Refreshing, sun-blocked, some-earth-some-grass glade. Running round a terra cotta, waking lake. Far flung from where most of you (ad)venture. Swimmers tumble rough in the eddy, while dancers bop and bump around the plank-wood stage. The bush-meat pepper-soup bubbles in a cauldron under a mahogany tree, not five feet from the palm-wine ‘pulpit’. Huddled close are fish and rice and loads of fantasy foods. Holidaying here is far lovelier than Accra.