Well, we publishers have to put up with the stresses of jetting around the world for meetings with our sensitive authors. The retiring Mr Paul Hogan insisted that the only place we could meet was on an Andalucian riverbank, so I had no choice but to comply.
In between our high-powered talks we sight-fished, casting nymphs for beautiful gypsy barbel - I even caught one on a dry fly.
Then Ceri dragged me off to sample the depravities (or at least the tapas) of Malaga. She couldn't understand why the highpoint for me was finding the corpse of a greater spotted cuckoo in the cathedral garden.
A four-hour delay on the plane journey home at least meant that I got some proof-reading done.
... and now I'm off to Ireland.