TUCKER'S TRAVELS

HAVE CHILDREN WON'T TRAVEL..UNLESS ITS TO THE ORANGE TREE THEATRE AT 11.30 ON 13TH NOVEMBER...

2010-11-03T02:04:00.000-07:00

I am talking at the Orange Tree Theatre in Richmond at 11.30 on 13th November about travelling with children, or rather how to not travel with children. I've just returned from the most wonderful experience in India with my eleven year old, and it's given me new ideas about how to travel and encourage others to travel. We saw tigers, ate curry for breakfast (I don't eat breakfast at home so eating curry for breakfast was a step I hadn't anticipated) but as the chef taught Jamie Oliver everything he knows about Indian cooking, it was the best meal I've ever tasted (care of Oberoi Rathambore). Tom learnt to cook Indian, planted a lemon tree and several herbs (long story) and learnt how to manipulate Indian puppets which were magical in every sense. Saw the Amber Fort, the Observatory, 19 hours of road travel all of it like watching an India I've seen so much on TV - colourful and hypnotic. Took a wonderful yoga class which taught me why I was in the position I have been in for the past ten years (they never explain in UK classes - not the ones I go to anyway) and went to a spirit ceremony giving offerings to various Gods. Tom painted on silk and I went to the Gem Palace in Jaipur and had a fascinating talk on politics and philosophy by the owner Sanjay. We were treated like Gods.

BURNING AMBITIONS

2010-07-06T07:12:00.000-07:00

The English are to beach life what John Sergeant was to

Strictly Come Dancing. Sarah Tucker explores the riddle of the sands

Work this one out. Every week, at my local gym, I observe a sea of

men and women with their personal trainers, pedalling, spinning and

kickboxing their way to a peak of physical perfection. Yet whenever I find myself on the beach in the South of France, I never see these toned folk at all. Perhaps it’s because they all have their own holiday homes, or even – knowing the clientele at this club – their own private sandyplage.

Even so, no matter where I am, I can always spot the Englishman on a beach.

Whatever the weather – rain, wind, hail or heat – he will be out in it, fighting them on the beaches with a grim determination that would make Winston Churchill proud. Admittedly, we Brits see the sun less often than most, which may account for our excess of adulation when we do. I remember once visiting Turkey when it was so hot – think oven on at regulo plenty – that the government closed all its offices for a week and innumerable chickens died. Whether the second event was directly consequential upon the first is

anyone’s guess. Either way, while fowl and bureaucrat floundered, the nutty English struggled on, baking, burning and dehydrating in their own inimitable way. The results were unedifying in the extreme: a beach is one place where few people look prettier in pink. Another sure sign of an Englishman on

the beach is the noise. The art of gliding silently across the sand with minimal fuss, exuding confidence and stealth, has yet to establish itself in the standard Anglo- Saxon repertoire. Especially not in the case of short people, who – for some curious evolutionary reason – invariably have the loudest voices. I may be lying at the other end of the Cap D’Antibes, but if my fellow beach dwellers are English and under five foot five, I will still be able to get the low- down on Heather’s hysterectomy or Tracey’s stunning GCSEs.

Furthermore, the English almost all behave as though they’ve never previously encountered sand. Apparently fearful of being sucked in by this alien substance, they tiptoe tentatively across the strand to the most inconspicuous spot they can find– unless, of course, they are short, in

which case the very concept of lying low is about as appealing as prohibition to a brewer.

Yet despite the English beach preference for avoiding the limelight, we invariably choose a spot with a good view of everyone else. To the English, a beach is essentially a widescreen TV for which the licence comes free of charge. We are a nation of beach voyeurs, watching furtively as those of less decorous stock have their uninhibited fun in the sun. And why not? On the beach, there is plenty to see – and, in certain countries, much of it is legalised porn. For me, the world’s best ‘body watching’ beaches are in Brazil, closely followed by those in Sydney, where bikinis and trunks leave just enough to the imagination, and where the concept of a beach bum takes on a whole different slant. And then there’s California, from which I’ve just returned.

This too is replete with the honed and the toned.

As for nudist beaches, you won’t find the best bodies here, but you will see more of them. Furthermore, everyone is very polite and deeply aware of personal space. No one looks intently at anyone else. In fact, by a none-too-gentle irony, nudist beaches provide the ultimate proof of what every red-blooded man and woman instinctively knows: that wearing a little

something is infinitely sexier than pitching up in nothing at all.

So, if you’re thinking of baring all on the beach this summer, don’t be tempted

to have a peek in the neighbouring dune. Take a good book instead.

All beached up: Sarah’s top tips

For children a beach is a beach, whether it’s in California or Cornwall. As long as their parents are there playing with them – or, in the case of teenagers, paying for them – they’ll have fun. But for the best and safest beaches, look for the Blue Flag eco-label, awarded worldwide to over 3,200 beaches and marinas. Visit: www.blueflag.org

Don’t pitch your spot too close to other

people. Think ‘mind the gap’. Leave enough room for people to pass, but not

enough for other families or couples to pinch the space in between.

Dress for your size and shape, not for fashion. That’s what other cultures do.

But don’t cover up – it’s a beach, for goodness sake, so be brave! With

properly fitting gear, you won’t even want to cover up. In any case, no one will

be looking – except the other English.

Don't stay on the beach all day. Take two hours for lunch, to cool down, talk to each other (eek!) and give the skin a rest. You’ll still get your money's worth.

SETTING SAIL

2010-07-06T07:08:00.000-07:00

Every year thousands of Brits spend their holidays afloat. But what happens when shipmates fall out? Sarah Tucker finds that it isn’t all plain sailing at sea

I’m a landlubber. Don’t ask me why. Perhaps I’ve watched Titanic or The

Perfect Storm a few too many times, not to mention The Poseidon Adventure. Like most people, I had enormous admiration for Dame Ellen MacArthur when she sailed single-handed around the world. But although I would be game for a great many challenges, that is not one of them. Notwithstanding my own reservations, however, the popularity of ‘learn to’ sailing holidays has soared by 50% in recent years, thanks to the professionalism of companies

such as Sunsail (www.sunsail.co.uk) and Neilson(www.neilson.co.uk). In addition, the likes of Minorca Sailing (www.minorcasailing.co.uk), Wildwind

(www.wildwind.co.uk) and Seafarer Sailing (www.seafarersailing.co.uk) specialize in particular regions. And, of course, there are the canal and long boat holidays on which the pace is slightly slower; less demanding

on the reflexes than the ocean-going capers for which Dame Ellen is famed.

But beware: sailing can seriously damage your relationships. A few years back I hired a boat with Crown Blue Line (www.crownblueline.com) on the stunning Canal du Midi in France (www.canal-du- midi.org). It was four-berth, spotlessly clean and very comfortable, and after about half an hour of instruction on how to start, stop and steer it, the three intrepid mariners – my son, my boyfriend and I –were let loose with this £40,000 vessel, armed with barrels of enthusiasm and not much else.

Drifting blissfully towards the oyster beds of the Étang de Thau and the colourful seaside town of Sète, I noticed a curious phenomenon. At every lock we approached a war of words was under way, as the canal boats jostled for position. The English queued patiently; the Italians pushed in; the French had no concept of queuing at all. The cacophonous sound of multi-lingual swearing filled the balmy Languedoc air. Nor was the verbal sparring confined to the battles between boats: as often as not, it was couples and families in the same floating paradise that were going at it hammer and tongs. At the start of the week the crew would be happy enough; by

the end it was mutinous, with at least one member walking along the towpath rather than spend another moment aboard. If communication with your partner is already poor, this kind of holiday stands every chance of breaking the relationship altogether. I witnessed so many screaming matches between I presume normally loving couples, relationship counsellors would do well to hold surgeries or at least advertise at the many port stops and locks on route. Harbour masters and in one case a mistress pulled out their hair at the haphazard way in which novices like ourselves tried to navigate between expensive yachts and fishing boats, shouting at us as though we were trying to park a smart car in an empty car park and failing at all turns. Our boat managed to bash into three yachts and a dingy, leaving that particular harbour mistress completely speechless. Either that or she had shouted so much she’d been left without voice. She simply stared at us as we finally managed to find our mooring, looking stony faced and incredulous. We only stayed one night there although strangely all the yachts decided to leave that night, probably for fear of accruing even more damage during our departure.

But at least on this type of boat one can get off pretty well whenever and wherever one likes. Not so with full-scale cruising. The monumental floating palaces that patrol the azure sea may seem like luxury hotels, but checking out is no easy task. Come to blows with your spouse in the middle of the Indian Ocean and you’re in for the full 12 rounds. Of course, it’s better if the ship is a large one, enabling the fugitive partner to get lost amongst the crowds. When my son was about seven, we went on a Royal Caribbean (www.royalcaribbean.co.uk) cruise around Mexico and Miami. At each

brief stop I chose an itinerary that would give us both a taste of the local wildlife.

Searching for alligators, swimming with dolphins and stingrays, we hurriedly made the most of our pause. Had we been so inclined, however, we could happily have remained on the ship, where the entertainment was such that many passengers never went ashore at all. Plied with twenty four hour food in such proportions that I didn’t want to eat anything, they made full use of the ever lasting buffet although the extensive gym and fitness studio remained eerily empty and ghost-like for the duration of our stay. Why hang out with a dubious bunch of reptiles, they reasoned, when on board there were climbing walls, an ice rink and nightly shows that wouldn’t have disgraced the West End?

Yet the fact remains: once the ropes are untied, you’re trapped. This was brought home to me years ago when I went on a Star Clipper trip (www.starclipper.co.uk) off Thailand. It’s a very good company

and, as small cruises go, this one could scarcely have been bettered. After a while, however, it became apparent that one couple on board could barely stand to be on the same planet, let alone the same ship. The bloke had had a fling with someone else on the first night, his girlfriend had discovered them, and for the next seven days the three protagonists were forced to

exist in excruciating proximity. The couple’s cabin – wouldn’t you just know

it? – was right next to mine, and night after night, like scenes from Dynasty or Dallas, the screaming matches dragged on into the dawn. There was no escape for any of us. And that’s the problem with cruising.

Rarely is there time to learn much about the places one visits, but I guarantee that you will learn a great deal about each other. Perhaps that’s why Dame Ellen chose to sail the world alone. Forget Cape Horn. Hell is other people.

MARATHON FEAT

2010-07-06T07:07:00.001-07:00

As I write, I’ve just completed the marathon. It took the best part of

five hours and I have nothing but admiration for those who habitually push

themselves through the pain barrier, often to raise money for good causes. I saw a side of London that I hadn’t previously known existed: a positive, supportive collective in the face of adversity, all pushing in the same direction for good. But it wasn’t just the seething mass of diversely attired runners who found themselves caught up in a marathon this spring: it was also the multitudes of unsuspecting travellers who fell foul of the now notorious ash cloud, as a bankrupted, vilified Iceland finally got its own back on

the world.

Call me irresponsible, but I loved it. For one glorious April week, with no planes flying over Richmond and surrounds, the din of the 21st Century gave way to sweet peace and quiet. The chance to hear oneself think, to be woken up by the heady sound of birdsong – rather than the Boeing 747 from Toronto – was a wonder beyond compare. For a short while each morning the silence was deafening, until the daily gaggle of bare-chested builders

descended upon our street to resume its reconstruction of the world. Yes there were the trains and cars but somehow it seemed natural and right to have nothing hovering overhead for the first time in I don’t know how many years.

Nor was this crisis of the air lanes without its comic side. I couldn’t help but

smile at the idea of the British Airways boss going up in a ‘tester’ plane to see if it was safe to fly. If it had crashed, presumably, we would all have rested in

peace – some of us for eternity. It didn’t, of course, and on the seventh day the aviatorial powers – prompted, perhaps, by the horror of losing millions of pounds –decreed that we were dealing, after all, with the right sort of volcanic ash. Normal service was duly restored. By then, however, we had succeeded in creating a drama out of a crisis. In the absence of real mountains, we Brits are generally forced to make our own out of molehills. Yet here was a deluxe kind of mountain that obligingly exploded before our eyes. It was one of those surreal tales generally confined to the pages of an improbable thriller. Only this time it was for real.

But the story wasn’t the ash cloud itself: it was the variety of ways – ranging from the lacklustre to the positively intrepid –in which those stranded overseas decided to make their way home. Some saw no reason to rush and decided to stay put in paradise. An extra week in San Francisco or the Maldives, or a routine week commuting on the tube? You choose. TV crews trawling the beauty spots of the world had a hard time finding Mr Angry, as the great shutdown became the perfect excuse for indolence underpinned by a

stoical rationale. The British, true to form, were the most indolent of all. As one traveller smugly put it: “We are all pawns of nature.”

Others ordered taxis – celebs and self- important business people, mainly, who forgot the truism that no one, but no one, is unexpendable, and who felt that a few grand spent on getting home was worth it for the sake of the few more they would lose if they didn’t make some sort of effort.

Then there were those who took whatever planes were flying to get as near home as they could, progressing from Cyprus to Rome to Prague as though travelling to Waterloo from Liverpool Street via Bank. Others again hitched lifts up the motorway through Spain and France on the kind of articulated lorry normally scowled upon by British drivers, or even hired a car for themselves. This, however, proved distinctly uneconomic: I know of one man who paid £3,000 for the pleasure of being driven back home. But at least it

was safer than hiring a glider, as another of my acquaintances tried to do.

And then, of course, there were the folk who hitched a lift with Celebrity Cruises, sailing back from Bilbao in northern Spain on the new luxury liner Celebrity Eclipse. The vessel will now be forever known as the ‘rescue’ ship – which, as epitaphs go, is one up on that of Titanic. Curiously, the

launch of the ship – celebrations for which were put on hold during the unscheduled mission of mercy – had received scant coverage until the volcano spluttered in ire.

Everyone, it seems, was summoned to the rescue of our countrymen abroad. A friend of mine at the Press Association was inundated with calls and emails beseeching him to organise boats and trains for the collection of the stranded masses. He’s a travel editor, by the way. That means that he doesn’t actually do anything – he simply writes about those who do. But finally we sent in the Navy – or Mr Brown did, no doubt enjoying the last vestiges of power as he sailed into a sunset of his own – and soon everyone was safely back home, noses to the grindstone and grumpy with it. I should know, because the day after ‘normal’ life resumed, and the planes began drowning out the thrushes

once more, I met an obnoxious banker – ill fitting suit and lazy left eye - on the tube who chided me for not telling my son to give him his seat. In truth, the guy didn’t look old enough to warrant it – he just looked tanned and smug and annoyed there was no business class on the tube. Such a shame he wasn’t one of the stranded souls who stayed put.

BEEN THERE GOT THE T SHIRT

2010-07-06T07:03:00.000-07:00

You would be amazed at some of the tasteless junk that people bring back from their travels. Souvenir sceptic Sarah Tucker sorts out the wheat from the chaff

I have a passion for rings. In fact, I’m fast running out of fingers on which to wear them. The present count is nine – rings, that is, not fingers. It all started in Canada during a visit to Halifax, Nova Scotia, when I wandered into a craft fair at which a woman was selling beaded rings in a variety of colours.

I bought one. Now I have rings from all around the globe. India, Prague, France, Italy, USA: not even darkest Chiswick has escaped my emptorious reach. It’s a kind of motivation tool: each time I have a book published, a beautiful ring is my reward. Of course, swanning around town like

an outcrop of Hatton Garden has its price. Again and again I am asked to tell the story behind each ring – where I bought, why I bought, from whom I bought and so on. I have so many now, I have made them into a necklace tied together with a piece of fine leather given to me in Brazil by a guy I met on a beach. The necklace is now too heavy to wear but I still do the rings.

But I don’t mind. My collection is a pleasant and constant reminder of my diverse travels, like an indelible photo in the mind that instantly flashes up each time I look at my hands. Rarely, however, do I feel the need on a journey to purchase something just for the sake of it. Ring addiction aside – along with a penchant for First Nation Canadian sculpture (eagles, turtles, dancing bears mostly) – I am not a great one for souvenirs. They have an in-built tendency to disappoint, frequently catching the eye in their natural habitat while failing to look the part back home. No matter how boho you think you are Richmond Hill does a pale imitation of deepest Rajasthan.

Of course, some mementos are actually very practical. I always travel light,

buying my T-shirts on location, and these can double up as souvenirs. Mind you, I draw the line at the ‘I’ve been to Hayling Island’ variety, as I know how I react to other people wearing such stuff. The word ‘prat’ comes effortlessly to mind. This is probably why I find souvenir shops at airports, hotels, resorts and so on a complete waste of space, designed for those benighted folk whom nature has failed to bless with imagination. What sort of being, pray, invests in ‘Our Mother’ ear muffs at Lourdes, or that disgusting durian

fruit at Bangkok airport? Apparently, one can even buy the latter in crisp form. Mais pour qui, je demande?

As it happens, it’s my 10-year-old son who chooses the best souvenirs on our

travels. He has a thing for snow globes, but we’ve had so many of the bloomin’ things confiscated from our hand luggage at customs – they’re liquid, after all – that I try to keep him away from that counter. In any case, a polished, odd-shaped pebble rescued from a Cornish beach has far

greater meaning than a much reproduced painting of a view that is tired before you’ve handed over the credit card. When he was five, my son wrote a diary of his first safari. Badly spelt and painful to write – for it was heartless mother who made him bash it out on location – it is still the best souvenir of any journey I’ve ever shared with XXXX. With its wonderful and enchanting photos capturing a moment’s delight and awakening, its drawings of elephants that look more like lions and its short, spiky sentences

rejoicing in the lions’ indolent delight –well, ok, he didn’t quite put it like that – it was a classic of the genre. Much better (and cheaper) than a stuffed fluffy tiger toy, of a kind that I could easily have bought at Hamleys. Each holiday he still produces a diary, spelling much improved, photos more in focus and drawings much more recognizable but as delightful, and shares his voyage with his friends at school. Last year he presented a talk on becoming a mahout, having learnt how to ride and control an elephant (guided needless to say by other mahouts), and has started a trend amongst his school friends on presenting their travel tales and diaries.

Back in the adult world, one of my most unusual and inspired souvenirs came from a recent trip to California. Here I visited the Ojai Spa Resort, set in a stunning part of the state, 15 miles inland and a good 10 degrees hotter than LA. You can learn to surf, ride, play golf and generally do a multitude of things – or not, as the mood dictates –while the spa has a wide range of signature treatments designed to relax, detox and invigorate you, though preferably not all at the same time. Here too is the most enchanting, inspired and

original concept I’ve encountered in a very long time: the apothecary’s cottage. This place offers an art programme which includes silverpoint drawing and silk scarf painting, as well as the chance to create and christen your own personal scent of essential therapeutic oils. I called my heady mix of orange and ylang ylang Oomph– which is exactly what my stay at

the Ojai Spa gave me. One can also create a ‘mandala’ – a cosmic diagram reminding us of our relation to the infinite – for nterpretation by the amazing Rea, who I think is a white witch, albeit a lovely one.

Needless to say, my own drawing revealed me to be extremely creative (lots

of orange, blues and reds), in touch with my subconscious (plenty of black leggy spiders) and possessing a dark side (red mountains pointing upwards, as mountains of all colours generally do). Mind you, my ex-husband could have told you that bit without the drawing.

Whatever, it’s a unique souvenir of a unique and soulful resort, literally leaving

you with the essence of the place and your time there. I shall return to Ojai for more sunshine and oomph. As for the ear muffs and crassly sloganed T-shirts, it’s a case of goodbye to all tat.

AWAKENING THE PAST

2010-07-06T07:02:00.000-07:00

Childhood holidays live long in the soul. But returning to the scene is a risk. Sarah Tucker explores the pros and cons of going back

Every year, over a million of us return to the resort we visited the summer

before. Travel writers may wax lyrical about the lure of unfamiliar destinations,

but when it comes to holidays, the majority of Brits seem determined to play

it safe. And there's nothing wrong with that. Annual leave is a precious commodity –squander it, and the chances are that you’ll be waiting 12 more months for a shot at heaven on earth.

But for some British holidaymakers –around 100,000 each year – the retro pull extends further than the previous summer. These are the ones who, drawn by a potent mix of curiosity and nostalgia, elect to return to their childhood holiday haunts, travelling hopefully back to the land of

lost content. The idea has a powerful appeal. Yet in reality, paradise can be maddeningly hard to regain. The coasts of Europe, for example, have fallen prey to the snare of overdevelopment, and many resorts once full of charm are merging slowly into the concrete jungle. At disturbingly frequent

intervals along the Med, memory lane has turned into the highway to hell.

Recently, after gaps of 30 years, two colleagues of mine each made a pilgrimage to their respective pasts. One travelled to the central Algarve, in Portugal, the other to the east coast of Spain. Both returned

horribly depressed.

The first was horrified at the maze of kiss-me-quick English breakfast banners, the proliferation of flat vowels and bad architecture, and the mass of blubbery burnt skin packed onto beaches that were a shadow of their former selves. Gone were the quaint and mildly eccentric hotels, with their quaint and mildly eccentric owners, replaced by skyscrapers that seared the soul. And the little restaurants that once offered menus using only local produce, simply prepared with no concessions to foreign tastes, had evolved into ghetto-blasting bars with everything from pole dancers to 24-hour Sky TV. A travel writer herself, my colleague wondered ruefully if her words of praise had helped to kill the place she had so admired all those years ago.

My second acquaintance returned to a resort which, on the face of it, had actually gone up-market. In her eyes, however, it had deteriorated into an equally soulless sham. Here the City boys and their families – the only ones who could afford the inflated prices – thronged the array of charmless hotels and restaurants, showering their brand of emptiness upon a place where money screamed.

For my colleague, who returned depressed from what she witnessed, it was a painfully metaphorical jolt. Once, in that vanished childhood when she was last here, she had dreamed of being a dancer, an actress, an artist. Now she herself worked in the City. Like the haven of her youth, she had sold out to the silver dollar.

Of course, it doesn’t have to be like that. Retracing childhood steps can help to foster the realisation of how far one has come in life – not just materially, but spiritually and emotionally too. Such feelings were what I experienced

upon my return to Emilia Romagna, the prosperous region of Italy where I spent many happy holidays as a child. Here, in the breadbasket of the old Roman Empire, lived some of the greatest cultural talents of the 20th Century – Pavarotti, Toscanini and Verdi, to name but three. Here too you will find the best Italian food: Pecorino and ricotta cheeses, prosciuotto and parma hams, balsamic vinegar prugnolo wild mushrooms, Romagnola beef, Civitella cherries and white truffles. It is a veritable feast of the best produce in Europe if not the world although as a child I was totally oblivious of the cultured delights of the place, only recognizing it as a magnificent maze in which to play hide and seek with my parents.

For seven years, from the ages of 9-16, I visited this place. My father would drive our car mercilessly south, pounding the autoroutes and autostrasse and pausing only for the odd double espresso, until finally we reached the seaside town of Cesenatico, perched neatly behind its brasher neighbour, Rimini. Here we would pitch tent in a campsite five minutes’ walk from the beach. I would each day go to the beach and make friends with the local Italian families who had none of the English reticence of being best buddies on the first meeting. In my teenage years I discovered my first romance, not with an Italian but an English student with large blue eyes. The only English girl and the only English girl, but alas many Italian stunners who broke my heart with him, one by one by one.

A quarter of a century later, Cesenatico had lost none of its charm. I even met some of the Italian girls who have turned to pasta and to fat. They have lost their charm. As for the blue eyed boy, I know not what became of him but Cesenatico echoes with the romance it had for me as a young woman. Nor had Forli, the architecturally refined town where they sold the best ice cream, and where the ornate square was ideal for chase and tag. This time round, I took my nine-year-old son to play the same games with his forty- something mother.

Revisiting the past reinforced my positive feelings about the present. I

reflected that, although life’s journey had sometimes been rocky – not unlike those long drives down to the campsite – I was where I wished to be.

At nine, somewhat implausibly, I had wanted to be an angel. I figured that I’d be able to travel the world for free, landing whenever and wherever I wanted, pouring happiness or disdain upon those I loved or loathed. Today I am certainly no angel, but looking back at my childlike criteria, I suppose that being a travel writer comes close. IFor more on Emilia Romagna visit:

www.emiliaromagnaturismo.it

ANIMAL PASSIONS

2010-07-06T07:00:00.000-07:00

You can’t beat seeing animals in the wild. But the real deal comes

at a price. Sarah Tucker finds that risk and reality are natural

companions on the wildlife holiday trail

Animals look best in the wild. That was what struck me when I first

went on safari some 20 years ago and watched them gradually appear –

zebra, giraffe, buffalo, lions – at a waterhole in the Addo National Park in

South Africa. Here, they said, I would be more likely to see an elephant than

anywhere else in the world. And I did. Now, I’m no David Attenborough, but

there is a happiness about animals in the wild which is quite foreign to those in captivity. True, from our human point of view, captive creatures have a certain appeal. One does not generally have to it long for them to appear – although I did once hang on for almost half an hour at London Zoo, waiting for some curiously shy polar bears to come out and take their bow, only to be told that they weren’t actually there at all. Perhaps there was a moral in the story: convenience should not be the prime consideration when it comes

to watching our fellow creatures at play. Perhaps the best place to see wildlife at its most interesting is the Galapagos, the wondrous, volcanic archipelago in the Pacific to which I recently travelled with my son. Here the giant tortoises and haughty iguanas lay side by side with cows

and other domestic animals in an utterly incongruous cohabitation. Stunning

though they were, the islands were overpopulated with camera-clicking

Americans, who splashed around with the turtles and seals and dolphins and sharks in their pursuit of the perfect shot. Yet the animals remained placid, as unenchanted by us as we were enchanted by them – and not a cage or aquarium in sight.

Of course, there are times when a degree of incarceration works wonders. I have always been dubious of attractions that call themselves ‘lands’, as if the world, in all its brutal beauty, could be made to conform to some sanitised blueprint of our own. So when I visited a place called Monkey Land in South Africa, I fully expected a Disneyfied destination where one could gawp mindlessly at the monkeys, as they delighted and amused us with their tricks and imitations of man.

What I actually got was rather different. Our guide became very animated as he led us round, explaining that the place was effectively a wildlife psychiatric ward. The monkeys, formerly pets or the sidekicks of organ grinders, had been abused by their owners not just physically, but mentally

too. No longer wild, they required protection from other animals in the

nearby forests, as they would otherwise be attacked and killed – more than likely by the baboons. To us they were ‘friendly’, wanting to be fed, and some rocked from side to side like toddlers in search of comfort in their pain. It made for a distressing scene. When one of our group remarked upon

the cruelty of the baboons, the guide turned on him, his face a sea of flame. The baboons, he said, were doing exactly what they were meant to be doing; it was the animals inside the fence who were sick, and we were the ones who had made them so. I left with the strong impression that our guide had more time for animals than for human beings. And I agree with him. I never cease to be horrified by the quaint little customs that countries exploit to lure visitors from abroad: bullfighting in Spain, throwing donkeys out of windows in Portugal and –sorry, but I have to say it – foxhunting in our green and pleasant land. Banned it may be, but its spirit refuses to go away. Seal culling in northern Canada may be a necessity, but the degree of brutality involved carries with it the stale odour of relish. And though I’m looking forward to visiting Japan, I loathe its attitude towards animals – especially dolphins and whales. Still, at least the Japanese treat their elderly better than we do.

Often holidays involving animals tread a very fine line between authentic and

commercial. I believe there is nothing wrong with that, provided the line is not crossed. Ranching done properly, with due care for the horses, is a good example of how to get it right. So too is real safari, where you could easily be eaten if you do anything silly. I like that. It’s somehow fairer; more respectful of the food chain.

But the best expression of this food chain logic that I have ever encountered

was in Canada, when I interviewed a forest ranger in the Yukon for TV. We’d been filming for several weeks and had already seen grizzly bear and moose, kayaked down the Tashanini Rivers and spotted bald headed eagles – of which, to the great amusement of Canadians, there are more in Canada than the USA. The previous year an English couple out walking had been attacked and eaten by a grizzly. The papers were full of it, and many Canadians feared that the British public would think that grizzlies had a cultivated taste for English blood. The local ranger, however, was unimpressed. Would it help, I asked him, if there were paths in the parks so that people couldn’t get lost? No good, he said: paths would destroy the environment. But they could have saved the lives of those people, couldn’t they? They didn’t have to walk in the park – no one asked them to. But they

wanted to see the wildlife, I reasoned. Well, they did, replied the ranger – it ate them. Yes, but, er, it’s not exactly good for tourism, is it......if the tourists get eaten? “The bears were here first,” was the ranger’s succinct reply.

The bears were here first. I like that answer. Animals may indeed be at their

best in the wild. The point is: we aren’t.