In a former incarnation I used to get up, have a light breakfast, jump on the bike and cycle over to Tooting Bec Lido where I'd swim anything up to a mile before getting out.
I'd then continue breakfast at the poolside cafe or with things I'd taken along myself.
This was the summer time idyll.
All that came to mind when I woke up on Friday at the Busua Inn. I got out of bed, put on my trunks and took a dip in the ocean before returning to the inn's terrace for coffee and toast.
It's all so simple. Sea, splash, relax. And I'm to the manor born.
I followed the same pattern this morning and I can safely say that it would take quite a while for me to become bored with this regime.
It's probably just as well that my ticket back to Paris is for Sunday evening.
I head to Takoradi in a couple of hours for the four hour coach ride to Accra.
I'm not looking forward to that. But with any amount of joy there must be suffering.
And have I been joyous.
Busua is a zone as yet unspoilt. The beach stretches on and on. The fishermen cast their nets into the sea of a morning and heave them in as a synchronised unit of muscle.
The hotel/restaurant looks out onto the sea and that is the main sound. It was difficult to be churlish about the cock crowing or the reggae pounding out this morning.
That is the vibe.
Three weeks of football, three days on the beach. The structural incompetence of the tournament seems so far away.
As a place to work, Ghana has been a nightmarish gridlock of perceptions. But when time can melt into the distance, it is a dream.