From Hell to Paradise: From a Somali Rooftop to Hvar

It's over. It's finished. And now the rest of my life can really begin. I sipped once more from the glass of juniper, my mind relaxing more at the thought that I was finally free. To my right, the call to prayer from the local mosque, challenged only by some bleating goats and exuberant children.

For a country with a reputation as one of the world's most dangerous, the Somali rooftop calm at sunset was an unexpected bonus. A gin and tonic in isolated tranquillity was the perfect end to a demanding working day, and the news in the incoming email that our house in England had finally sold, so that I could finally stop dreaming and make some concrete plans as to where to base my books and future life, made the peacefulness more rewarding still.

Glass empty, I went downstairs for a refill, keen to put some solid thought into where I might move my permanent base. My colleagues - Kenyans, Sudanese, Ugandans - were engrossed in private conversation and games of Scrabble. In the background, the sound of CNN, the only foreign channel we could receive.

Having heard the news several times already, I didn't pay too much attention but, as I was pouring the tonic, an advert appeared that entranced me. Turquoise waters, stunning stone towns, great wine, awesome food.

Croatia: The Mediterranean as it Once Was.

My mind was made up. Croatia would be my new home, a cheeky stone cottage somewhere close to the sea. My remote piece of Paradise, somewhere to keep my books, a haven in between aid contracts, and a chance to start again, fresh from the painful divorce.

I returned to the rooftop, fortified by gin and a new resolve, to find the perfect pad in Croatia. Life begins at 32.

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