What we are about to yearn for is Scouting for liberals. And there's a name for it. It's called glamping. (That's glamorous camping for those of you who are slow at word and concept combining.) Never before have camping and glamour come together. Indeed, they've never been in the same sentence before. Camping is almost by definition the absence of glamour. But here we are, in the bush, in some distant savannah, on a river bank. There is a crackling fire on which a clever native bakes brioche and ciabatta in an old tin trunk. The Chablis is chilling, a camp table is set with napkins and a storm lantern. The only glitzy thing here is the Milky Way, and in the distance some questing creature calls. And sat next to you is a guide who has a degree in biology, astronomy, geology and anthropology, and a chest you could tee golf balls off.
And tomorrow it will all be gone, as if it had never happened. You will leave nothing behind; the whole lot will be packed away into a discreet 10-tonne truck and whisked off to another virgin caravanserai. You have the enormous smug satisfaction of owning not only a singular experience but an unimpeachably organic and green one.
This is a fantasy of ruggedness, a nursery play version of the wild. It is Marie Antoinette's weekend picnic farm, which is fine by me: given the choice between Marie's and a real farm, I'm with the French queen every time. What I mind about this is that however risible and embarrassing and tasteless big, expensive honeymoon holidays are, they do exist in real places and employ real indigenous people, and pay for somebody's economy, putting real kids through school so that they can grow up and be businessmen and come and have holidays with us. This Peter Pan camping adventure slips through the beautiful bits of the world leaving not a trace and very little cash.
I asked the man who was selling glamping to me what the most important thing about this new moveable feast was. He thought for a moment, and smiled, and said: âDimmer switches. And proper lavatories.' So there you have it. The latest must-have extravagance, the chic one-upmanship, is a flushing bog in the outback. We live in momentous times.
Italians may lack a sense of
humour, but Rome is still the
ultimate holiday destination.
Someone once said that to be born Italian and male was to have won first prize in the lottery of life. I think it was me. I seem to remember that I added a caveat to the encomium â that to be born Italian and a woman was to have pulled a position between a fish and a dog from life's tombola. Italian men have gilded existences in direct proportion to their women's sullied ones. One of the reasons women have such a dowdy time in Italy is because Italian men are so much better at being women than they are. There is, beyond the Alps, that magical formula for being a properly masculine big girl.
Italian men shop better than most women. They care more about their appearance, their hair, their nails and the thread-count of sheets. Italian men have an unnatural affinity with cashmere. They're the only subspecies of bipedal hominid who can wear a pale pink v-neck sweater draped over their shoulders and go out in public, without it being part of some cruel dare or bet. They have apparently cracked the great mating conundrum, the design fault of mankind: how on earth do you have all the fun of being a bloke, with all the emotional range of being a bird? Italian men are able to talk on mobile phones for up to an hour. Not only is that way longer than any other style of man on the planet, it's longer than penguins can hold their breath underwater. Not only that, but they can do it while talking to other men.
I once wrote an article pointing out that the reason Northern European women loved Italian men was because it was like having a girlfriend with a willy. Which, incidentally, is why Italian women get such a hard time from them. It was a light-hearted, affectionate article, but it was noticed by the Italian press, who paraphrased it with infuriated exclamation marks, and a TV chat show called me and said they would fly me to Rome for the weekend and pay me a few hundred million lire if they could interview me. Fine. So I went.
The Maurizio Costanzo Show is a bit of an Italian institution and it's recorded in front of a large audience in a theatre. So, Maurizio asked, what did I mean by impugning the masculinity of Italian men? I smiled â a winningly Stilton grin, because obviously this was light-hearted joshing â and told him that, as we spoke, the European soccer cup was being played in England, and that the only national team that had made an official complaint were the Italians, who had wailed that there weren't hair dryers in their dressing rooms. I looked at the audience and waited for the chuckles of recognition and the guffaws of self-deprecation. Silence. And 2000 people stared back at me with a collective âand your point is?' expression.
Naturally the Italian men would complain that there were no hair dryers. Look at their hair. They had beautiful hair. It was a national treasure. And it was typical that the English, a cold philistine nation that fried fish in pastry and cut their hair with breadknives because the bread was already sliced, were too uncivilised to put hair dryers in dressing rooms. And what about the foot spas and manicure sets? It was at this moment, wallowing in the hostile Latin embrace, that I realised another great truth about Italians of all genders. They have absolutely no sense of humour.
After the show, we went and had dinner and I walked through the city. It was summer, and it was warm and clear. I'd never really been to Rome before. I'd been to Italy dozens of times, flown into Rome and driven out. I'd been saving the Eternal City for a special occasion. We walked through a series of opera sets. One square led into another like scene changes. We went to a party in a palazzo that had been built by Michelangelo. They all spoke Italian and wore cashmere sweaters over their shoulders, so I stared out the window at the frieze of black cypresses, cupolas, domes and columns silhouetted against the navy blue sky, and I smelled the evening pines, wine and the dust of ages, and listened to the mopeds and the tinny hee-haw of Fiat police cars and the incessant babble of Italians talking on mobile phones.
I knew in that moment two things: one, that the reason Italians don't have a sense of humour is because they don't need one. The point of jokes and having a laugh is to cheer yourself up, to make a miserable life a little better. If you live in Wigan, you need a sense of humour. Italian men don't need to swap jokes because they are already quite happy being Italian men. What Italians have instead of jokes is a boundless, inexhaustible sense of fun. All the things that made you chuckle before you could walk continue to make an Italian laugh until he dies. Italians love to tickle each other. You'll see middle-aged men in business suits tickling each other in the street and squirming happily. They also pinch, slap, ruffle, chuck and talk in falsetto voices. It makes them happy.
The second thing I realised was that, from now on, every year that I didn't spend some time in Rome would be wasted, and if I were allowed only one more trip to one more place in my life, it would be here, without a second thought. All the other options â the magic places, beaches, cities, mountains, deserts, rivers, cottages, palaces and sandcastles â faded in comparison to Rome. It isn't just the beauty and the grandeur; it's the depth, the great experience of it. Rome knows more than any other place on earth. The word âcivilisation' shares a latin root with âcivic' â meaning city. This is the city that invented, grew and exported Western civilisation. And 2500 years later, it's still effortlessly the best at it. And thank God (who also lives here) it's looked after by the Italians. Imagine if Rome were a German city, or Hungarian, French, or Austrian? It nearly happened.
The next morning, standing in the Piazza Navona with a Roman friend, I asked dreamily: Why doesn't everyone live here? A millennium ago, the whole Western world dreamed of living in Rome. We could do it now. Why don't we all move here? Why don't we all have our offices in Rome?
Ah, he said, arranging his powder-pink cashmere sweater and regarding his reflection in a shop window, we thought of this. It is impossible. For starters, you need a miracle to get a phone connected here. To get a fax, you need to be the Pope, and even God can't get broadband. Nobody could do business in Rome. Scuzi ⦠and he answered his mobile.
Most travel writers can't stand
them, but beaches provide the
most soulful experience you can
find this side of the grave.
One of the very few things that all travel writers hold in common is an effete disdain of beaches. We don't do seaside, unless it's ironic or nostalgic. Beaches are for holidays, and travel writers don't do holidays. Holidays are for amateurs, pedestrians. A beach is a sandpit for grown-ups. It's an infantilising experience where the crowds regress through a childish, supine idiocy. On sand a man will wear toddler clothes in colours and patterns that he wouldn't dream of sporting on tarmac or carpet. You eat and drink stuff that would be disgusting under a roof. You play semi-skilled games, paddle geriatrically and get sunburnt. You stare toothlessly at bosoms and horizons. And all beaches are extensions of the same beach; they have a repetitive primary simplicity. We want them to do the same thing, which is essentially to regress us back to the holidays we remember with the romance of greening home movies.
Beaches dictate a certain sort of personality, a particular world view. It is, for instance, impossible to be sophisticated on a beach. And as I am prone to fits of meritless sophistication, I'm drawn to the antidote of beaches. Despite the travel writing, I do rather love them.
My childhood memories of them are invigorating but not particularly more-ish. North Berwick, outside Edinburgh, splashing in the North Sea: it was so cold it was like being punched in the kidneys. I'd lose all sensation below the waist. And I can still see the huddles of spindly post-war children with concave chests and sagging woollen trunks draped in balding cotton towels looking like forlorn schools of forgotten penguins, teeth chattering, eyes bright with hypothermia. Happy days. In Britain, beaches are more endurance than entertainment. I still have the niggling sense that there is something wasteful about a hot beach. It seems a profligate waste of the sun, being squandered just on sand.
I've just come back from Mozambique. I'd never been before. It's not on many people's country wish-list, this huge country sprawled on the east coast of Africa. It was a collection of SwahiliâArab trading posts, slave ports and smuggling, and then a Portuguese colony that continued to trade slaves long after it was illegal, and smuggle ivory and gold. The Portuguese were very bad at giving their nicked bits of the globe back. They had to be terrorised out of Mozambique and there was none of the polite handover ceremony, the promises to keep in touch and exchange students, which may be why Mozambique joined the Commonwealth â just to spite Lisbon. Or perhaps they fancied the Commonwealth Games and a Christmas card from the Queen. (I've never really seen the point of the Commonwealth; it's like having to have dinner with your ex-wives.) Mozambique is a bit confused. It's doing its best, but it has issues, resentments. It's the only country I can think of that has a Kalashnikov on its flag.
In the north of the country, up by the Tanzanian border, there is a long archipelago of coral islands. One of these is Vamizi, and it has a resort with what they call oxymoronically in the travel business âbarefoot luxury'. That means handmade huts on a beach, comfortable and charming, but without a telly or a telephone, without WiFi or room service, just the sand and the sea and the weaver birds in the rafters.
The African coast of the Indian Ocean must be one of the least utilised tourist possibilities on the planet. There are barely a handful of African beach resorts. The coast is of a miraculously enchanting beauty. The sea is pale and warm; the diving, they say, is world-class; the sport fishing is spectacular. Nicola, my partner, caught a near-record giant trevally, and she's still beaming. It's supplanted our twins as her screen-saver. But what I particularly love is a beach with shells. I don't quite know why the combing meander of picking up shells should be so blissfully satisfying, or why its attraction and joy never seems to pall. There is something about shells that is so very precious and yet plainly free, so beautifully crafted, yet ubiquitous. And every morning, more of them are dumped on the strand, a tide line of miraculous carving, impossible intricacy; sea jewellery that comes with its own echo of the waves still inside it. This is the imitation of the shopping along with the antidote to consuming. They are infinitely precious and virtually valueless. They are pleasing to hold and Zenishly fascinating to peruse.
The reason I like beaches, and the reason travel writers don't, is that they have no narrative. They don't tell stories. They are atonal song cycles, mood without plot. And if you spend your life dissecting and reconstructing things into sentences and paragraphs, beginnings, middles and endings, then a beach, with its sighs and hisses, its slow breath, is a wonderful poultice. It makes no inquiries, demands no reactions. It fills your head with space and sounds and feelings. The sensations of an empty hot beach are as soulful as you can find this side of a grave. There is no end to this peace, just as Blake said, to see the world in a grain of sand, to pick up shells and see an infinity in your hand.
It's about more than just time
off; we think of ourselves as
being at our most pure and best
on holidays, and we strive for
them to be of a different
calibre to real life.
I just had lunch with a man who said he hated holidays. They fill him with dread. It's one of those things you really have to love. You can't say: I don't want my holiday, could I go back to work instead? It's somehow offensive, like saying you don't like sex or breakfast in bed. Actually, it's more acceptable to have gone off sex and eating breakfast in a prone position than to not take your holidays. Holidays are one of the few universal indefatigable human traits. Opposable thumbs, tears and looking forward to a fortnight away are what make us human. So when you say you don't like holidays, people ask to move their desks, don't let their children come over on play-dates and start divorce proceedings.