“This isn’t as bad as I expected,” I said to Jamie, as we sat on Esper in the slipway, waiting to be hauled out.

He didn’t bother to reply. We were coming to a rolling boil in the midday heat, and any attempt at conversation or movement was painful. Millie lay on the floor in the saloon with ears twitching. She began to pant and stared up at me through the hatch. “What hell-hole have you brought me to now?” she seemed to be saying.

The Maldives isn’t always paradise, sometimes it can be hell. Read Liz’s account of life in a boatyard at boiling point.

This morning, Nazar brought his whole family to the marina to say goodbye. He has been our constant companion since we arrived in Cochin, taking us on endless shopping trips, keeping us topped up with beer and wine, coming out to the beach at Kuzhipilly with us, and finding parts and services for all our boaty needs. We have eaten in his tiny home on many occasions: fish curry and spicy vegetable dishes cooked by his wife, Sakina, and mother, Beema.

I never knew it would be so difficult to leave, but India is a country that tugs your heart and grabs you in an arm lock. Saying goodbye was difficult.

Family holidays. Blissful moments on the beach. With the kids.
“They sniffed without expression and trailed after me as I flitted between market stalls filling my basket with artichokes, endives, shallots, fennel, fish, cheese …

“Mummy, it’s stinky here.” I was in heaven sampling Roquefort cheese but my son was holding his nose.”

Two stories from the IWC tell it like it really is…

Geordie Torr doesn’t like travel magazines, he thinks their destination pieces amount to ” ‘what I did on my holidays’ stories, which just bore me to tears.” Which is interesting because he is editor of Geographical magazine.Read more in our candid interview with Geordie…

How many reasons are there for NOT taking a career break? Too old? Too poor? Children at school? Enough with the excuses already! See eight of the most common reasons for putting off the big move de-bunked, including “I’ve got a mortgage”.

I was delighted and surprised to receive the message from Wanderlust’s editorial team that I had just made it into their most important, useful and entertaining blogs…
Do you want to meet like-minded people on the net to practise and talk about the art of travel writing? Pop over to the ITINERANT WRITERS CLUB forum to see what we’re up to.

“I am Chella Duri, I come from Tamil Nadu,” translated Saji. “I look after my master’s goats on this land. Now I call them for the night. I sleep here with them.” The goats milled around us, nibbling the wall, the grass, my feet, the path, everything.

Jamie asked what was wrong with his foot.

“I broke it on a stone while climbing.” We could see blood stains on the rag. Jamie wondered why he had not seen a doctor. “I earn 4000 rupees (around £46) a month, and that is all for my family. There is nothing left for doctor.”

Cochin has the highest density of Christians in India, and is dotted with cathedrals and churches. In a parody of our high streets back home, the roads are rammed with fevered shoppers, their faces consumed with the business of Christmas. The crowd scoops me up and funnels me into an alley, where I bash my ankles on rough wooden nativity scenes strewn along the ground.

Over the past year, the clean-up operation in Fort Cochin has been at fever pitch. Walls covered in peeling posters of political candidates, good only for goats to chew on, have been revitalised; mould has been scrubbed away and been replaced by murals, artist graffiti and bold colours.
The result of all this activity? An enormous, blank(ish) canvas across the city for Indian and international artists to exhibit their work and create site-specific installations. It is crazy, unexpected, colourful and electric: don’t miss it.

We passed homes with the tell-tale crosses from the emergency search and rescue teams still visible on walls. Some have left them there as kinds of memorial, but others remain because the owners never came back. Many are at first floor level. That was the level of the water; the ground floor was totally swamped. Rescue crews in boats marked the part of the house that remained visible.

Next up was the second bottle on offer, a Shiraz. I like Shiraz. The waiter re-appeared with more glasses, this time the right shape and size. The colour was deep and purple, there was a watery rim and the swirl produced legs. But by now I was rinsing and gargling with it and no longer cared.

Every month I select one of the stories from the Itinerant Writers Club assignments to highlight on lizcleere.com. Each story must be written to a deadline and to a maximum word count. Here Jean Ashbury tells us why she wants to go to Cuba.