“We can’t eat out because Jacques is allergic to people.”

Hmmm, I thought she said ‘people’ there for a minute. I think she meant spices or something. “OK, so you can’t eat out, so you go to the market and buy the local fruit and veg to cook on board, don’t you?”

“But buying food to cook on board is really pricey” they moaned.

What were they buying, gold-leafed lettuce?

After spending a few minutes on this topic they explained that Egypt was a much cheaper place to live. “In Hurghada I knew where all the best food shops were”, she said.

“I don’t understand”, I replied. “India is quite possibly the cheapest place for food I have ever been to in the world”.

“Orange juice is so expensive”, she continued.

“But India isn’t really famous for its orange juice”, I replied.

“Never mind orange juice, oranges cost a fortune”.

“Well it’s not really an orange-producing country. It’s much better at bananas”.

“But I don’t want to eat bananas all the time. And a packet of Corn Flakes is extortionate.”

Right.

“And the Gouda cheese they once sold in the supermarket” she continued. “That’s the only cheese Jacques would eat but they’ve stopped doing that now”.

Really?

“The internet here is so expensive too”, they both claimed.

“You are joking, aren’t you?” I scoffed. “It’s so cheap it’s unbelievable. It may not be 3G but it’s good enough and I’m a heavy internet user, I’m uploading photographs all the time” I explained.

“But Jacques likes to stream French radio all day”, she complained. Well that’s going to cost you a lot wherever you are! Why not do what we do and download podcasts? They had clearly forgotten that in Salalah it cost €3 for 48 hours internet connection. In Yemen you had to go to an internet cafe, and that was only if there wasn’t a power-cut. Forget Eritrea and Sudan. In Egypt we had a novelty connection in the marina that stayed online for 5 minutes at a time. I asked what they were paying and it transpired they were forking out around €20 a month. I pay €7.59 for nine months.

Look, my next blog entry might just be a massive rant about some marina price increases and the way in which the management is handling badly its customers’ expectations. If the marina pulls its finger out I might just spare you the pain, but that’s a separate rant altogether (as is the potential rant on our visa renewal escapades). However you won’t find me complaining about food that is so cheap I can make a one euro food shop last two days. If you want the luxuries you are used to whilst cruising the Med, the availability of milk and Cornflakes, cheese, sausages and expensive internet connection, you have to make a decision: pay through the nose for the luxury; adjust to the local diet, or get the hell out of Dodge. What are you doing in a sub-tropical continent like India if you want to ponce around on your boat all day eating croissants and Port Salut listening to live broadcasts of Monsier Leterme on Radyo Fréquence Eghezée?

It continued: these yachties had been complaining at the ‘rip off’ behaviour of the locals offering various services to us visiting yachties. It saddens me when European boat owners get arsey over the difference between a 5 rupee and a 10 rupee delivery fee on a litre of diesel (one rupee, by the way, is 0.01 euro cents). OK, you feel you are being ripped off, I understand the principle, so don’t pay it. Take it up with the nasty, thieving culprit directly, last seen stuffing his huge pockets with hundreds of your hard-earned euros. Don’t moan at me about it, I don’t want to hear you tell me how shit an entire country, nay, subcontinent is just because you got done out of a few quid and the food is too spicy.

Needless to say the yachties in question have since left India. Let’s hope they find their Continental Breakfast Nirvana in Asia.

Honestly? I’m glad these Moaning Myrtles have gone. Moan moan moan moan moan. Oh p!ss off and let the rest of us enjoy India for what it is.

I just thought I’d put this article into perspective by listing a few random items I paid for today. I’ll leave it up to you to decide if these people are justified in their whinging.

We decided to take a trip into the historic town of Santiago, which is a pilgrimage destination for Catholics. Although only about 50k from Caraminal, the coach journey went via all major towns around the Ria de Arosa, giving us our first real glimpse of Galician countryside away from the sea. Having said this we never really left the coastline until the final part of the journey.

On the way I noted that almost anyone with a garden grew their own fruit and vegetables, specifically maize (which grows everywhere). I’m not talking allotment patch here, I mean their entire garden. I don’t know whether this is for personal consumption or to sell at the local market to supplement their income.

Santiago sits on a big hill with the bus stop at the very top. As we walked into town via the tight cobbled streets the church spires dominate the skyline, reminding me very much of Florence. As we walk down into the centre so the streets became more and more busy with tourists and genuine pilgrims.

I was surprised that the majority of tourists in Santiago were Spanish. Santiago is one of Europe’s primary religious destinations, second only to The Vatican, yet we overheard no other language other than Spanish, save for an American couple arguing over whether they should go shopping or have a cup of coffee. That said, the streets are packed. The genuine pilgrims don well worn walking sticks and walking boots. The tourists buy their novelty walking sticks from the stall outside Santiago Cathedral, along with t-shirts, plastic Jesus statuettes and other gifts which one would only seriously consider buying as a joke.

This sharp contrast between those visiting Santiago on a genuine religious quest and those here to take photos is even more apparent once one steps inside Santiago Cathedral. The first thing that strikes the visitor is the huge queue for the Sepulchre of St James the Apostle, which stretches around two sides of the building. The Sepulchre sits in the centre of the church underneath a typically ornate alter. With the hanging candelabras and glitzy gold leaf statues, it is no wonder that there are queues of tourists armed with cameras blocking each others view.

What makes this all very sad is that behind them are genuine worshippers, who are sitting quietly behind all this commotion. This distinct contrast is quite sad, but I was one of those jostling for prime photo position so I’d be a hypocrite to berate the tourists for being sacrilegious. Besides, I don’t think they were. I just felt sorry for those who had come to the cathedral for some peaceful reflection and worship because they weren’t going to get it.

After this we decided to split up and regroup a couple of hours later. A pleasant but tiring walk round the narrow streets, we met back up outside the cathedral. I asked Conny how he had spent his last 2 hours and it turns out he had just sat in the same spot we had left him in. “These f***ing tourists. I just hate the way they’re so predictable and boring. They’re so sad. Why have we come to this town to look at some boring buildings? What’s the point?” Woah there boy! Something was amiss here, but I wasn’t going to get involved in this one!