It was Clea who first discovered the little island of Narouz. “Where has this sprung from?” she asked with astonishment; her brown wrist swung the cutter’s tiller hard over and carried us fluttering down into its lee. The granite boulder was tall enough for a windbreak. It made a roundel of still blue water in the combing tides. On the landward side there as a crude N carved in the rock above an old eroded iron ring which, with a stern anchor out to brace her, served as a secure mooring. It would be ridiculous to speak of stepping ashore for the “shore” consisted of a narrow strip of dazzling white pebbles no larger than a fireplace. “Yes, it is, it is Narouz’ island” she cried, beside herself with delight at the discovery — for here at last was a place where she could fully indulge her taste for solitude. Here one would be as private as a seabird. The beach faced landward. One could see the whole swaying line of the coast with its ruined Martello towers and dunes traveling away to ancient Taposiris. We unpacked our provisions with delight for here we could swim naked and sunbathe to our heart’s content without interruption.