The sound of water is everywhere here… in the mist as it sprinkles my face, the tinkling scale of a xylophone tapping on large and small puddles, sprayed in sheets of raindrops against the cottage, thrust against Haystack Rock by 50-mile-an-hour gusts, and in the gentle gurgling of a small fountain just outside my door.

With all this water, how is it possible that I feel thirsty?