Spectator Life

I was nine. It was Florence, in mid-July. My parents bravely led my younger brother and me through a day of sweaty sight-seeing. We had just been up and down the Duomo and were cooling ourselves with ice cream in an adjacent square when there was a hideous bang. At first, we thought it was an explosion. Then, as we passed the Duomo again a few minutes later, we saw something so grisly I still remember it with a shudder: paramedics trying to get a stretcher covered in a white sheet into the ambulance, and on the ground, a huge splat of what looked like spaghetti sauce. It took a moment for me to get my head around what that must be, and how it related to the bang, and then I couldn’t unwrap my head from it.

Scylla and Charybdis are said to have sat off the Sicilian coast, where Mike Lynch’s boat foundered, and where 3,200 years before, Odysseus navigated between the monster and the whirlpool. Many think of the Med as a gentle sea, more like an oversized eternity pool, unbothered by the killer storms and cliff-high waves that rage beyond Gibraltar. The howling wind had ripped along the coast, whisking the beach away overnight I thought that, too, before I was bashed up by wild tempests in the two years I criss-crossed the Mediterranean in Odysseus’s wake. One morning, I turned up at a hotel on Mykonos. As I made my way to the breakfast table, the agitated maître d’ shimmered up and said, ‘I’m so sorry, sir, the beach has been washed away overnight.

‘How do you cope with this?’ The poor woman is looking up at me with the big Bambi eyes I’ve seen grown men adopt when extreme turbulence hits. I have to say something comforting; it’s part of my job description as cabin crew. They even tell us what to say on the cabin crew training course. Get down to eye level with the passenger, adopt a comforting tone, agree with their distress, and reassure them everything will be fine. I hate the kneeling down bit; it feels a little insincere and overly intimate. Plus, I’m ashamed to say, you can probably hear my knees cracking from the cockpit. Unfortunately, I’ve still got a rather large chunk of my mortgage to pay, so I duly launch into ‘the routine’.

At this time of year, the heat of Naples wakes me up around 7. A five kilometre jog takes me over Monte Echia, from where I can see Vesuvius, Capri and the city below me framed in bright blue. After a cool shower, I go to a café for breakfast: a pastry and puddle of strong coffee paid for out of loose change. I spend the day sweating in front of a pizza oven, before strolling home, stopping to pick up some pungent tomatoes and red wine for dinner. Truly, this is a life I dreamt of, so why do I go to bed each night wracked with anxiety? If life is slow here, it’s out of necessity La dolce vita, the sweet life, is a term I heard before I even knew Fellini’s 1960 film existed.

Visiting San Sebastián last month, I was reminded of the joys and hazards of grazing. The speciality in this chic city, and throughout Spain’s northern Basque region, are pintxos – miniature open sandwiches topped with everything from chorizo and padrón peppers to anchovies and baby eels. Pintxoing, as I’ll call it, becomes almost like a game in San Sebastián’s labyrinthine Old Town, in which the regional delicacies are colourfully displayed in bar-top glass cabinets. The goal is to eat enough pintxos to keep hunger at bay, but not so many that you don’t have room for one more. You’re never starving, but the flipside is that you’re never entirely satisfied, either.

Summer is the season most associated with the enjoyment of life. It’s when people forget their cares, down tools, and head for the beach to enjoy sunny days and sexy nights. That’s how it was for me anyway until I came close to life’s polar opposite – barely surviving two close brushes with death. So for me summers are now indelibly associated with a sudden end that I twice narrowly escaped. Tearing off my soaking shirt, I stood bare-chested in the rain, feeling the same sense of mingled relief and ecstasy as if I were Caesar The first close encounter with Mr Death came in the Dordogne. My wife, daughter, and I had hired a horse-drawn caravan to explore the highways and byways of that enchanting province.

It’s great having toilets with warm seats that shoot water up your bum until you need somewhere to throw up. After eating two kilos of raw, vengeful tuna, I was leaning over a hotel loo in Osaka and all I wanted was to rest my clammy forehead on a cold plastic seat. Six hours earlier, I had watched a man carve up a metre-long bluefin tuna on Dotonbori Street. It appeared very much still alive, apart from the limp way its mouth fell open when the fishmonger turned it upright on its belly. ‘Very, very fresh!’ he hollered, whacking it to bits. ‘Very, very, very delicious!’ I took his word, like the tourist sucker I am, and ate an entire bowl filled with chunks of chutoro and kamatoro, and 13 more pieces of nigiri.

The moral absolutist in me believes that in every city, with its finite number of restaurants, there is such a thing as the best of all possible lunches. I don’t have to find it, but I have to get close. Mediocre doesn’t cut it. In fact, on holiday, the idea of wasting a meal on mere ‘mediocre’ fills me with crippling guilt over wasting not just money but time. What if I die before I see Paris again? I would be ashamed that I had wasted my precious mortality eating that Pret tuna niçoise salad. Laurie Lee described Spain as a place of ‘distinct appetites...

There cannot be a lazier way of travelling across Canada than in the Rocky Mountaineer. There are luxury trains, and then there’s this. For two days, I sat in a sumptuously upholstered, air-conditioned carriage, looking out at the vast wilderness of Canada’s interior, as waiters plied me with wine, chocolates and three-course meals. When imagining my trip across the Canadian Rockies, I had envisaged plenty of bracing walks and fresh air. But by the end of my journey, I had gained five-and-a-half pounds. I went on a walk around the frozen lake accompanied by a guide who warned us about a bear known as the Boss who weighs 497lbs Admittedly, I was in GoldLeaf, the most luxurious section of this glass-domed, double-decker train.

Naples is dirty, noisy, haphazard, and full of kamikaze scooter drivers. It is also sensual, liberating, and jolly. But that doesn’t seem to appeal to many people today, who prefer everything to be ordered, measured; all uncertainty removed. In city form, it’s known as Singapore: unlike Naples, everything there is clean, tidy, and works. It’s also a sterile, soulless, mini dictatorship. Everyone looks a little sticky, ruffled; no one cares about a sweat patch breaking out – shock horror J.G. Farrell’s wonderful book The Singapore Grip describes the fall of Singapore during the second world war. There are many parallels between the city back then and Naples now: the elegant decay and human vitality.

Europe is revolting against the tourist invasion. This summer, Venice has started charging a tourist tax to keep visitors at bay. Mallorca, Menorca, Ibiza and Formentera have just set up inter-island protests under the slogan, ‘Let’s change course – let’s set limits to tourism’. Barcelona is planning to ban Airbnb. In the Cinque Terre, on the Italian Riviera, some of the coastline is now one-way, to restrict tourist traffic. On another bit of the Ligurian coast, plans are afoot to charge walkers. You can see why – the famous cities and resorts of Europe have become one vast Queueworld, where tourists gather in great numbers, intense heat – and, increasingly, intense misery.

I am sitting in a little bar overlooking the jaunty marina of Trinité-sur-Mer, on the opulent south-east coast of Brittany. My Kir Breton is cold, fizzy, sweet and rubescent. Everyone around me is swigging Sancerre and cidre as the sun slowly nods below the green, southerly Celtic hills. The water glitters, the pretty people parade, the douceur de vivre is palpable. If you look at what has happened to Paris and Marseille, you can see how this can easily go wrong, how France’s good fortune can be squandered I've been here in Brittany five days, having got the ferry over from Portsmouth. And, quite frankly, the difference in life quality has been stark.

I belong to a generation of foreign correspondents whose first move, on entering a hotel room, was not to turn down the bed or to check (hopefully) for hot water, but to examine the phone, screwdriver in hand. Could you detach it from its socket? Could you open it up to get at the wiring? Did you have a compatible adaptor, and even if you did, could the line transmit data back to your editor in London? The rooms had recently been redone, according to the owner’s redesign, and this entailed removing the tables There were more than a few times when I whisked my long-suffering husband out of an otherwise more than acceptable hotel back on to the rain-drenched road in pursuit of communications.

Gawping at the famous sights of the Cotswolds has been a popular pastime for centuries. So too is writing about the huge numbers of people gawping at the famous sights of the Cotswolds. The Times, Telegraph, Express and the BBC have all covered the explosion of mass-tourism since the pandemic, which is driven mainly by social media algorithms bombarding the globe with irresistible Cotswolds images. You can now tour the Cotswolds to gawp at the sight of thousands of other people gawping, or buy a paper and gawp at a professional gawper gawping at gawpers.

Everyone knows that Italy is a boot. Many people know that the boot has a heel – the rocky, sunburnt region of Puglia. Perhaps a few know that the heel has a spur – the Gargano Peninsula. Yet virtually no one knows that the Gargano hides a magical woodland – the Foresta Umbra – a national park and treasure. And one of a dozen or more Italian parklands that are practically unvisited by foreign tourists.

You really have to force yourself to love flying. Sitting on the tarmac for an hour and a half with an air conditioning unit that won’t turn off and two babies locked in a battle of who can scream the loudest is not in my ‘Top 10 Days Well Spent For Zak’. But the plane is an experience. Though commercial air travel has been a possibility since 1914 – some argue earlier in the case of airships – we still go through that shudder of glee (or fright) when the plane does the impossible and leaves the ground. For all of the pitfalls of flying, the miracle of air travel means there’s always something endearing about planes. The world doesn’t make sense here. Drinking a pint of lager with a Nando’s at 3.50 a.m. is perfectly normal This does not apply to airports.

‘Melt your heart,’ said Simone, the Kiwi sleep therapist, stretching her generous body as elegantly as she was able on the yoga mat. Waves lapped the beach nearby. ‘Glow it violet, then allow the violet to flow up, up, up into your chest, your belly, now your legs and arms…’ Well, I tried, honestly I tried, but my heart stubbornly refused to melt, or even, for that matter, to glow. As sturdy English hearts of oak appeared to be melting all around me, I felt I was rather letting the side down. And as for the violet? Nada. The beginning and end of this ju-ju ordeal was bracketed by bells tinkled around our heads like some vaguely asiatic-version of a Catholic mass Faith is at the heart of the health business, but why does no-one call out the Emperor for his déshabillage?

Like a lot of people who didn’t know him, I felt sad hearing of the death of Michael Mosley on the Greek island of Symi, being familiar with him as a doctor whose pleasant voice I often heard on the radio. He had the gift of giving advice without being patronising or preachy. Mosley seemed to be a wise man – and for this reason, the way he died seemed all the more shocking. I found it particularly poignant that his body was found just 30 meters from the perimeter fence of a beach resort. Somewhat sheepishly, I immediately identified with the inhabitants of the beachfront compound; if I’d have been on that island, that’s where I’d have been, flat out by the swimming pool, cocktail to hand and no trek more adventurous planned than that between beach and bar.

You approach the pier at Clacton-on-Sea by passing under an elegant bridge, one which in Venice you would probably stop to admire. But this is Essex and the stonework is emblazoned with the town’s coat of arms and motto, Lux, salubritas et felicitas – light, health and happiness. Here you can admire the turning blades of the 172-megawatt Gunfleet wind turbine array or the grey masses of distant container ships Those familiar with this East Coast town will know that these qualities are in pretty short supply here – the constituency in which Nigel Farage hopes to be elected the next MP. Indeed, if George Orwell were chronicling Britain’s social failures today, this would be just the place to come.

On reading that the Maldives are to ban Israeli passport holders from entry as an alleged protest over the war in Gaza, I hooted with laughter. That dump – I wouldn’t go there if you paid me, – which is exactly what happened in 1995, when the Sunday Times sent me abroad for the very first time. I was 35, and due to a combination of being very keen on London, where I lived, and not wanting to have extra sex with my first and second husbands (which I’d heard was probable when one went en vacances) I’d never missed visiting the rest of the world. If I wanted to swim, I’d go to Brockwell Lido; if I wanted to sunbathe, I’d go and play sardines in Soho Square. But in the honeymoon stage of my relationship with my new young mistress, I was keen to show her a good time.

I’ve always loved Porto and need little excuse to visit. Not uncoincidentally, I’ve always loved port and need little excuse to drink it and so, invited to stay in this fine city and road-test its latest attraction, the ambitiously-monikered World of Wine, who was I to resist? There’s been a mixed reception to Wow locally. One person told me that it was garish and vulgar Porto is really two cities, Porto itself and Vila Nova de Gaia, separated by the mighty Douro River, along the banks of which lie the precipitous vineyards responsible for the finest of all fortified wines and some increasingly tasty red and white wines too. I was billeted in the swanky Yeatman Hotel.