Love in a hot climate

In 1956, I was flying to Kenya to cover Princess Margaret’s tour of East Africa. First stop, Marseilles for lunch. By chance I was seated next to a charming young woman who was returning to Kenya after a long home leave. Polite chat, no more.

Next stop, Cairo. I found a very comfortable armchair in the lounge. A female voice came from behind a magazine: “Six months ago, in that very chair, sat the man I adore.”

“Well, that is a coincidence. May I ask who he is?”

The blonde bombshell

A mysterious beauty takes a shine to a young soldier

A girls’ trip away ...

Two girlfriends on holiday got closer than they ever imagined

The fleeting charms of a frat boy

A teenage fling faded once the summer ended

Sexual healing in Florence

A young widow's chance encounter sets her on the road to recovery

The holiday romance never forgotten

A reader has remembered her holiday embrace with an older man for 40 years

Related Links

• Reliving holiday romances and first love

No answer. I moved closer. She put down the magazine. I felt her desperation to talk about her pent-up feelings to this total stranger, whom she would never see again.

“He is adorable, an Egyptologist, 74 years old.” She, it transpired, was 26. “I wanted his baby, but he can’t get a divorce, the scandal you know. I don’t think I can bear it . . . my life in the bush . . ”

And so on. She was married to a district officer.

I did not see her at our next stop in Wadi Halfa, but I began to be very curious about the identity of the lucky man who had managed to charm and seduce this intelligent, lovely woman. Overnight stop was Khartoum. Night falls very early in Africa; by 6pm it’s pitch dark. We had separate accommodation: men in the riverboat hotel on the Nile, ladies in the adjoining hotel with a guard at the door to prevent men entering. My cabin was unbearably hot.

It was impossible to sleep. I went outside. Nearby were steps down to the river, with bushes on both sides. Beautiful. Moonlit. She was there. I sat next to her and, as if we were still in the lounge in Cairo, she continued her lament.

“I can’t go on living with a man I don’t love — he’s boring, has no culture, tipsy half the time . . .”

I said calmly: “Yes, I understand.”

She started sobbing on my shoulder. Eventually she sighed and stopped. We kissed. I don’t know how it came about. I felt a great sympathy, maybe love in that instant. I knew it wasn’t me she kissed so passionately. We walked to the back door of the hotel and up to her room.

At dawn I went back to my cabin. That was that, on to Nairobi and work.

Two days later there was a reception, thousands of people milling around, but there was an enclosure for invited guests who were to be introduced to HRH.

Unbelievably, she was there, alone. I greeted her discreetly, my passionate lover of only two days ago. She ignored me, turned, stepped away, back into the crowd.

How stupid of me, I thought, I was just the middle man. But 53 years later, I still cherish the memory.

George Varjas

Have you had a summer affair that you would like to share? Email your story, no longer than 400 words, to loveaffair@thetimes.co.uk

Times recommends

• How I lost the gift of joy for a while
• How to get Coleen Rooney's post-baby body
• The A-Z of winter style rules