Honeymoon. We can assume the word dates from an era when people courted by exchanging sly glances at the threshing fair. When the conduct of lovers was observed by chaperones, governesses and the local, stickbearing, clergy. It was only after the wedding ceremony that the young lovers would have a chance to open their hearts, to turn to one another and say, "By the way, my name's Dave. What's yours?"
Modern couples tend to know much more about one another, right down to the little things like what exact moment one or other of them will wake in the morning and start expectorating.
However, when one is on holiday, there is no end to what you might discover beyond these intimate details. For example, I had no idea that V. and I were capable of becoming as lost as the tourists we had observed.
Flabby-armed, be-capped, Kodak-toting hordes from Lancashire, Belfast, Dusseldorf and Oslo. Pointing as they stood open-mouthed at the architecture about them, only to turn to the group leader, who waves the flag and says reassuring things like: "We are now standing in a piazza."
And you want to distance yourself from all that, from the searching for a reason to be there. "I'm a traveller," you tell yourself. "The journey is the thing." And of course, it is not to be found. That is why the world is full of tourists.
In Rome, however, we looked mainly for a place where we could be sure a scooter would not suddenly appear, heading directly for us at warp speed. The traffic system in Rome is a triumph of improvisation. Everybody gets around by indifferently trying to murder everyone else. We didn't really have the rhythm, though, so we spent most of the day being beeped at. Some of the scooter drivers look very young - it does something to your ego when given an ancient hand gesture by a seven-year-old travelling at 120 m.p.h.
After a couple of days the glow of satisfaction we got at the end of the day, merely from surviving the assassination attempts by the Romans, began to pall. So we headed for the country. Now, I have always loved the rough and tumble of unspoilt nature. My only objections are: a) all forms of life that fly or crawl and neglect to wear long trousers generally; b) the lack of hotels, bars, cinemas, theatres and other fundamental human amenities; and c) the weather.
Our first stop along the Bay of Naples was Amalfi. Amalfi is very much like Rome because it's full of tourists and scooters. But you do realise you are on the beautiful, coastal wilds when you see the first 20 or 30 thousand shops selling the local lemon liquer.
The simple, honest rustic folk are also kind enough to vend their surplus of ceramic ashtrays, of which there are enough to re-tile Pompeii.
Twenty minutes away lies a cliff-top town which you reach by closing your eyes for the entire bus journey as the driver weaves along a moebius-strip of road, simultaneously talking into his mobile, arguing with someone beside him and clipping his nails.
By now, we realised we were looking for something. So we went to a piano recital. The pianist had, as far as I could tell, modelled his style on Roman driving. He appeared dissatisfied with the pedals, keys and notes on the page. Plus, he was playing Liszt and everybody knows Liszt only every wrote his stuff after arguing with his wife. After a short while I had my head between my knees so V could sleep over me. I noticed the ground was covered in freshly dead insects.
At the interval, everybody was given lemon liquer - which managed to be both sharp and glutinous. It was like tasting essence of regret.
WE carried on to Capri to watch the middle-aged businessmen and their buxom, peroxided mistresses peering in shop windows, haggling over the current rates of mutual exploitation.
Only in Naples, our last port call, did I understand that there is no purpose to seeking purpose on a holiday. You certainly won't find it in Naples anyway. The people are warm and quite insane. You have to make a sincere effort with the language here. Everyone speaks as though you have just dropped an especially large safe on their toes. Maybe they are just frustrated with hapless tourists frowning over their food, trundling, grumbling and farting over their monuments. I think I'll get a scooter myself.