One Fort in the Grave, with KEITH FORT

JUST back from my hols and feeling depressed. Shouldn't be but I'll explain why.

For many years I have been chasing the summer sun in the middle of our winters because, in our climate, I think it's a great tonic; better than all the flu jabs and cold potions put together.

Obviously a lot of people are coming to the same conclusion because my hotel seemed to be populated by people aged from 90 minus to 60 plus, many of them walking wounded; nearly all British.

We've all collected our heating allowances, but I've often thought how beneficial it would be for many if the winter warmer came in the form of a buckshee pre-Christmas holiday in sunny 70 degree heat in a lovely hotel on a foreign shore.

I have great admiration for people in their twilight years, particularly invalids, or semi-invalids, if they have the guts and determination -- and the wherewithal to venture abroad.

But being on holiday with them can be something of an education and I use the word loosely.

"Di ye nae speak English?" I heard one 70-year-old Alex Fergusonite bellowing at a totally bemused Spanish waiter. I hadn't the heart to point out that neither of them did.

Earlier, I met a 90-year-old who could hardly walk. She was completely alone and a delight to talk with. She was, she revealed, on a tour of the world by Zimmer frame.

It made me wonder how these people go on. During one excursion round the island where I holidayed, the guide announced we were stopping to take a half hour break.

There were so many people with walking problems, on crutches, walking sticks -- even a motorised wheelchair in the luggage compartment -- that it took 25 minutes just to get off.

After-dinner chats were hardly uplifting. Widows and widowers seemed mainly to compare notes on how their loved ones had snuffed it. Hospital experiences, major operations, death-defying recoveries and joint replacement were all discussed in horrendous detail non-stop from morning sessions round the pool to after dinner drinks in the evening. Hey! Aren't we supposed to be on holiday?

And then there was the dramatic news that swept the hotel one evening: "Did you hear about the lady who had a heart attack in the pool today? No? Oh, yes. They rushed her off in an ambulance. She's in hospital." Then, confidentially: "They say she's doing OK."

This brought forth stories about death on holiday -- one about some related family who took the kids and granny on a motoring holiday to Europe. In the Alps they stopped to let the kids play in the snow. When they got back to the car they discovered granny had expired on the back seat.

They put the luggage in with the kids, granny in the boot ("Well, they couldn't leave her next to the kids, could they?") and drove to the next town.

They all filed out to report the matter to the police, returning to find their car had been stolen. "Never did hear whether they got the car -- or granny -- back," reported our elderly informant.

During the fortnight, one of our fellow holidaymakers, from Dublin, ended up in hospital four times with suspected heart problems.

Each time the hospital rang his insurers for permission to carry out expensive tests. Each time they gave him the all clear -- a signal for him to reappear in the serve-yourself dining room with a plate piled high enough to feed a family of three. After dinner he became the number one supporter of the free bar.

"A quadruple by-pass?" exclaimed a woman listener, obviously seeing an opportunity for one-upmanship. "My husband's had a quintuple by-pass! And he's still going strong!"

I'm afraid on this holiday I was particularly lousy company. You see, I had absolutely nothing wrong with me. Touch wood.