Uncle Frank, my mum's only brother, breezed into our young lives, usually during the summer months. A whiff of perfumed cigar smoke announced his arrival. A large cigar hung permanently from his lips.

We spent many lazy afternoons listening to his tales of white sandy beaches and tropical skies. He tried to teach us a few Salsa steps. I took an occasional puff of his Havana cigar.
As a curious child, I pulled out the three legged stool and reached up on the bookshelf for the atlas, to find out where was this exotic place.

No Google maps, three decades ago, to click and zoom.

His deeply bronzed fingers moved over the map of Cuba , pointing out towns and villages he had now come to call home. The timbre of his voice when he spoke Spanish was, to me, like that of a movie star.

My mum's eyes lit up as she listened to his traveller's tales.

I vowed to visit this land of Cuba as soon as I became a grown up.
Alas, I haven't yet fulfilled that promise. It still lingers at the top of my bucket list.