My first trip to Corsica in May nearly ended in tears. Patrick Garland, my longstanding boyfriend, had asked me to stay at his little house in a mountain village to the north of the island. The prospect was particularly exciting as I had been led to believe that the holiday would not be a mere romantic tryst but of permanent significance.
Imagine my horror, therefore, when we touched down in alarming gale-force winds and then for five days were buffeted on top of the mountain until I felt as though we were participating in Wuthering Heights. The house shook to its foundations, the rain lashed horizontally at the windows, any views were permanently obscured by the clouds and I wanted to go home.
Corsica is one of those rare places where you can swim in the warm sea and ski on crisp snow within a matter of hours. Thus, as we drove upwards round sheer mountain bends, the snow grew thicker. Finally we left the car, climbed to the snow-covered summit in bright sunlight and Patrick pulled a ring out of his pocket and said: 'Will you marry me? Shortly after we married in December , Patrick became the artistic director of the Chichester Festival Theatre. In fact, he was to be its longest-serving director, running it successfully and profitably for nine years.
The only problem during that period was that the theatre's festival season and Corsica's summer season coincided-May until October. We tried various unsuccessful late holidays: Morocco had unseasonal torrential rain, Hong Kong and Singapore suffered early monsoons and in Malaysia I contracted intestinal parasites which, despite endless tests by various doctors, went undiagnosed for seven months until a specialist at London's Tropical Disease Hospital came to my rescue.
The experience turned me off exotic climes for quite a while and Corsica-whatever the time of year-became the only holiday I would countenance other than a health farm.
