Amazingly when we can go no further by vehicle (though you can venture further on foot,) we become aware of a handful of locals who have returned down memory lane, or memory track, to where they once lived before being rehoused in more modern if less characterful accommodation. I bet there is Wi-Fi up here too. Actually, the country seems to have complete coverage of a different sort, that is ‘call to prayer coverage’ wherever you are. The mosques, of course, act as the relay stations, but in the unlikely event you don’t have coverage, fear not. There is an app which will automatically relay the call on time, adjusted for your geographical location. Brilliant. Travelling with a Muslim is like being with a type 1 diabetic; he is always just popping outside, but in his case, to pray at special times. He has special dispensation, as he is travelling, to reduce prayers from five to three adjusted times a day.

  The only minor events on the road involved sighting of a child’s size motorcyclette with a genuine registration ‘007’. James Bond is obviously big in Oman. The other was being overtaken by an open-backed jeep with a camel standing in the back which almost broke loose at 70 miles an hour.

  Sunset over the dunes finished off the day as we prepare to pass the night under canvas.

  It seems only polite to look in on the locals while travelling, and in the case of 15,000 square kilometres of sand, this means the Bedouin. If this was the Wild West, of course, there would be a row of horses tethered to a rail outside, but here we had instead to make do with an untidy row of miserable looking camels all wishing they were somewhere else.

  After customary removal of footwear, we attempted to decorously lower ourselves into an uncomfortable cross-legged position opposite our garrulous hostess to take coffee and dates. A succession of female family members then casually dropped in and then out: daughters, grandchildren and other sundry extended family members, all beautifully decked out in their finest, except for the little lad wearing his Lionel Messi football shirt which rather let the side down I feel. Many Bedouin have chosen to be relocated just outside the sand dunes in modern brick-built dwellings but still seem to make the ‘front garden’ look like where they used to live: a tip. A universal problem then.

  Photography here is a sensitive subject these days. In the recent past, the young ladies were content to have their photo taken using one of those old-fashioned camera contraptions, but the mobile phone had changed all that. They have noticed that selfies accentuate the subject’s nose and front teeth making them look like rabbits (or camels perhaps?), and they don’t want foreigners taking home unflattering photos. Don’t blame ’em.

  Back in scrubland, which is much of the landscape not given over to mountain ranges, one is drawn to the conclusion that building style and regulations are very different in the Middle East. For a start, having a nice view does not seem to be a high priority since the view is usually either next door, or more often sand and rubble and a few thorn bushes usually being demolished by herds of hungry goats. Siting of buildings seems entirely random but usually within earshot of the muezzin. Houses have a Legoland building-block design with a square central extra floor, housing stairs to the roof and are most often whitewashed, many with garish embellishments I associate with the style adopted by wealthy Chinese in Asia. They are quite often extremely large but may house extended families. Almost without exception, the property is completely surrounded by a wall for privacy and the family car is always parked outside the gate.

  After most of this week away from the coast, we return to the dazzling ultramarine waters of the Arabian Sea, briefly to witness the construction of a couple of traditional wooden dhows (most are now made from fibre glass) which have been ordered by Qatar, yours for 300,000 smackers and a ten month wait, built in the finest Burmese teak.

  And despite it being low season for a bit of how’s your father for the turtle community, we are fortunate to witness a bit of egg laying activity at the Ras Al Jinz Scientific Centre tonight. This takes place on the beach pitted with signs of egg-burying and egg retrieval activity. We try to remain silent and unobtrusive as, from time to time, we come upon a large female furiously digging away with her flippers in a rather inefficient manner to unearth (or is it unsand?) a clutch of young’uns as they desperately struggle to climb out and head for the sea, a route which they don’t yet know is full of potential dangers; in fact, their odds of survival outside this protected environment would be 1,000 to 1.

  Chapter 31

  Eastern Caribbean Islands

  You may be disappointed, or more probably delighted, that for reasons of time and prohibitive ship’s Wi-Fi charges, I have been obliged to consolidate my daily reports into this single entry covering the trip from Antigua down to Barbados via a varied collection of French and English Caribbean islands.

  Now, we are not committed to the practice of seeing the world from a ship, but some parts of the world make this the most convenient manner of covering the territory. I would make the observation that this did not apply to our fellow travellers, who, to a man/woman, seem never to have used any other form of transport. Notwithstanding, this did not diminish the range of knowledge and experience represented by our eighty strong contingent, and it had the added advantage that we seem to have more original body parts than many others of our age, and also that we were the babies of the group.

  Unusually, there were other Burtons on the trip: Sir Michael and Lady Burton, causing confusion for the Filipino staff who played it safe and called all Burtons, including us, Sir and Lady, just in case.

  So where to start? Perhaps with the Antigua immigration form which offered the following sex categories: male, female or other, which conveniently leads us to mention our captain, who sported a prominent gold earring. Sadly, my only invitation to dine on his table was marred by a touch of mal de mer (mine, not his), but apparently all captains wear an earring to pay for their funeral if they are lost at sea. Mmm, good line.

  But it wasn’t all plain sailing; one passenger reported the loss of his expensive Rolex watch resulting in an intensive search of the ship. After a couple of days, the cruise director made a keenly awaited announcement over the tannoy: “I have the following announcement for the couple who has lost their expensive Rolex watch; the time is 6:30.” Very droll.

  And, of course, the point of the trip was to explore a wide range of Eastern Caribbean islands, most of which seem to have changed hands frequently as the British and French slugged it out over past centuries. Defensive forts were often started by one nationality and completed when they were overrun by the other lot. Generally, it would appear that those in French hands were smarter and better maintained than those in British hands, but one or two (the French island of St Barts for example) seemed to be almost exclusively devoid of a non-white face, but over-represented by expensive yachts and their crew members. Eventually, I reach my limit on rum punches (some days as early as 09:15 in the morning), forts and botanical gardens to last me for the rest of my days.

  The enchanting island of Domenica was, I believe, the only island still with a population of original Carib islanders since many of the other islands have done a spot of ethnic cleansing in the past. In one case, the island went further and completely exterminated their total population of indigenous snakes by importing Asian mongooses.

  The saddest island was without doubt Montserrat, devastated twice: once by hurricane Hugo in 1989, and then by the volcanic eruption of 1997. The capital Plymouth was wiped out under a large pyroclastic flow of boiling lava and debris. The skeleton of a once five-star hotel stands above where the town once thrived as testament to the disaster, with a wide view of the decimated town below. The recording studio built by recently deceased Sir George Martin sits within the restricted area, the location of recordings by many great rock groups including Dire Straits who recorded Brothers in Arms, including the lines: these mist-covered mountains are a home now for me and through these fields of destruction, baptisms of fire, a fitting memorial for an island where the original population of 12,000 has been reduced to a mere 5,000 today.

  Chapter 32

  Cuba

  The starting point is always based on either preconceptions or hyped expectation, and in the case of Havana, it was the former: a teeming, steaming third world city slowly crumbling from lack of investment, minimal traffic, mainly comprising 1950s’ chevvies in garish technicolour belching out clouds of exhaust fumes, and loud street music around every corner. So, half right then.

  But the charm of the many tree-lined squares surrounded with colonial stone buildings and churches, the grid of narrow streets shaded by tall tenement buildings, the groups of ladies in multi-coloured Spanish or Caribbean dresses or smartly dressed men smoking large cigars, all looking out for our photo opportunity and a quick dollar, all this was unexpected, or at least not visualised in advance.

  A ride in a lime-green lovingly restored 1956 Chevrolet not only confirms that if we cherished our own cars as the locals do, ours might also last half a century. Our ride revealed the surprisingly luxurious Miramar Fifth Avenue district full of large mansions and embassies shaded by mature trees, aged banyans, hedges and palms. There even exists within the city limits a huge area of seemingly untouched virgin jungle (not as yet absorbed into the Richard Branson Virgin Empire) of lush verdant foliage and winding rivers. By contrast, Revolution Square was rather soulless in its empty vastness. Our driver’s views, based on the almost pornographic T-shirt he sported suggested his views on women were more in line with 1950s too, but may come back into favour in a post-Trump world.

  The highlights of day one? The Hemingway associations, group of stilt walkers in exotic tight-fitting bright orange costumes, sashaying down a narrow street followed by excited children, the snakes of smartly dressed schoolchildren off to see a revolutionary site in the city, but above all, a bin lorry in the huge city cemetery the size of Croydon. Surely, the residents are a well-behaved bunch and have not been up all-night creating piles of detritus?

  There are no one-horse towns in Cuba, they wouldn’t survive, because everything depends on these animals to get people and goods to their destination, on horseback, in buggies or horse-drawn ‘taxis’. There have got to be tens of thousands of these animals in Cuba all told. They are not only ubiquitous in towns but also on inter-town highways often forcing a car or bus to crawl along at five mph until an overtaking opportunity arises. The 1950 chevvies are still found in provincial towns too, often as taxis, not just for tourist entertainment as in Havana. The funny thing is that there are miles and miles of rail-track but no sign of any trains. In view of the overall lack of transportation infrastructure, you would imagine that Cuba would resurrect the railways.

  There are other curious features of modern-day Cuba for which we often found no explanation. For example, where and when do people shop, for food or indeed for anything else. Shops are difficult to find, likewise shoppers. We eventually tracked down a store with three categories of merchandise: alcohol – ron or rum, jams in tins and cereals in tins. These cannot be purchased by foreigners with their own CUC banknotes, only by locals with their CUP pesos worth much less. Queuing is perhaps not unexpected in a country rationed for goods and lacking in technical infrastructure; this probably explains daily queues outside the state run ‘ETECSA telecommunications’ offices where long lines of subscribers appear to be lining up to pay bills or sort out their service.

  Perhaps the lack of shopping opportunities frees up more time to devote to music and dancing. To be truthful there comes a time after a few days when the chance of a dinner date without a gang of musicians plying their trade in your ear for a dollar really appeals. There must be one musician for every horse in the country, i.e. millions.

  Talking of food there is a general feeling, with the probable exception of twelve million Cubans, that their creole cuisine is not world class. This is despite the fact that there can be no cheaper country to lay your hands-on lobster, probably the cheapest if not the tastiest to be found anywhere in the world at well under 15 dollars a shot. Several restaurants recommend it in chocolate sauce, though I cannot personally vouch for the result. At least, white rum-based cocktails, cuba-libre, pina-colada or mojito cost little more than beer or even bottled water, so it’s not all bad news.

  The first major city east of Havana is Santa Clara, a rather poor and dilapidated place with street beggars but with one major claim to fame: Ernesto Che Guervara, who famously led a successfully attack on a troop train on 26th July 1956 effectively sealing the fate of president Batista and leaving the way open for Dr Castro to take over. The events are marked with his mausoleum, museum and afore-mentioned railway carriages suitably pockmarked with labelled bullet holes. Like most other major Cuban cities, Santa Clara also has a theatre built a hundred years ago, claiming to have enjoyed performances by Caruso and Sarah Bernhardt according to the faded posters.

  The road south takes the traveller through fields of sugar cane and mango trees interspersed with what might best be described as rural prefabs, as well as occasional two- or three- storey Russian-looking tenement blocks in the villages, depressing crumbling dank concrete monstrosities. The most common activity, if that is the right word, undertaken by a town’s inhabitants involves little more than sitting around on any suitable wall or seat, passively passing the time of day, implying limited employment opportunities. This is probably why restaurants only exist in the major cities, either state-run or as privately-run ‘paladars’, which provide a source of income to inhabitants outside the state-run system usually offering a higher standard of service.

  The final destination for the day was the most attractive historical city in Cuba, Trinidad, founded by the Spanish, of course, in 1517 but developed in the 19th century by the French and now a UNESCO World Heritage Site. This historical city is the jewel in Cuba’s crown: a colonial district of cobbled streets and pastel-coloured houses and red tiles rooftops, deserving of its UNESCO award made in 1988. One of the earliest Spanish settlements, it was in the 18th century populated by thousands of African slaves brought in to service the sugar industry until the slave revolts in the 1840s.

  As non-Spanish speakers, we were fortunate to find a guesthouse run by an Italian couple (I do have a grasp of Italian) who pulled out all the stops with a chocolate cake and bottle of rum to celebrate my wife’s birthday in some style. A brief rain shower, the only rain for ten days, did not deflect us from enjoyment of the usual collection of picturesque squares and colonial churches but one of the most interesting moments arose when we dropped into a building where the Santiera religion is practised. Rather like Maximon in Guatemala, Santiera combines the prevailing Catholic religion with earlier beliefs; in this case, the Yoruba religion brought over by African slaves who once made up most of Trinidad’s population. Practitioners revere a figure known as ‘Our Lady of Charity’ or the ‘Virgin of the Mercedes’, small, black faced and wearing a white outfit representing purity.

  From Trinidad east, travel becomes slower with poorer road surfaces and road traffic holdups behind crawling horse-drawn carts on narrower roads. We stop briefly to admire a watchtower built by a plantation owner to keep an eye on his slave workers, looking rather like a Louisiana state penitentiary tower.

  We had been briefed to expect ‘difficulties’ due to the rapid growth in international tourism, and indeed our planned overnight stay in the Amerindian old city of Camaguey justified the warning. The hotel booking had been ‘lost’, probably due to a better offer from another group, a problem for our group because all the city hotels were full, obliging our driver to continue for another two hours on unlit country to a beach hotel on the north coast.

  Two hours back to Camaguey the next day, we followed the route taken in the past by pirates who often made sorties to rob the Spanish bourgeoisie of their valuables before escaping to the cays off the north coast. The Camaguey locals even created a labyrinth of confusing streets, ignoring the more usual grid system, in a futile attempt to confuse these marauding pirates including the famous English buccaneer Henry Morgan. Our journey suffered no such interruptions.

  We finished off the 750-mile journey from west to east in the city of Santiago surrounded by the mountains that protected Castro’s rebels in the 1950s, when they made a failed attack on the government troops in 1956 which led to Fidel’s prison sentence of seven years, commuted to 22 months in an amnesty. The rest is history.

  It is difficult to move anywhere is Cuba without some reminder of its political upheaval in the middle of the last century, museums, monuments, books, posters, statues and street names and this is likely to remain the situation for the foreseeable future despite the expected American (tourist) invasion for which some government buildings are being renovated, so perhaps the infrastructure will be gradually brought into the modern era, but for now the pace of life is still slow, bureaucracy maddening (an hour queuing to change money on arrival at the airport etc.), ubiquitous musicians, the traffic generally light and the people untouched by commercialism.

  Stop press: the end of an era as Fidel has just died, leaving an indelible international legacy.

  Stop press 2: just checked in for flight from Santiago to Havana, and on the way to the gate, notice the sign: ‘Last Waiting Room’. I must check the airline’s safety record.