I’m back from a verdant idyll, darlings, and it has got some screaming hot buys. I’m thinking long run. No, that’s not a contradiction. Let me explain.

Unspoiled redwood forest. That’s what it is. Soaring eagles unafraid of human intrusion, humming birds, ocean inlets with rocky promontories on which sea lions bask, pools of perch, enough wind to catch the sails of your blue water boat and shady marinas with all the mod cons. And sweet water springs. Enough ferry traffic to run in supplies, but woefully inadequate for the jangling tourist. Four hours by boat from the nearest city or a few minutes by single engine seaplane, the seaplane that costs about the same as a car and lands snug up against your dock. You won’t believe, loves, how easy it is to fly a single-prop. I’ve done it myself and I’m a disaster when it comes to mechanical things.

This is a place to live. That’s why it’s an investment for the long run. Your neighbours watch your house while you’re away and you look after theirs. Homes are invisible behind the screen of winding forest paths. You don’t see a soul unless you want to. If someone is in Europe or South America, why, you meander their turf. You keep a general eye out, as they say. And property values hover a steady 30% behind the other fingers of shoreline, because truckers can’t invade. There’s no traffic. You can’t beg, borrow, or steal properties. You have to befriend oldsters who don’t have children and hope they bequeath you their five bedroom. Otherwise it’s hopeless.

The downside? There must be one. You have to like rain, for example. I mean warm rain, the kind that pitter patters outside the 360 window while you read snug and curled up with a cup of hot chocolate listening to the stereo. Warm so you don’t mind the walk to your skiff or seaplane to pick up your ex-spouses and their current dreadful mistakes. (We’re in the 21st century. We must be civilized.) Despite the rain, it’s bright enough to run electricity off the solar panels. We follow the green laws here. We separate different kinds of garbage and re-use whatever we can. Nothing goes to waste. Nobody minds, because everyone does it. There’s no feeling of sacrifice or pity me. Oh, and everyone is screaming rich in the nicest, politest way. You can get a tiny 20 acre for under a million and simply live on it the rest of your days.

A friend invited me for a couple of weeks. Did I describe Lance to you? Well, that’s for another time. Treated me like royalty. Didn’t have to lift a finger. Though I did, of course.

Especially the math. I did the math on the third evening. A work-up. Say I place a million in someone’s hands who sees to these little things. Someone who ensures that an elderly person loves me enough to deed me their lovely house. What do I need in the bank to add a few persimmons and radicchios to the mix? Is it just a contribution to Lance’s seaplane and the cost of a holiday or two? No, thinks I. There’ll be a quarrel. Permanent pals, however agreeable they are, have fierce arguments. Lance is the perfect gentleman, but experience says it’s safer to stay a separate person.

Don’t think I’m not tempted. The pressure of fashion and keeping up - what can I say? - lies sometimes like acid on the tum-tum. But the math was all wrong, or I’m too young, or Lance isn’t Mr Right. Maybe he put something in my coffee and I didn’t think clearly. So there’s this little piece of paradise, my friends, available for nothing. Perfect as a second home, a third, or even a first. One day a horrible person will pave some road and values will soar. You’ll make a fortune, I’m telling you. But first you have to guess where this is. Think about it carefully. If you’re clever you’ll find the spot. Goodness knows I’ve given you clues.

Till next time. Love you.