Crap Boats of the World - MY Halis Temel

As my regular reader will know, I get around a bit and like to point out the good and bad points about where I have been and how I got there. I try to be fair minded so that other people can learn and benefit from my experiences.

This was a somewhat different sort of trip for me. Some time ago while sitting on the key on a Greek island with a glass of Ouzo in my hand (Metaxa has become so expensive!), we contemplated a sailing holiday. I looked out into the harbour at all the sailing flotilla boats and thought that was slumming it a bit for my personal taste. However, the big motor yatch with a crew of about ten moored at the end of the quay looked rather inviting, so when the opportunity came up to sail the Turquoise Coast on a luxury yatch we thought "Why not?"

Well, I'll tell you why not...

This is a small boat (12 cabins) and looked lovely in the brochure. It is a shame that a substance doesn't live up to the style. Please admire the carving above which is on the stern of the boat. The tits on this carving really are it's best feature.

The crew is Turkish and performs his duties entirely to its own satisfaction and time scales. As a seasoned traveller, I have no problem with the latter, it's the former that really annoys me. I suspect that one of the problems is that their boss is Greek so naturally they treat him with contempt and take no notice of him whatsoever. He, in turn, treats them like shit and talks to them in the same manner.

Tragically, this could be a beautiful boat and it is spoiled by a total lack of storage space for incidentals - such as clothes. The finishes throughout are, well, Turkish. My shower room taps stick two inches out of the wall and the tiling is, frankly, not as good as my first attempt when I was 17 years old. The TV has no signal, the drains stink, the toilet seat keeps threatening to circumcise me and what is that strange stuff gurgling up the drainage hole in the shower?...

I could go on and on - and, as my regular reader will know, I often do - but what really pissed me off one day was my early morning wake-up call. This is mainly because I never asked for one! The crew quarters border my cabin (something not illustrated in the brochure!) and at 4 a.m. the phone rang - and rang - and rang. No one answered because they weren't there! I don't know for certain, but I suspect they were ashore getting pissed so just how fit they are to run the boat the next day has to be the £6,000 question.

So if you are thinking of going on this boat, then my advice is "Don't!"


(Dioclese is currently freezing his arse off in the Arctic - hopefully on a better boat than this one!)

Crap Boats of the World - MY Halis Temel

As my regular reader will know, I get around a bit and like to point out the good and bad points about where I have been and how I got there. I try to be fair minded so that other people can learn and benefit from my experiences.

This was a somewhat different sort of trip for me. Some time ago while sitting on the key on a Greek island with a glass of Ouzo in my hand (Metaxa has become so expensive!), we contemplated a sailing holiday. I looked out into the harbour at all the sailing flotilla boats and thought that was slumming it a bit for my personal taste. However, the big motor yatch with a crew of about ten moored at the end of the quay looked rather inviting, so when the opportunity came up to sail the Turquoise Coast on a luxury yatch we thought "Why not?"

Well, I'll tell you why not...

This is a small boat (12 cabins) and looked lovely in the brochure. It is a shame that a substance doesn't live up to the style. Please admire the carving above which is on the stern of the boat. The tits on this carving really are it's best feature.

The crew is Turkish and performs his duties entirely to its own satisfaction and time scales. As a seasoned traveller, I have no problem with the latter, it's the former that really annoys me. I suspect that one of the problems is that their boss is Greek so naturally they treat him with contempt and take no notice of him whatsoever. He, in turn, treats them like shit and talks to them in the same manner.

Tragically, this could be a beautiful boat and it is spoiled by a total lack of storage space for incidentals - such as clothes. The finishes throughout are, well, Turkish. My shower room taps stick two inches out of the wall and the tiling is, frankly, not as good as my first attempt when I was 17 years old. The TV has no signal, the drains stink, the toilet seat keeps threatening to circumcise me and what is that strange stuff gurgling up the drainage hole in the shower?...

I could go on and on - and, as my regular reader will know, I often do - but what really pissed me off one day was my early morning wake-up call. This is mainly because I never asked for one! The crew quarters border my cabin (something not illustrated in the brochure!) and at 4 a.m. the phone rang - and rang - and rang. No one answered because they weren't there! I don't know for certain, but I suspect they were ashore getting pissed so just how fit they are to run the boat the next day has to be the £6,000 question.

So if you are thinking of going on this boat, then my advice is "Don't!"


(Dioclese is currently freezing his arse off in the Arctic - hopefully on a better boat than this one!)

The cruise director.

As my regular reader will know, I get around a bit and tend to do a lot of cruising. I do this on small boats not bloody great big ocean liners and I do have a particular liking for what is euphemistically know as 'expedition cruising'.

It seemed to me that I have, in the past, rather unfairly overlooked one of the most important people on board any cruise - namely the cruise director / tour manager, so I'd like to put that straight right now.

A good tour manager can make or break a trip. On my last trip around the Greek islands, ours has a rather Lumleyesque appearance and all the mannerisms including the accent and corresponding area of natural superiority that go with it. Change the hair colour and chain a couple of stray Gurkhas to her ankles and you would be convinced that it was indeed she!

Like the lovely Joanna, she took no prisoners. Her tone was such that it would not naturally occur to one to question anything she said. Needless to say, the crew manager hated her and, I suspect, trembled at the mere mention of her name. She ruled absolutely over her domain and kept us mere mortals trembling in fear - all except for myself and, of course, Mrs D. who in full force is also something to be reckoned with.

At the start of the trip, she who must be obeyed did not put a foot wrong. I did not disagree with anything she said or did. The boat was a shambles, the crew were hopeless and untrained, and she took it upon herself to ruthlessly sort the mess out.

Regrettably, this was not to last. As we sailed out of Kusadasi we were somewhat confused to find the boat slowing down to a crawl. The mighty Joanna clone declared that the reason for this is that the ship's clearance papers were left behind. These unfortunately seemed to include some of our passports, although we did have some nice Italian ones that belonged to another ship. Such basic stuff is serious and should never happen.

From there on it was all downhill. I won't bore you with the further details of this particular person, except to say that I have stipulated to her employers that any future bookings are dependent on her not being on the ship.

As a complete contrast, last year we went across the Pacific for 5 weeks. The cruise director was a South African woman with a seemingly boundless supply of energy, one of the brightest smiles I have ever seen permanently plastered across her face and a memory like an elephant. In 5 weeks, she made one minor error for which she apologised instantly. She displayed a genuine concern for the wellbeing and enjoyment of her passengers which was beyond the call of duty.

We have just booked another cruise next year and a large factor in our choice was the fact that she will be on the boat.

Like I said, a Cruise Director can make or break a trip so, if you can, choose carefully...


(Dioclese is currently freezing his arse off in the Arctic)

The cruise director.

As my regular reader will know, I get around a bit and tend to do a lot of cruising. I do this on small boats not bloody great big ocean liners and I do have a particular liking for what is euphemistically know as 'expedition cruising'.

It seemed to me that I have, in the past, rather unfairly overlooked one of the most important people on board any cruise - namely the cruise director / tour manager, so I'd like to put that straight right now.

A good tour manager can make or break a trip. On my last trip around the Greek islands, ours has a rather Lumleyesque appearance and all the mannerisms including the accent and corresponding area of natural superiority that go with it. Change the hair colour and chain a couple of stray Gurkhas to her ankles and you would be convinced that it was indeed she!

Like the lovely Joanna, she took no prisoners. Her tone was such that it would not naturally occur to one to question anything she said. Needless to say, the crew manager hated her and, I suspect, trembled at the mere mention of her name. She ruled absolutely over her domain and kept us mere mortals trembling in fear - all except for myself and, of course, Mrs D. who in full force is also something to be reckoned with.

At the start of the trip, she who must be obeyed did not put a foot wrong. I did not disagree with anything she said or did. The boat was a shambles, the crew were hopeless and untrained, and she took it upon herself to ruthlessly sort the mess out.

Regrettably, this was not to last. As we sailed out of Kusadasi we were somewhat confused to find the boat slowing down to a crawl. The mighty Joanna clone declared that the reason for this is that the ship's clearance papers were left behind. These unfortunately seemed to include some of our passports, although we did have some nice Italian ones that belonged to another ship. Such basic stuff is serious and should never happen.

From there on it was all downhill. I won't bore you with the further details of this particular person, except to say that I have stipulated to her employers that any future bookings are dependent on her not being on the ship.

As a complete contrast, last year we went across the Pacific for 5 weeks. The cruise director was a South African woman with a seemingly boundless supply of energy, one of the brightest smiles I have ever seen permanently plastered across her face and a memory like an elephant. In 5 weeks, she made one minor error for which she apologised instantly. She displayed a genuine concern for the wellbeing and enjoyment of her passengers which was beyond the call of duty.

We have just booked another cruise next year and a large factor in our choice was the fact that she will be on the boat.

Like I said, a Cruise Director can make or break a trip so, if you can, choose carefully...


(Dioclese is currently freezing his arse off in the Arctic)

The last breakfast

Breakfast is the best meal of the day - especially on this boat.

To be fair , whilst saying that this is a better meal here than lunch or dinner is not actually much of a compliment, it has been pretty good. The boiled eggs actiually have runny yokes, the fried eggs are not congealed, the porridge is really quite good and the bacon is remarkably good especially in a part of the world which is noted for it's poor quality bacon.

But today is different...

Today is the final breakfast before the crew breathe a hefty sigh of relief as they watch us waddle off down the gangplank to get on the coach back to the airport.

Today there is no bacon as they didn't get it out of the freezer last night - mainly because they went ashore for a night out. Today the boiled eggs are solid. Today we are a bloody nuisance that they want out of the way so that they can get the boat sort-of-ready for the next bunch of victims. Everyone is moaning - except for us because we've seen it all before!

I remember Alan Whicker once said that he had three rules for travelling : Never refuse a meal, never walk past a toilet and sleep whenever you can. As seasoned travellers we have certain final morning rules which I would like to share with you in the hope it may help to oil the wheels of your chosen travelling device, so to speak.

Firstly, never give up your room until the last moment. Take no notice of the tactics they may employ to hurry you along because you have paid for it and until disembarkation time it is yours. We never concede this point. Also, always lock your room when you leave. Once in Barbados, a guy who wanted us turfed out of our room because he wanted it tried to get his own back by sneaking in through the open door while we were sat by the pool and making a $100 worth of long distance calls which he then tried to charge to our account. Needless to say, it didn't work but my advice is why take the chance?

Second rule : Never put your tips envelope into the box until after breakfast. Also, leaving it in plain view on the breakfast table has been known to improve the waiter service but I admit on this occasion, I didn't bother. Plus you need to be seen to put the envelope into the box so that your suitcase doesn't go missing or get thrown down the gangplank. Even if you think the service has been totally shit, be seen to put the empty envelope in the box or, as I admit I did on one occasion, put a note inside explaining that your are leaving what you feel is appropriate - namely, sod all.

Our final rule relates to tipping. Some cruise boats automatically add tips to your bill when you get on. Some even insist on charging them to your credit card when you get on. In this case tell them your credit card is in your luggage and say you'll come back later. Then forget. Remember that tips are discretionary and never be embarassed to tell them to take them off the bill of you have had crap service. What we do is to start with the recommended tipping guideline (how presumptuous is that for a start?) which in this case was €10 per person per day and then knock off €10 every time they do something that pisses you off.

The last breakfast

Breakfast is the best meal of the day - especially on this boat.

To be fair , whilst saying that this is a better meal here than lunch or dinner is not actually much of a compliment, it has been pretty good. The boiled eggs actiually have runny yokes, the fried eggs are not congealed, the porridge is really quite good and the bacon is remarkably good especially in a part of the world which is noted for it's poor quality bacon.

But today is different...

Today is the final breakfast before the crew breathe a hefty sigh of relief as they watch us waddle off down the gangplank to get on the coach back to the airport.

Today there is no bacon as they didn't get it out of the freezer last night - mainly because they went ashore for a night out. Today the boiled eggs are solid. Today we are a bloody nuisance that they want out of the way so that they can get the boat sort-of-ready for the next bunch of victims. Everyone is moaning - except for us because we've seen it all before!

I remember Alan Whicker once said that he had three rules for travelling : Never refuse a meal, never walk past a toilet and sleep whenever you can. As seasoned travellers we have certain final morning rules which I would like to share with you in the hope it may help to oil the wheels of your chosen travelling device, so to speak.

Firstly, never give up your room until the last moment. Take no notice of the tactics they may employ to hurry you along because you have paid for it and until disembarkation time it is yours. We never concede this point. Also, always lock your room when you leave. Once in Barbados, a guy who wanted us turfed out of our room because he wanted it tried to get his own back by sneaking in through the open door while we were sat by the pool and making a $100 worth of long distance calls which he then tried to charge to our account. Needless to say, it didn't work but my advice is why take the chance?

Second rule : Never put your tips envelope into the box until after breakfast. Also, leaving it in plain view on the breakfast table has been known to improve the waiter service but I admit on this occasion, I didn't bother. Plus you need to be seen to put the envelope into the box so that your suitcase doesn't go missing or get thrown down the gangplank. Even if you think the service has been totally shit, be seen to put the empty envelope in the box or, as I admit I did on one occasion, put a note inside explaining that your are leaving what you feel is appropriate - namely, sod all.

Our final rule relates to tipping. Some cruise boats automatically add tips to your bill when you get on. Some even insist on charging them to your credit card when you get on. In this case tell them your credit card is in your luggage and say you'll come back later. Then forget. Remember that tips are discretionary and never be embarassed to tell them to take them off the bill of you have had crap service. What we do is to start with the recommended tipping guideline (how presumptuous is that for a start?) which in this case was €10 per person per day and then knock off €10 every time they do something that pisses you off.

Purgatreis

Yes, I know that it is spelt wrong but there is such a thing as poetic licence.

We are back in Turkey in a place called Turgetreis just to clear customs and be on our way.

We have just crossed over from Kos, which was an interesting place. We're not been there before and went wandering into town last night exercising the ubiquitous "free time". Kos town has a decidedly Turkish feel to it even though they have converted to the mosque into a shopping arcade - something which even with my decidedly jaundiced view of religion, I find rather disrespectful and inappropriate.

Today we went up into the hills above town to a delightful little village called Zia. Having had it described to us as a 'tourist village', we feared the worst, but were personally surprised. The view was magnificent and the people friendly and charming.

Earlier in the day we experienced a 5.1 magnitude earthquake - quite an experience as we have been to Greece many times and never felt the slightest tremor. To put this in perspective, this is the same magnitude that caused devastation in Spain a few days back.

A charming Greek lady was telling us that this was the worst quake that they are experienced in 35 years and it knocked all the stock off her shelves. She said she was terrified and immediately felt for her children's safety. The shop is 90 years old and made of stone, but her father assured that the house will stand forever but then added "but the floor may collapse".

We are now across the straits in Turgetreis - or as we have branded it 'Purgatory' - moored in a huge yatching marina and looking at the endless rows of little white boxes that they shove tourists into.

We can't help thinking that the quake was perhaps in the wrong place!

Purgatreis

Yes, I know that it is spelt wrong but there is such a thing as poetic licence.

We are back in Turkey in a place called Turgetreis just to clear customs and be on our way.

We have just crossed over from Kos, which was an interesting place. We're not been there before and went wandering into town last night exercising the ubiquitous "free time". Kos town has a decidedly Turkish feel to it even though they have converted to the mosque into a shopping arcade - something which even with my decidedly jaundiced view of religion, I find rather disrespectful and inappropriate.

Today we went up into the hills above town to a delightful little village called Zia. Having had it described to us as a 'tourist village', we feared the worst, but were personally surprised. The view was magnificent and the people friendly and charming.

Earlier in the day we experienced a 5.1 magnitude earthquake - quite an experience as we have been to Greece many times and never felt the slightest tremor. To put this in perspective, this is the same magnitude that caused devastation in Spain a few days back.

A charming Greek lady was telling us that this was the worst quake that they are experienced in 35 years and it knocked all the stock off her shelves. She said she was terrified and immediately felt for her children's safety. The shop is 90 years old and made of stone, but her father assured that the house will stand forever but then added "but the floor may collapse".

We are now across the straits in Turgetreis - or as we have branded it 'Purgatory' - moored in a huge yatching marina and looking at the endless rows of little white boxes that they shove tourists into.

We can't help thinking that the quake was perhaps in the wrong place!

Crap places - Kusadasi

For many years, we have shied away from a holiday in Turkey. There is no particular reason for this or even any logical explanation, but for some reason it has simply never appealed to us.

However, we have always had a desire to see Ephesus. For several years we stayed in Samos and thought about the day trip but being laid back as we always are in Greece, we just never got around to it. So when we saw this boat trip that included a visit to Ephesus and thought, as Mrs D. so succinctly, it would be an opportunity to finally go Ephesus 'without inflicting a week in Turkey on ourselves'.

As I write this, we are second morning in Kusadasi and are leaving at lunchtime. Our tour manager summed it up nicely yesterday in a rather an unguarded moment. "Kusadasi is a shit hole" she declared.
.
We had an open mind - despite the previously declared illogical bias - but we agree with her. Like a camel, it has few if any redeeming features. Firstly, it is an ugly concrete anthill festooned with more satellite dishes than I thought they were in the entire world. It is a place you pass through to get to Ephesus. This is the sole reason it exists. Each day a new cruise ship pulls in, disgorges coachloads of tourists to Ephesus and then deposits them back at the town centre to be subjected to the Kusadasi shopping experience.

If you have been to Egypt or Morocco will have already experienced this in a lesser form. Here the shopkeepers are absolutely relentless! Is is impossible and even pass within 50 feet of a shop without being pounced on. It is so bad that they even put up signs saying "no hassle" but they do it anyway!

One shopkeeper actually asked me why it was the English don't come into his shop. I explained that the English wish to be left alone to browse in peace and like to see price tags. This concept was totally lost on him proving once again that trying to teach a pig to sing simply annoys you and frustrates the pink!

But just to prove that there is always one, last year Mrs D. bought a leather jacket (quite a nice one actually) in Marks & Spencer is for £220. Yesterday in Kusadasi, one of our merry gang bought quite a simple for £250 and was bragging about it being such a great bargain. The sheeple billed and cooed accordingly, whereas Mrs D. and I just thought "What a cunt!"

Clearly, the Kusadasi shopping system actually works!

Crap places - Kusadasi

For many years, we have shied away from a holiday in Turkey. There is no particular reason for this or even any logical explanation, but for some reason it has simply never appealed to us.

However, we have always had a desire to see Ephesus. For several years we stayed in Samos and thought about the day trip but being laid back as we always are in Greece, we just never got around to it. So when we saw this boat trip that included a visit to Ephesus and thought, as Mrs D. so succinctly, it would be an opportunity to finally go Ephesus 'without inflicting a week in Turkey on ourselves'.

As I write this, we are second morning in Kusadasi and are leaving at lunchtime. Our tour manager summed it up nicely yesterday in a rather an unguarded moment. "Kusadasi is a shit hole" she declared.
.
We had an open mind - despite the previously declared illogical bias - but we agree with her. Like a camel, it has few if any redeeming features. Firstly, it is an ugly concrete anthill festooned with more satellite dishes than I thought they were in the entire world. It is a place you pass through to get to Ephesus. This is the sole reason it exists. Each day a new cruise ship pulls in, disgorges coachloads of tourists to Ephesus and then deposits them back at the town centre to be subjected to the Kusadasi shopping experience.

If you have been to Egypt or Morocco will have already experienced this in a lesser form. Here the shopkeepers are absolutely relentless! Is is impossible and even pass within 50 feet of a shop without being pounced on. It is so bad that they even put up signs saying "no hassle" but they do it anyway!

One shopkeeper actually asked me why it was the English don't come into his shop. I explained that the English wish to be left alone to browse in peace and like to see price tags. This concept was totally lost on him proving once again that trying to teach a pig to sing simply annoys you and frustrates the pink!

But just to prove that there is always one, last year Mrs D. bought a leather jacket (quite a nice one actually) in Marks & Spencer is for £220. Yesterday in Kusadasi, one of our merry gang bought quite a simple for £250 and was bragging about it being such a great bargain. The sheeple billed and cooed accordingly, whereas Mrs D. and I just thought "What a cunt!"

Clearly, the Kusadasi shopping system actually works!

Pat-tosh

As I write this, Mrs. D has gone for a lie down. I am forced to admit that the herbal seasick pills are not working. Fortunately, I am blessed with a constitution which would put the average Greek donkey to shame, so I am fine - although three glass of the local red rotgut and a couple of ouzo have most likely helped.

We have just left Patmos, home of St. John the Divine who wrote the book of Revelation. They make much of this on Patmos, not least I suspect because it brings in vast hoards of tourists!

Half way up the mountain is the 'Cave of the Apocalypse' (see photo) where Johhny boy, then 93 years old, apparently penned his tome -  or to be more precise dictated it to his young sidekick. Basically, as you can see, this is a cave but it has been richly embellished with a few icons and the odd authentic saintly relic.

In the roof of the cave, threre is a three way cleft. This is apparently the very spot where Johhny was standing when God spoke to him. To mark this, God then split the rock in three to represent the Holy Trinity.

What a load of old Pat-tosh!

Further up the mountain is the biggest fortified monastery I have ever clapped eyes on - and believe me I have clapped them on quite a few over the years. It is huge and old and if you are ever in the neighbourhood, it is well worth taking a look. However, being the cynical old heretic you might by now expect me to be, I am forced to ask a salient question....

If this is the place where the Almighty chose to reveal his great plan to humankind, then why does this monastery need fortifications and battlements to protect it? Wouldn't God be doing that already?

Oh, ye of little faith....

Pat-tosh

As I write this, Mrs. D has gone for a lie down. I am forced to admit that the herbal seasick pills are not working. Fortunately, I am blessed with a constitution which would put the average Greek donkey to shame, so I am fine - although three glass of the local red rotgut and a couple of ouzo have most likely helped.

We have just left Patmos, home of St. John the Divine who wrote the book of Revelation. They make much of this on Patmos, not least I suspect because it brings in vast hoards of tourists!

Half way up the mountain is the 'Cave of the Apocalypse' (see photo) where Johhny boy, then 93 years old, apparently penned his tome -  or to be more precise dictated it to his young sidekick. Basically, as you can see, this is a cave but it has been richly embellished with a few icons and the odd authentic saintly relic.

In the roof of the cave, threre is a three way cleft. This is apparently the very spot where Johhny was standing when God spoke to him. To mark this, God then split the rock in three to represent the Holy Trinity.

What a load of old Pat-tosh!

Further up the mountain is the biggest fortified monastery I have ever clapped eyes on - and believe me I have clapped them on quite a few over the years. It is huge and old and if you are ever in the neighbourhood, it is well worth taking a look. However, being the cynical old heretic you might by now expect me to be, I am forced to ask a salient question....

If this is the place where the Almighty chose to reveal his great plan to humankind, then why does this monastery need fortifications and battlements to protect it? Wouldn't God be doing that already?

Oh, ye of little faith....

Death of the T-Shirt Trade

I have mixed views about tourism. It has undoubtedly fucked up the world big time and yet I would be hypocrite if, as a seasoned traveller, I denied but I am not in any way to blame.

On my recent trip around the Pacific, I have seen first-hand the way that tourism can completely ruin some of the most beautiful and exotic locations. But the damage appears to me not just be due to the almost total economic dependence on tourism, but - especiallly in the post credit crunch era - it is due to what happens when the tourists stopped coming.

Eventually it was bound to happen anyway as over commercialism took away the very features that attracted the visitors in the first place. But when you combine that with worldwide austerity, the process is disastrously accelerated.

Bora Bora conjures up the immediate image of the perfect romantic location. Like most of Polynesia, it has become hugely dependent on tourists. When they stop coming, the economic decline is immediate - hotels close, unemployment rises rapidly, shops have no customers.

The double whammy is of course that there are no other local industries to take the place of tourism because all has all been set aside in pursuit of the quick and easy buck.

If these places are to survive then, ironically, they need to return to the very images of life in paradise that they are trying to peddle, otherwise they have no future.

And, if I'm honest, it is largely their own fault...

Death of the T-Shirt Trade

I have mixed views about tourism. It has undoubtedly fucked up the world big time and yet I would be hypocrite if, as a seasoned traveller, I denied but I am not in any way to blame.

On my recent trip around the Pacific, I have seen first-hand the way that tourism can completely ruin some of the most beautiful and exotic locations. But the damage appears to me not just be due to the almost total economic dependence on tourism, but - especiallly in the post credit crunch era - it is due to what happens when the tourists stopped coming.

Eventually it was bound to happen anyway as over commercialism took away the very features that attracted the visitors in the first place. But when you combine that with worldwide austerity, the process is disastrously accelerated.

Bora Bora conjures up the immediate image of the perfect romantic location. Like most of Polynesia, it has become hugely dependent on tourists. When they stop coming, the economic decline is immediate - hotels close, unemployment rises rapidly, shops have no customers.

The double whammy is of course that there are no other local industries to take the place of tourism because all has all been set aside in pursuit of the quick and easy buck.

If these places are to survive then, ironically, they need to return to the very images of life in paradise that they are trying to peddle, otherwise they have no future.

And, if I'm honest, it is largely their own fault...

93 Men in a Boat (7) : The Front Seaters

Do you remember the good old days when you could never get a sun bed because the Germans had covered them all with towels?

Well, this practice is alive and well - only these days it's not Germans or sun beds we need to worry about!

There's always one, and of course this trip was no exception. So in my final piece on stereotypical tourists, I shall concentrate on the Front Seater.

In the interests of fairness, we always disembarked by deck number and these were rotated so everybody got a fair shake. But this system does not, of course, apply to the front seater. No matter who was called first, he was always at the front of the queue.

Whenever there was a show ashore, he was always there in the middle of the front row, standing up in front of your camera whenever you tried to take a photo so he could get his first.

Every meal time, there he was with his face pressed to the door waiting for dinner to be called so he could be the first in the dining room and get his favourite table.

Even when we flew home, there he was first on the plane and, of course, first off the other end.

But his finest hour came whenever there was a presentation in the ship's lounge. Then he would send his wife down half an hour before the talk to save him his centre front row seat.

And she was bloody daft enough to do it - what a mug!...

93 Men in a Boat (7) : The Front Seaters

Do you remember the good old days when you could never get a sun bed because the Germans had covered them all with towels?

Well, this practice is alive and well - only these days it's not Germans or sun beds we need to worry about!

There's always one, and of course this trip was no exception. So in my final piece on stereotypical tourists, I shall concentrate on the Front Seater.

In the interests of fairness, we always disembarked by deck number and these were rotated so everybody got a fair shake. But this system does not, of course, apply to the front seater. No matter who was called first, he was always at the front of the queue.

Whenever there was a show ashore, he was always there in the middle of the front row, standing up in front of your camera whenever you tried to take a photo so he could get his first.

Every meal time, there he was with his face pressed to the door waiting for dinner to be called so he could be the first in the dining room and get his favourite table.

Even when we flew home, there he was first on the plane and, of course, first off the other end.

But his finest hour came whenever there was a presentation in the ship's lounge. Then he would send his wife down half an hour before the talk to save him his centre front row seat.

And she was bloody daft enough to do it - what a mug!...