From Paul Iredale.

WHEN I was young, my mum taught me never to travel without a ball of string. She would have been horrified to learn that in this paranoid modern world of ours, her advice might be construed as incitement to terrorism.

Watching the kiters at Greve d’Azette the other week, I asked my 16-year-old son to bring a particularly good one over from our garage in London when he flew in to join us on holiday.

He arrived with the kite in his backpack, minus the string. A BAA security official at Gatwick had insisted it be cut off the kite and confiscated, he told me, because he might use it to strangle someone on the plane.

Oh dear. How sad. Perhaps we will all have to learn to travel with our eyes downcast, because if looks could kill …

Maison Victor Hugo, Grève d’Azette, St Clement.

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