It was early summer and I’d gone on holiday to the island of Formentera, feeling particularly ragged and exhausted after a play I’d written, acted in and produced. I booked to stay in the same hotel I’d stayed in as a child, not knowing for sure if there were any other hotels, and arrived to find that it was on the top of a hill almost an hour’s walk from the coast. So every day I set off with my costume, a towel and a book – Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina, and spent the afternoon lying on the beach immersed in Russia, romance, philosophy and suspense. As the days passed, these worlds began to tangle together, Anna’s soaring feelings for Vronsky, the white sand of the beach, Levin’s discourses on nature, a quick, cold dip in the sea. I never think now about Kitty’s frustrations, or the terrible suffering of Anna as she is forced to choose between her lover and her child, without remembering the long trudge up the hill to La Mola, and the sense of peace as I sat on the terrace eking out the last pages in the fading light. I arrived back in London, refreshed and restored; though I’ve never been back to Formentera, I’ve reread Anna Karenina many times.

Esther Freud