The Treasury, Petra

About eighteen hours after we rejoin the ship, we get off again in Dubai and as we ease into our berth we spot the QE2 on the other side of the harbour. The former jewel in the Cunard crown is tiny by the standards of today's liners, and cuts a forlorn figure, now disused after her transformation into a floating hotel fell through when Dubai's money dried up. It's an early highlight, and in my humble opinion, there are few and far between that day. Dubai is primarily a place where people go to sunbathe in luxury hotels and go shopping. If that is what you want then Dubai is unbeatable; the climate from October to April is near-as-dammit guaranteed sunshine with low humidity, hotels such as the Burj-Al-Arab ('the sail') offer incomparable luxury and huge shopping malls offer every label conceivable.

One thing certainly worth a visit is the Burj Khalifa tower, newly constructed  and the tallest in the world not quite by a mile, but by a long way. It has a icicle type appearance and dominates the skyline, no mean feat in a city full of skyscrapers. It's linked by the new Metro which runs us to the monumental Mall of the Emirates, replete with indoor ski slope, and then down to the palm, the reclaimed islands that house villas for the rich and famous.

As a lifestyle destination I'm sure Dubai is fantastic, but as a day-trip sightseeing city, it's a bit underwhelming. Even the much touted gold Souk is merely a row of shops all selling the same thing (gold). I'm not complaining, much as it may sound like that, but I'm glad to be on our way for a few days at sea before we reach Aqaba for some proper culture, like.

Seeing the words Jordan and Petra in the same sentence is usually evidence of a misprint in an ongoing tabloid saga. Not today, however, as we've swung around in the Arabian peninsula and the notorious Gulf of Aden to Aqaba in Jordan, and are in one of a convoy of coaches climbing into the hills to visit Petra, the ancient city 'half as old as time'. Our guide is what you might call a character, possessed of a dry wit and slightly overbearing manner that entertains and grates in equal measure. The scenery en route is breathtaking, biblical vistas that until now I had only seen on Easter costume dramas, and the ninety minute journey passes by comfortably. Once at Petra there's walking and more walking; after a mile or so gradually downhill, we pass ruins of houses built as long as ago as the 3rd century BC. They are sufficiently preserved to imagine life over two thousand years ago but it's a mere taster for things to come.

The next mile is the famous chasm, most notably featured on the Indiana Jones films. The result of tectonic activity, the chasm is as narrow as ten feet wide in places, water pipes have been hewn from the rock, which is a marble mix of pink, purple and cream. This leads to the Treasury (pictured), which is actually thought to be a royal tomb and is also, incredibly, cut from the rock. This is only the beginning and we walk on and on; the site is huge and there are more temples, tombs and gates, along with kids selling postcards, dozens of camels and about a million tourists. It's another cloudless day and it's heating up making the three or so miles back up the hill a little testing. Thankfully an Egyptian buffet has been laid on in a nearby hotel and we rejoin the coach tired but satisfied.

We dock early the next morning at Sharm El Sheikh. There's a knack to dealing with Egyptian taxi drivers, and I don't have it, in fact I don't have it in spades, if that is at all possible. The cars are neatly lined up at the port entrance but the drivers come at me from all angles, shouting sky high prices for the seven miles or so to Na'ama Bay, the main resort of Sharm El Sheikh. I also have James shouting at me not to relent on the price, and want to curl up in a ball and make it all go away. I eventually stride purposefully towards a car and don't shift on price, more as a defence mechanism than natural alpha-male behaviour. The cab journey is frenetic, people walk out into the road, the cabbie lights up, changes lanes every two seconds and continues to harangue me about the price, his tip, the charge he has to pay the enter the port and the state of the nation. I look back on being locked in an office in Brighton with a wistful nostalgia and hide behind my sunglasses.

The car arrives in Na'ama bay and I'm pleased just to be out of the taxi. The resort has sprung from nothing in the last twenty years, outgunning Sharm El Sheikh itself, and is a straightforward, no-nonsense resort, a collection of pleasure palaces that start to fill with a European crowd, notably a number of Russians, as the morning goes by. Most of the beaches are private, belonging to the hotels that line the coast, separated by a promenade and assorted restaurants and bars. Behind that lies another avenue of bars with large patio areas full of low-lying sofas and armchairs. Rainfall isn't a particular worry here. It's plain that there isn't a single temple, fossil, artefact or cultural morsel to be had anywhere, and that suits us fine today as we're knackered after the trekking of yesterday (feel my pain).

We settle on a beach and buy a News of the World, the lesser of two evils as the other choice is the Mail on Sunday. The front page tells of how Robbie Williams saved Geri Halliwell from bulimia, and that David Beckham is wearing tight pants that might inhibit sperm production. I'm suitably aghast that poor Geri was in such pain, but glad that she felt she could reach out to Robbie, who is renowned for his expertise in this area. Enriched by the detailed coverage of the election (Gordon's 'ad it!), we sunbathe, swim and meander along the beach until we find a shady spot for lunch. It's a resort you could spend a relaxing week in, but make sure you take a good book or two.

Other news today concentrates on the serious matter of piracy. We've been making our way from Dubai to Aqaba via the Gulf of Aden, not far from the Somali coast. Piracy is a genuine threat, though usually to slower container craft, but we have to take action. Some measures seem modest at best; staff blockade the pool deck at the back of the ship with stacked-up sunbeds, we are asked to keep off our balconies and the promenade deck and to switch off all lights after nightfall. I'm guessing they have to tell us this for insurance purposes, as the lights of the main public areas on the ship remain lit, so I don't think the snuffing of my low-wattage balcony light will render us invisible.

Other measures are more impressive. Water canon are rigged at various points on the promenade deck and naval vessels with big, proper guns accompany us at a distance. A while back I had a tour of the bridge and asked for confirmation if they used sonic blasts to deter intruders. A friend of mine manitained that guns that fired white noise at appraching boats were more effective than bullets as the noise was unbearable for humans. Amazingly this was confirmed by the first officer and Arcadia does have what is effectively a big sound gun. However our biggest weapon is speed - Arcadia can reach 25 knots, which is easily faster than the fishing vessels that pirates use - indeed most pirates are actually fishermen muscled out of business by big business and so have nothing to lose.  

We also have to take part in a drill one morning where we all retreat to our cabins, close our curtains, turn off the lights and then retire to the corridor. Comically, we're kept informed of the imaginary threat over the tannoy, a pretence that is stretched to the limit and concludes with an imaginary escape. The captain thanks us for our cooperation, icily omitting those who found the conclusion of their breakfast more important than the safety of fellow passengers. That's them told.