It's always good to have a bit of minor medical drama while on holiday – something to talk about during the slide show evenings back home – and, so, I broke my tooth on a hidden chicken bone in the best paella I've ever eaten, on a beach just outside Malaga. 

It was a Sunday and, with a mouth full of a traumatically indistinguishable mix of bone and tooth, I started to panic but, this being Spain with a wonderful health service, my equally wonderful brother-in-law was able to make a couple of phone calls and, within an hour, have me sitting in a dentist's chair having my dental defences repaired while listening to Queen (the – German, as it turned out – dentist's favourite band because, she claimed, Freddie Mercury trained to be a dentist before becoming an operatic rock Mary. Which in terms of 'physician heal thyself'-style professional neglect, would be akin to Hank Marvin turning out to have been an optician. I'm rambling now, aren't I?).

Anyway, here is the culprit:

More happily, we got to stay at my sister's olive farm, and try her delicious olive oil (you can rent the house, by the way – an hour north of Malaga. Email me for details!)

Promised to mention, it has a pool. And fig trees. And prickly pears. And walnuts.

And, more importantly, it's within striking distance of the amazing beach-front seafood restaurants east of Malaga:

The Malaganese (is that a word?) are masters of charcoal grilling and deep frying, which makes me wonder if there is some long forgotten trade route from southern Spain to Japan…