Jonny McCambridge: Tales from my travels in Italy – mosquito attacks and capsizing the kayak

I, on the other hand, am a perspiring, sunburnt mess. It is unfortunate to note that my T-shirt is damp and clinging to my bowling ball belly. I am slathered in layers of sunblock cream which combines with sweat to create a running milky liquid which stings my eyes.

If one of the ambitions of international travel is to blend in with the locals, then I have failed miserably.

But worse is to come. There are few things more certain in this world than that every mosquito within 100 miles of the Mediterranean fasts for 11-and- a-half months of the year while waiting for my arrival.

The little blood-suckers enjoy nothing more than sinking their fangs into my pale, pasty flesh. I am not certain about their domestic arrangements but I’m pretty sure there’s a picture of me in every mosquito house.

This year I try to avoid the inevitable. I spray on so much insect repellent that a cloud of mist surrounds me. For a few nights I am bite free. I allow my hopes to rise. It is a fool’s gold.

I awaken on the fourth morning and alert my wife.

“I think I’ve got a bite...no, actually I’ve got 24.”

A mosquito bite is an itchy nuisance, but in normal circumstances is nothing more. This is not normal. Through the day the areas around the bites swell to become hugely inflamed red blotches. As I go to bed that night my skin is beginning to blister.

I awake the following morning to the most horrific of sights. My legs are covered in ugly puss-filled sickly yellow boils (I do have photographs, but am sparing you). I am rushed to the pharmacist.

When I tell the chemist why I’m there she automatically reaches for the relief cream I’ve already been using. I suggest something stronger. She asks to see a bite. I pull up my trouser leg.

“Mamma Mia!” she declares in shock.

For a moment I’m concerned that she might faint or even vomit. She recovers some poise and gives me a box of tablets. In her broken English she tells me to take one every 24 hours and to stop after five days. There are 10 tablets in the box. I put my trust in her wisdom.

I try to throw myself into holiday activities to distract from the maddening itch of the bites. I spend a lot of time in the swimming pool cooling my burnt and inflamed skin. My wife warns me not to go to the deep end as I am not a competent swimmer.

Our week of activities includes a kayaking trip in the Tyrrhenian Sea. My son enjoyed kayaking once on a school outing and we later went as a family on little boats on a lake in Wales.

The wrinkly Italian man who runs the business asks us if we’ve ever kayaked in the ocean. We tell him we’ve done it in fresh water and he shakes his head and says this is very different.

I expect this to be the prelude to a detailed health and safety briefing. I am wrong. We are given life jackets and a small three-seater boat and are pushed off. Before I’ve got reacquainted with the mechanics of operating a kayak, we are bobbing up and down.

There is a small harbour and we have to navigate our way around some fishing boats to get to the open sea. I notice that a little boat is approaching from the left so I try to manoeuvre our tiny vessel away from it. Perhaps I shift my weight in that direction because the kayak lilts to the right and then quickly overturns.

It takes me a moment to understand what is happening. The fact that my head is in the water, my ass is stuck under a capsized plastic boat and my legs are flailing in the air quickly bring me to my senses.

My first thought is for the safety of my wife and son. My second thought is that my wife and son are good swimmers. My third thought is that I can barely swim a stroke.

I see that my son has clambered onto another boat. My wife is swimming for shore. Using my recent memories of watching the Olympics I begin making an imitation of a breaststroke motion.

There is a lot of effort, a heck of a lot of splashing, plenty of gasping and wailing and a considerable consumption of salt water. However, not much distance is covered.

It feels like I’ve been swimming for hours. My life jacket has come loose and I am now wearing it as some sort of unfashionable hat. My arms and legs are aching and I’m running out of breath. I have to face the terrifying fact, I’m not sure I’m going to make it. I think of my family, of the good times.

“Save yourselves!” I roar. ”Just leave me!”

I hear my wife.

“What are you doing? You can walk from there.”

My exhausted legs sink to the bottom of the sea. The depth of the sea is just a few feet feet. When I stand up my belly is above the water. A small group of curious Italians and tourists have gathered at the shore and watch bemused as I stagger and slop my way onto dry land.

I see my son now at the beach. He is entirely nonchalant about the experience of being shipwrecked. I notice how his arms are tanned brown, not red and peeling like mine, how his legs are completely free of insect bites, how his life jacket fits and how he is not gasping for air. Sitting there he could easily pass off as a local.

“Daddy”, he says. “This is the best holiday ever.”