Aruba, complete with red ribbon.

Aruba is a place that may have the odd church and does indeed have an interesting colonial history. There is in truth little to see in the capital of Oranjestad other than multitudes of shops, and it's largely an island people visit to indulge simple pleasures, as it enjoys unrivalled weather in the Caribbean. Located just a few miles from the Venezuelan coast, and formerly part of the Dutch Antilles, the south coast of this nineteen-mile island is home to many reefs, and so it was that we travelled out to De Palm Island, a short hop from the mainland of Aruba, to commune with nature, innit.

Now snorkelling is an activity which can compromise your look. Dressed in flippers, goggles and compulsory lifejacket, I was just glad you couldn't really recognise me. Furthermore, although it was a hot, cloudless day, the trade winds were blowing and the sea was a little choppy, to the extent where I broke rule number one (do not step on the coral) several times as water flooded my pipe-thingy/mask let in water. Once I got the hang of it there were marvellous looking creatures below, a pair of stripey ones, shoals of little red ones, a massive bright blue one. They have names, I'm sure, but the big blue one got me thinking of sharks, which in turn messed up my breathing somewhat, and led to another transgression of rule number one (do NOT step on the ****** coral you moron). In truth we lasted about twenty minutes, our preference being to enjoy ourselves rather than induce an anxiety attack through hyperventilating.

We retired to the beach, and contented ourselves with a swim in the sheltered cove. Now I've been careful so far on this trip to keep an eye on my refuelling. Careful that is, until this point.

Maybe I could blame the heat, but the fact is I let my guard down, and I let you all down. There are several expressions that cause a loss of reasoning in the average Anglo-Saxon, and 'open bar' is one such phrase. It might only have been ten-thirty, but, hey, it's always party time on Aruba (please shoot me in the face if I ever say that without irony). By lunchtime we were all a little 'tired', including the barmaid, whose weary look would I'm sure have been more contemptuous if she hadn't seen it all before a million times.

We returned to Oranjestad in the zone, and, after a few more beers, staggered aboard to fall asleep on a sun lounger. Classy.

A couple of nights previously, we had upped our game a little bit and visited Archadian Rhodes, a speciality restaurant onboard overseen by Gary Rhodes. A discreet entrance on deck two leads you into a tranquil room, dark wood, cream linen, oversize wine glasses that make you feel like a dwarf (I'm 5'6", which is way over the classification, and I'll fight anyone who begs to differ). Staff swoop silently around your table in flocks, depositing little gifts before retreating soundlessly, like ninjas in stripey waistcoats. The food was great, a tasting menu included salads, soups, scallops, steak and on and on. Now I'm sure Rhodes knows his stuff, but I would question his position on portion control. I left the chocolates that arrived with the coffee, and so did everyone else. I had persevered with dessert only because it tasted so good. We looked at each other, unable to speak, barely able to breathe, eyes pleading to be put out of our misery. There were no after-dinner drinks, no trip to the theatre or the neighbouring bars, there was only bed, and dreams of a faster metabolism.

Another day's sailing and we wil reach the Panama Canal, which everyone seems excited about. Expect a full report, largely fact-based, lacking any insight, wit or commentary.