They were the colour of the sun. Or, rather, the colours: dancing in the steamy heat next to a deserted waterfall, they seemed to have soaked up its every tone and mood — the pale lemon of morning, the fierce yellow-white of midday, the livid burnt orange of sunset, all picked out against the green vegetation. Like little pairs of magically animated flower petals, they flirted and flitted in an intricate ballet. It’s worth coming to the Dominican Republic just for the butterflies.

The effect of the clean air of South Africa, and the heat and the light and the sumptuous landscape, was instant. Gone was the cough, back was the energy, and there was virtually no jet lag; it was as though I’d somehow wandered through the back of the wardrobe and found the antithesis of London waiting for me there. The dirty grey bowl that hangs over our capital in winter was replaced by a dome of blue sky during the day and stars at night. What is more, everyone speaks English and drives on the left- hand side of the road. It’s a glorious alternative reality.

In Jamaica, even dominoes is a drama. “It’s a man’s game, dominoes,” a cab driver tells me. “They’re so loud, man, you can hear them slappin’ the table a mile away”. The weather is equally theatrical, with the raw sun tempered by sudden rainstorms and the sky putting on a pageant every morning and every night.