the beach resort

We drove out of Baku and along the coast of the Abseron peninsular. We passed endless oil fields full of nodding donkeys which were desolate as a lunar landscape, and oddly primitive, ramshackle and untidy. I had expected large scale, efficient factories, but these fields seemed to lack any organisation or unity at all. Nature was painfully absent - there was almost a cruelty to the callous ravaging of the earth's resources.

The road, which in the city resembled the tarmac-ed and painted streets I am used to, petered out to a virtually unmarked highway the further we went, and once we had turned off the main road, it was no more than pot-holed track. The beach itself was obviously, from the tyre marks, a recognised route for vehicles.

The land on this part of the coast had been sold in parcels and walled off to give visual boundaries to the rectilinear patches of sand, one day to be smart new holiday villas. It must have looked like a vast crossword grid from the sky, though not a very neat one.

Further along the dusty empty route we passed a vast billionaire's dacha, walled in with high security, its space-aged architectural bulk crouched gleaming in the sun. It was a perfect blue-print for Dr.Evil's lair. Yet it was so incongruous in its isolated splendour - outside the walls scraps of rubbish built up on the kerb and a peasant on a donkey cajoled his six goats along with a twig. I suppose that there is not a great deal of choice for Russians wanting a seaside residence and Azerbaijan is clearly the place where money can be quickly made at the moment.

The beach club, as everywhere, was deserted, little toadstool seats on the sand and a childrens playground left to the elements - despite the fact that the weather was a good as any Brit could hope for in August.

A protracted lunch punctuated by toasts and swigs of vodka took us to sunset.