I can't lie. I'm finishing this piece from my sofa in Brighton, my circumnavigational memories are fading faster than my suntan and I while away my days in obscurity with a never-ending pile of washing. Despite this I do feel a little smug, as it now looks like I was an early-adopter in overland (and sea) travel, long before the navy got involved. Indeed we may be responsible; if a butterfly flapping it's wings in Beijing can cause an earthquake in Peru, then the amount of sneezing and coughing on our ship can undoubtedly cause a volcanic eruption in Iceland. Still, if it means Whitney Houston has to savour the delights of the Irish Sea on a car ferry, then long may she smoulder (the volcano, not Whitney).

But let's not dwell on dark clouds when technically I'm 'reporting' from the middle east, where the skies are clear and aeroplanes take off at will. I left you in Sharm El Shekh and from there we headed for Suez. We had opted not to take a strenuous trip to the pyramids, preferring instead to relax and see what delights the canal could offer. Getting into the canal is like trying to get on an escalator at Victoria underground with a suitcase at rush hour, and we sit demurely at the entrance. The queue is enormous, and while the captain assures us there is an order to proceedings, it looks suspiciously like the big container vessels muscle in a little. We enter the canal a couple of hours late, and...it's ok. The comparisons with Panama are simply that it doesn't bear comparison with Panama - it's an entirely adequate canal but at the risk of sounding like Simon Cowell, this is a canal that needs to raise it's game and start giving 110%. I had been looking forward to seeing sand dunes by the water's edge, but although there were hints at this, we didn't get close to the famous shot in 'Lawrence of Arabia'. At 106 miles it takes a while to chug through under a speed limit and it's 8pm before we dock at Port Said to pickup the passengers who disembarked at 5am for the pyramids excursion. They look very tired.

After a day in the Med we reach Piraeus, the port for Athens. Since the 2004 Olympics the notorious smog seems to have eased and a new metro means we can get into the centre of the city relatively easily. Concerns about bandit taxi drivers turn out to be utterly unfounded and the hop-on/hop-off buses are in force once again, so it's easy enough to get around. It appears everyone has headed for the Acropolis, as the surrounding hillside is a forest of baseball caps and camera lenses. Gone are the days when visitors could clamber over the ancient ruins and now everything is fenced off, with much undergoing restoration. The Parthenon itself is partially scaffolded but still an impressive site. However, while I'm interested and all that, it's a strangely cursory experience, like being shown around a historic branch of Waitrose (...and over here is where the cheese counter would have been...). Maybe it was the crowds spoiling what should have been a peaceful, contemplative moment, or maybe I'm a Philistine. One thing that is beyond argument is that the view from the top over the city is fantastic, and worth the walk even if you don't give the iconic buildings a second glance.

We descend back to the Plaka district, a pretty maze of pedestrian streets where restaurants serve up decent tourist-specific menus that list every Greek speciality, and we tuck into some stifado, feta salad and grilled peppers. They also have a very quaint pharmacy staffed by a friendly lady who directs me to the deodorant. Before you jump to any conclusions I was not 'kicking up', as I believe the expression is. The problem was that applying a new deodorant purchased onboard was like spraying agent orange on your armpits and I was desperate to get my hands on some Sanex. Suitably fragrant, we hop on a tour bus for a quick circuit of the city before the hometime bell rings. Highlights include the absolutely wondrous old Olympics Stadium built for the inaugural modern games, the Roman Agora and the relatively modern Hellenic Parliament, complete with soldiers walking strangely at guard-changing time. We alight at Monistraki, an up and coming district where trendy bars rub shoulders with meat markets, flower markets and stalls filled with spices. Monistraki Square hosts a 17th Century Mosque and also a fleamarket whose bric-a-brac counters spill onto the surrounding narrow streets. From Monistraki it's back onto the metro for a trip back to the port and onto the next cradle of civilisation.

The thing with Rome is, it's unbeatable. If Athens has a wealth of historical riches then Rome truly has an embarrassment, to the extent where a tourist map would be better off showing you areas NOT worth looking at (Places of Disinterest, Number one: McDonalds; Number two: There is no number two). We are transferred from the port, Civitavecchia, on another stunning day to Piazza de Popolo, a large oval square with a 1300BC Egyptian obelisk at it's centre, a 16th Century arch dominating one entrance and various 17th century churches enclosing the square on either side. It's an impressive start but we pay the price for naivety and weak bladders by entering a coffee shop on the square primarily to use the facilites. It transpires that a cup of tea is five euros and a coffee six. It may be vulgar to talk about money, and not big and clever to swear, but it's f***ing criminal to charge that.

We exit the square on the Via del Babuino, which leads straight down to the Spanish Steps. Within a hundred yards I see cafes where a coffee is about 1,80 euros and curse, but mostly what I see is immaculate, stylish Italians. I knew I was coming to Rome and I've dressed up a little accordingly; however I think only David Beckham and Duncan from Blue could feel truly comfortable in this area of impeccable boutiques and pristine people - David because he looks better than most, and Duncan because he wouldn't really get it, and also he would be sulking after being told there was no KFC here. Rome is a walkable city and the weather is perfect so we wander from one visitor hotspot to another, the Trevi Fountain, Castello Angelo, the Pantheon, the Victor Emmanuel II monument, treasures all and nuzzled between buildings which don't get a mention in any but the most detailed guide book, but that would be stars of the show in a lesser city.

After a pistop by the Tyber (where the above picture was taken) we head for lunch at Piazza Navona, a tourist trap but a fabulous one. This square dates back to 100 BC when it was used as an arena for games, but is now a 15th Century Baroque medley of fountains, churches and galleries that is picture perfect. We sit outside a cafe and watch the artists and street musicians, enjoying pasta and fish with some local pink plonk. The food is good, a bit overpriced but it doesn't matter, the surcharge for the view is just about worth it.

The afternoon is drawing to a close and we head back towards our pickup point, weaving through side streets to find via Cavour, the main artery that will lead us back to Piazza de Popolo. On the way we stumble across at least half a dozen fabulous buildings that our map neglects to mention. On the main street the crowds are in full sway and spilling onto the roads. Via Cavour is where you find the flagship label shops rather than the smaller boutiques. Here, the trendy young things strut past, huge sunglasses, scarves knotted around their necks (it's 23 degrees) and shoes that would not last a British summer, never mind winter. Forget cathedrals and galleries, this is a cultural education in itself and by the time we have worked our way back to the square we are fully informed on the current Italian look, and I have had my small-minded prejudices about a certain arrogance confirmed.

The bus fills, we wait for the inevitable latecomers who are frostily welcomed onboard, and then we depart. I sleep soundly on the way back and wake to a view of the ship from the hills above Civitavecchia. As we scan our cards on the gangway everyone remarks that this will be the last time we do this, for this is the last stop before home. It's difficult to be sentimental, as there are four days at sea before we reach Southampton, but as we pull away from our berth it sinks in that the next stop is Blighty and a dose of reality.

Other news has long been possessed by showbiz, so lets concentrate on self-styled star turn of this leg, the one and thankfully the only, Bobby Davro. His act had a genuine moment of skill when he both sings and moves in time with a scratched Sinatra backing track. After that its a descent into impressions of an unfortunately proximous Asian waiter and Joe F***** Pasquale (sorry Mam, no other word will do here). There followed jokes that referenced gay people as fags and puffs and some half-decent singing. So far, so offensive.

Two nights later we were treated to Clem Curtis, former lead singer of The Foundations, who was a real star. About to turn seventy with a string of marriages behind him and enough children for a football team, Mr Curtis is obviously a bit of a lad and looks absolutely fantastic for his age. I also have it on good authority that he drank younger men under the table at the ship's bar in the days before his show. Ten seconds into his show it was obvious his voice was still there and he treated us to a string of his own hits along with other soul classics. Finishing with 'Build me up Buttercup', a track by the Foundations but not originally recorded with Curtis as the lead vocal, he was demanded back for more and more again. That's the way to do it.