![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Fine white beach sand is good in itself. Being calmingly massaged with scented oils is also good in itself. The combination is, umm, vigorously exfoliating.
Having a fishpond just outside your hotel-room door is good and calming in itself. The calming sound of distant amorous frogs croaking at night is thoroughly pleasant. When the frogs are in the fishpond, sleep is less straighforward than one might hope.
I think I have figured out how to relax, with the secrets including a swimming pool, and REALLY DREADFUL thrillers such that you do not feel worried to get the edges wet or drop the book in the pool. Waiting for the sun to go down and walking miles on the wet sand along the beach also helps. Yesterday, I had (alcoholic; they do very nice bellinis, and the best kir ever, with champagne, cassis and crushed blackcurrants) dinner (spaghetti carbonara with wafer-thin truffle slice; pan-fried goats cheese with rocket shaved pear) at Ku Dé Ta, an appallingly-named but very fancy restaurant on the beach.
They have a couple of bright theatre lights pointing out to sea to show up the white foam on the waves (as well as exceedingly cheesy uplighters on the palm trees); to my slight surprise, these also showed up large numbers of bats flying along, sometimes three or four at a time, on batlike wings at wave-top height.
The quantum theory of small grey Balinese crabs will have to wait until I've got the photos up; they make amazing target-like patterns in little balls of sand around their holes on the flat parts of the beach.
Having a fishpond just outside your hotel-room door is good and calming in itself. The calming sound of distant amorous frogs croaking at night is thoroughly pleasant. When the frogs are in the fishpond, sleep is less straighforward than one might hope.
I think I have figured out how to relax, with the secrets including a swimming pool, and REALLY DREADFUL thrillers such that you do not feel worried to get the edges wet or drop the book in the pool. Waiting for the sun to go down and walking miles on the wet sand along the beach also helps. Yesterday, I had (alcoholic; they do very nice bellinis, and the best kir ever, with champagne, cassis and crushed blackcurrants) dinner (spaghetti carbonara with wafer-thin truffle slice; pan-fried goats cheese with rocket shaved pear) at Ku Dé Ta, an appallingly-named but very fancy restaurant on the beach.
They have a couple of bright theatre lights pointing out to sea to show up the white foam on the waves (as well as exceedingly cheesy uplighters on the palm trees); to my slight surprise, these also showed up large numbers of bats flying along, sometimes three or four at a time, on batlike wings at wave-top height.
The quantum theory of small grey Balinese crabs will have to wait until I've got the photos up; they make amazing target-like patterns in little balls of sand around their holes on the flat parts of the beach.
