When I was here, some years ago Kovalam was an idyll: a picture perfect tropical beach; a traditional fishing village providing fresh fish, fruits and toddy. We stayed for a month with a fisherman’s family in an “extra” room made from woven coconut fibre that they had added to their beach-side home. It was safe and secure with no need for locks on the doors or bars on the windows (openings no glass). Air-conditioning was effectively the breeze blowing through the loose fixed wall panels. We were on the middle beach, Hawah. The early morning was a buzz of activities with fishermen setting out for sea in dug-out canoes almost capsizing with the volume of nets. Others would wade out into the shallow sea with nets that would then be hauled back by teams of men on the sandy shore. The crescent-shaped bay of calm azure water created a unique aquarelle on moonlit nights with a magical, diamond filled, bottle-blue tropical sky.

A counterbalancing memory that I have is of groups of women and children sitting in the intense sun, in small quarries behind the beach, breaking rocks in to small road-stone and carrying basket loads on their heads to fill waiting trucks. India is full of these agony and ecstasy images side by side. It’s travel like this that shows, or reminds, us just how lucky we are to be able to roam the world so freely.