Is it possible, or even acceptable, to feel the same grief for the loss of a favourite place – or holiday location – than for a person? I’d say yes, because people divide pretty much equally into two camps when it comes to the summer hols. There are those who love trying out new and different places, and then there are bores like myself, and my wife, who like returning to the same place every year. Same beach. Same menus. Same ice creams. Same pale rosé. Same owners. Same crowd.   

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In my case, I’m talking about Paloma Beach in Saint-Jean-Cap-Ferrat on the French Riviera. For I find myself suffering from a bad case of ‘holiday grief’, or Paradise Lost Syndrome. Recently, I learned that my most beloved destination – where I have been going with parents, girlfriends, would-be fiancées, actual fiancées and wives (three) for over 35 years – has just shut down for good.   

The mourning began in the recent London heatwave after I began receiving emails about dress codes being relaxed (‘Members are not required to wear ties …’). As the mercury nudged up 36 per cent, simply taking off a jacket, or tie, wasn’t going to help much.  

Immersion in water was needed. Not a London lido like the Serpentine but the warm and familiar turquoise blue sea of the Mediterranean. Literary critic Raymond Mortimer once described reading Evelyn Waugh’s polished prose ‘as like looking at the clear pebbles in crystalline water.’ That was what I craved diving into. One of the many things that made Paloma Beach so perfect was its little wooden jetty........

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