SO there I was, lying on top of a Canary Island wall, with the Atlantic rollers crashing on to the black sand beach 15 feet below, with a noise like a tipper wagon unloading bricks.

Given my track record for self-inflicted mayhem, Mrs Hextol was convinced I would doze off, and topple over the edge of the wall to a messy fate on the pointy rocks below, but as the sun was blazing down, I insisted that I had to lie flat to expose my pasty person to Ra.

I was lying on the wall because the beach itself had been sealed off by men in hi-viz jackets, engaged in laying a pipeline, although in the four hours we were there, there was no sign of anyone actually wielding a shovel or indeed, doing anything more energetic than waving their arms around or jabbing each other vigorously in the chest with stiff fingers.

Mrs Hextol felt fisticuffs were imminent, but I deduced that they were actually discussing Barcelona’s surprise exit from the Champions League, and what they would have done about it.

It is surprising how many football experts actually fill in their time by digging holes or driving taxis.

As I soaked up the rays, I allowed myself to marvel at the irrational behaviour of the vast majority of people who choose to go on holiday via aeroplane.

Gone are the days when you booked your holiday at the travel agents, and waited impatiently for that magical envelope stuffed with tickets and luggage labels to arrive through the post.

Now everything is done online, and thanks to a cynical marketing ploy by the holiday companies, you have to pay extra to be sure your journey to the sun is spent in the company of your loved one, rather than that extravagantly-tattooed gentleman you spotted swilling Special Brew in the departure lounge.

So when most people arrive at the airport, they already have their boarding cards, complete with their seat numbers; why then is there such a stampede and jostlefest when the flight is called?

They know where they are sitting; their seat is numbered and lettered, yet they still batter their way to the front of the queue with swinging hand luggage to triumphantly get their seat – and then mutter darkly as the last stragglers clamber aboard.

It’s the same when the captain switches the seat belt lights on. It’s like the grid at Le Mans as passengers perch on the edge of their seats, keen to slip that buckle and grab the hand luggage which appears to contain a three piece suite from the overhead lockers.

More pushing and shoving ensues, as everyone tries to ensure that no-one gets more time in foreign sunshine than them, and there is more posturing at the luggage carousel, as families annex large sections of the turntable to make sure they get their cases first.

It does not occur to them that no-one is going anywhere until the last person gets their luggage stowed on the coach.

Children seem to be allowed free access to the carousel in most airports, some riding round with the cases as their carers smile indulgently, and others simply getting in the way when you spot your case sailing serenely by, just out of reach because of the swarms of children.

I always try to give the little dears a bit of a nudge with the sharp corner of my case as a gentle reminder that they should steer clear of the carousel when I am around.

My wall top musings also took in the pointlessness of the aeroplane safety drill I have seen at least 200 times, and the likelihood of someone hearing my feeble whistle and seeing my TocH light in a sea full of burning wreckage.

Then there’s the cost cutting by the airlines, who have done away with those little drop down tellies, free meals and hot towels.

And if the pilot is going to make an announcement about that interesting city or island we are passing over, he should do so without sounding as though he is speaking through a hubble bubble pipe.

My reveries were brought to an abrupt conclusion when I rolled over in my semi-conscious state and fell off the wall.

Happily it was on the 18 inch side rather than the 15 foot side, but people did come scurrying from quite a distance to pick me up, as Mrs Hextol disappeared into the distance, her shoulders shaking merrily.