The time of year was also a little less popular for Mediterranean cruising, which meant the ports we visited were less crowded than they are later in the northern summer. Travellers no longer go on cruises because they are too old and infirm to travel any other way. Most of my 1399 fellow passengers were under 60 and a decent number were under 30. They came from Italy, Germany, France England, Spain and Australia and, like I did, they came to dedicate themselves to 12 days of la dolce vita. To reach the ship, I flew from New Zealand to Rome and then transferred to a local airline to the exotic and ancient port of Genoa.

The ship was a very fine affair with a handsome, streamlined hull, 14 decks and a bow pinched to an elegant point. In the murky light of dusk, she slid without fuss from her berth, and with ponderous delicacy manouevred across the ancient harbour of Genoa toward the Ligurian Sea.

As Genoa slipped away I turned to explore this fantasy island on which I would blissfully float for the next 12 days. Although only a medium­sized cruise ship she nonetheless sports nine bars, a cabaret, a large theatre, three restaurants, a ballroom, a library, a music chamber, a piano bar, a gym and health centre, boutiques and a chemist and beauty shop. And that was before I hit the vast deck area with its two swimming pools, two Jacuzzis and rows of blue deck chairs.

I loved the days at sea, which made up five of the 12 days, but the days ashore were the highpoints. At Malaga, new­found friends and I took a taxi around the hinterland, up razorback roads that led to some of the tumbling, whitewashed villages that spill into the valleys of the Andalusian Mountains. No wonder the Moors were so enamoured of the south of Spain. So were we.

On the morning of the third day I drew the curtains of my cabin back to be greeted by precipitous peaks thrusting abruptly skyward for 1200 metres. The Portuguese island of Madeira, off the coast of West Africa and 670 nautical miles from Malaga, was one of the greatest delights of the cruise.

The island, called Flower of the Ocean by the Portuguese, and Picolla Lisbonna, Little Lisbon, by some long­forgotten Italian sailors, is covered from toe­to­almost­top in tightly terraced gardens filled with luxuriant banana trees, grape vines, a huge variety of vegetables and vividly flowering trees and shrubs. There is no prize for guessing the name of the most popular drink on the island, but it is also known for embroidery and fado, the folk music of Portugal.

Fourteen hours later I woke up with the pong of Casablanca‘s fish markets in my nostrils. I had a marvellous day exploring the Kasbha and sauntering through the crowded labyrinths and markets of the Medina, the old city, absorbed by the noisy ebb and flow of Moroccans going about their daily lives.

The MSC Lirica spent the next day in Cadiz, a relaxed, attractive, Moorish­looking city founded in 1100 BC and thought by some to be the oldest city in Europe.

That night, under cover of darkness, she slipped though the Straits of Gibraltar.

Our last port of call was Barcelona, and then we had just one more night at sea to get us back to Genoa and the same berth we had left 12 days earlier. After the last Adios,I dragged myself reluctantly down the gangway. There was salt in my veins, one last superb lunch under my belt and I‘ve become a total convert to cruising.