and wine and boats.