Today we visited Tunisia.

Despite my previous ruminations over how I might possibly spend the day, I realised almost as soon as we got there that the logistical nightmare of trying to find train, bus or taxi to make a solo visit to Carthage was almost insurmountable.

Our berth today was in an area known as La Goulette, which is a spurr of land to the North of Tunis, rather isolated and limiting in terms of where one might walk freely, so, reluctantly, I paid my £5 to allow me to use the shuttle bus which would take me to Tunis, approximately 8kms away (not sure what that is in miles, but it felt like a long way).

As I got on the bus, who should be there but my new friend, Peter Roach, one of the guest speakers, and two other guest lecturers, all moaning and chuntering about the fact that, despite the Cruise Director announcing that over half the passengers were going out on tours today, once again there seemed to be a shortage of Tour Escort duties handed out.

Trust me to choose the shuttle bus that gets hijacked!

Right from the off, there was a strange fez-wearing bloke who jumped on the bus, who proceeded to act like he was some sort of guide. Bearing in mind that this was meant to be one of several shuttle buses laid on for independant travellers to get into Tunis and travel back in their own time (provided we were back for 4:15pm), you can imagine the confusion when the bus pulled up and Mr Fez started to insist that we all stay together and follow him. People started asking questions like "where are we on the map?" (everybody is issued with a free city map), and "is this where we are going to be picked up from?". Mr Fez became strangely defensive and not very helpful, insisting that we follow him; he would take us around the Souks and the Medina (and presumeably foist upon us his brother's rug shop, his uncle's perfume shop and anyone else who he has a bit of a deal with). This confusion seemed to split the group of passengers into two halves; those who were intent on not following Mr Fez and those who were quite happy to, blindly, follow him wherever he might lead.

Peter Roach speaks excellent French, which is spoken widely in Tunis, for some reason, so he leapt right in, demanding to know whereabouts on the map we were and where the pickup point was. It seemed the driver wasn't too happy with the situation, either, since he had also apparently fallen out with Mr Fez, but was also reluctant to divulge information.

After much gesticulating, and raising of voices, the lambs happily followed our hijacker into the Souks, whilst the rest of us started walking...

Needless to say; we did find where the pickup point was; it was actually just a short way up from where we'd been dropped off, near a square, so all was well. I stayed with Peter for a short time, until we stopped in a rug shop, where he proceeded to buy a rug which he would have shipped back to the UK. Amidst lots of French chit-chat which left me feeling a bit of a spare whatsit at a wedding, I excused myself and went off wandering by myself.

The souks are a rabbit-warren of narrow, twisting alleyways, chock-a-block with market stalls. They are an assault on the senses, with their myriad of colours and smells, and a constant, heaving throng of people. As with all markets, there is a constant barrage of calls to take notice and part with your money; here, though, it seemed more intense somehow, and I must confess I found it all a little claustrophobic.

Having traversed the souks, the relief of coming across another open square; La Port De France (The French Connection again), was tangible. Here, I explored the Cathedral, and wandered a few streets before deciding I'd pretty much seen enough. I would have to pass through the souks again to get back to the pickup point, so I took a deep breath and waded on in....

By the time I reached the pickup point and found the shuttle that would take me back to the ship, I'd had enough. the hassling starts to get to you after a while. One chap tried his damnedest to befriend me, insisting that he knew me from the ship this morning (yeah right), and that he worked at La Goulette (sure - good guess - it's where all the ship's berth). He kept asking me where I was from, and when I relented and told him the UK, he asked whereabouts in the UK? I asked him how well he knew the UK, and he said he has a brother in Liverpool.... and so on, and so on... Of course, he had an adgenda; several times, I thought I'd managed to shake him off by hanging back and deliberately getting caught up in the crowds, only to discover him leaping out of a market stall, from where he had been waiting for me. He chattered on incessantly, finally getting to his point; he wanted to show me where I could buy Chanel perfumes at a fraction of the prices you would pay anywhere else in the world. I told him that I didn't want a guide, to which he took exception, and then I told him that I had no money - I wasn't there to spend money... at which point, he disappeared as suddenly as he had appeared.

We've now left Tunisia and are heading towards our final destination; Lisbon, Portugal, where we are due to arrive on Friday morning.

The captain has warned us of some heavy winds in the middle of the Mediterranean Sea which are likely to have us listing slightly, and has updated us on the virus, which despite having claimed several more cases today, he is happy that we have it all under control, providing everyone remains vigilant...