Majorca had allowed me to grab some serenity and calm. The islands temperate climate, alluring food and welcoming people, are just what the doctor would order and works wonders for my body which is ravaged by Multiple Sclerosis and has confined me to a wheelchair.

I’ve lived with the disease for many years, fighting it to the hilt- that’s my right of passage. I like to be in its face as hiding from disability achieves nothing. I get around on a hand-cycle and whenever possible use a Beach wheelchair on holiday, so I can swim in the sea. Both are great foils for educating people that life is for living and they always act as a brilliant ice breaker.

At the same time, I’m acutely aware of my limitations. Having first noticed signs of the disease in my early twenties – my left leg started to drag, it’s been a fighting retreat ever since. It’s got to a stage now, where if I go down, I rarely get up un-aided and often need help on mundane tasks such as dressing and washing.

I suppose things could have turned out differently, but you play the hand you are dealt. Luckily l’ve never found a glass big enough to contain my enthusiasm for life.

We’d elected to stay in a bouteique hotel on the east coast, we’d seen the year before. Opposite the beach it was perfect, comprising a lovely courtyard, dotted with crimson and white flowers, tasteful plants and blessed with constant sunshine.

Unforseen circumstances had forced me into action immediately on arrival – The room was to small for my wheelchair. The situation could have detioriated into vitriol and recriminations but simple negotiation and compromise with Pablo, the cigar chomping manager paid dividends.

In the past similar hotel encounters, sometimes need a bit of ‘blighty’ and ‘we’re here because we’re here lad’ attitude, but it’s awkward. My disability always puts me at a disadvantage, so it’s important to play the role of the ‘plucky Englander’ with decency and responsibility as the benefits can be rewarding.

The resulting offer from Pablo of an all-inclusive deal on food and drink and a more accessible room, had us happily high fiving one another and me heading off to the Bar for a hard earned beer.

I’d didn’t take long to get to know the hotel staff. Most were local or Argentinian, their English far superior to my pigeon Spanish.They were constantly busy. Georgeo the barman, who looked like Rafa Beneitez, was always on the move, serving guests, a mix of German, French and other Europeans. Most of whom just seemed to traverse between the hotel and beach opposite for the day.

My daily excursions in and out of the sea, meant I was soon on nodding terms with most of them. The use of the beach wheelchair is always a bit of a show as I’d requre assistance to use it, but my arrival on the beach, would always attract a league of nations willing to help. It was comforting, re-affirming my faith in the human race.

At the same time, I knew I was giving something back. It takes a little soul to man that hill day every day and that garners respect and helps to resonate a feeling that every mountain can be conquered. As I floated in the warm mediterranean sea, I mused that the friendships created on holiday were just extensions of kinship back home and in a wider context the EU itself. All of us had a pivotal part to play, maintaining the ethos, core and balance of the group.

Over the next week, when I wasn’t being pulled in and out of the sea, I settled down to read the Hollow Crown, a facinating insight into the War of the Roses by Dan Jones. The book charts a disastrous period of English foreign policy – we were getting thrown out of Europe…again,  and the country was on its knees because of the internal in-fighting of the landed interest.

Reading it was like being stuck in a time warp. Besides of the sacking of France, and other mischevious acts of piracy, still performed on a regular basis by our football fans and Bankers, it was though the Grand old Duke of York gallavanting around, chaos bound 500 years previously, had been replaced by the Earl of Boris on his battle bus, harking on about ‘Independence Day’. It was all rather disturbing.

In the circumstances I found myself questioning why Europe hadn’t already thrown us out before the referendum, as I watched a tattoo festoned British couple, brazenly trying to score dope of the lifeguard, before being ushered towards the nearby town.