The first time I met Sinclair was in a cheap hostel full of nature-lovers, new-age softheads and people in their fifties who still acted as if they were twelve. One big happy family it was indeed. All the visitors could use the communal kitchen (pasta, pasta, pasta, the occasional rice with ketchup, and loads of omelets) or sit in the garden and discuss world peace. The hostel was placed next to a lake, in a green valley with sheep on the hills, flowers in the fields and butterflies in the outhouse toilet facility.
I don’t remember how and why I ended up there, but then, I honestly never understood anything about holidays anyway. One suffers airports, crowded buses and expensive taxis in order to sleep in tiny beds with dirty sheets, eat food that upsets the stomach, talk languages that upsets the throat and visit putrid museums, desolate harbours and meaningless monuments. Still, it is supposed to be good for you, and who am I to protest, so each summer I dutifully pick another dreadful location for a dreadlock holiday and hope for the best.