We have fifteen grandchildren between us, my husband Mike and myself - aproximately half each. So when they started asking questions about my adventures living in a pirate fort on a treasure island, it seemed a shorter route to write down a few thoughts and reminiscences than to tell each of them individually. I’m not sure it makes ideal reading for the young although, on second thoughts, it is better than some of today’s TV programmes and, I guarantee, more exciting.

One thing led to another and my few thoughts metamorphosed into a book - Roatan Odyssey. I was going to call it ‘A Pelican at Dusk’ in memory of a lone pelican which flew past my fort every evening when I would sit out on the cannon emplacements with a rum and fruit juice, wondering what the rest of the world was doing - or even if it still existed.

With not even a dirt road to my house, and three miles by sea to the nearest village, I was completely cut off, sometimes for ten days or more at a time if the sea was too rough for me to take out my little dinghy. It was a remarkable time, and could not happen again with the advent of mobile phones.

One thing living alone does is sort out the ego and shrink it to a walnut-sized piece of wishful thinking; hence the disappointment of discovering very quickly my total inadequacies as an accidental hermit or recluse. I was not cut out to be a Mrs Crusoe, particularly without a Mr Crusoe around to pick up a spanner or the machete.

I am a social person, love giving dinner parties - dances even, given half a chance - yet here I was restoring my dilapidated house in the middle of a vast deserted harbour, scared of my own shadow, sick of hearing myself breathe, no one to talk to - let alone lean on (or hide behind). A creaking old church organ as my R & R, either that or a mouth organ, books and art work.

I have been asked how I can so clearly recall those times over thirty years ago, but living on the edge of danger alerts all one’s senses and makes one conscious of everything to aid survival - the state of the weather; the mood of the sea; the phase of the moon; the rustlings in the bush. All these facilities for self-preservation are deeply embedded in the memory.

It seems such a waste that whole days may now pass without noticing every wonderful thing around me, but perhaps life is too easy, too fast, too noisy to hear and see and have time to think.

After leaving the island and marrying Mike Brown, I spent five months living with the Tibetan refugees in Dharamsala in the Himalayas, the first of many visits. I recorded some of their fascinating and fast-disappearing culture, painted their traditional costumes, taught them English (in a very inexperienced way, I’m afraid), and raised funds for them back in England. I remain in close touch with these unique people.

These days I have begun studying early Chinese art, writing a Gothic novel - purely for my own amusement - and continue to produce historical maps and prints. Thirteen so far, the latest being one of the remote island of St Helena in the South Atlantic which Mike and I visited by mail-boat recently.

Our huge and fascinating family is around us, a constant source of interest. I know I am extremely fortunate in this life - and even more fortunate to realise it.