Birvidik

And computer workshop.
And Gym
And Greek lesson.
And Band practice.
And social night at the yacht club.

Most people, if they think about it at all which is unlikely, think of the cruising life as being one of non-stop activity throughout the summer, charging from one exotic exploration to the next, contrasted with five months of languorous recharge in the winter.

Nothing could be further from the truth.

Summers start off with the best of intentions - pledges to keep exercising, runs in the morning, bike rides to explore exotic sites, mental stimulation by exposure to ancient cultures and high art. This gradually fades as temperatures climb inexorably upwards until, by the beginning of July, the hours from 14:00 to 17:00 are written off - fit only for lolling on the boat in as much shade and breeze as we can find. By the end of July, and lasting until the middle of September, physical activity (or mental activity for that matter) is a Sisyphean struggle from about half an hour after sunrise to about half an hour after sunset. Physical effort is akin to trying to run through neck deep molasses wearing diving boots whilst any attempt at mental exertion makes you suspect someone's laced your tea with a shovel full of rohypnol.

The Greeks have evolved a very effective way of dealing with this. They go to sleep. The hours between 14:00 and around 17:30 are denoted 'The hours of common peace' or more commonly Το μικρό του ύπνου, the little sleep. Technically the use of any noisy equipment, from motorcycles to power tools, is forbidden during this time.

They make up for this by going back to work around 17:30 and staying at work until most normal people have been in bed for at least two hours. Then they go out and party. Eating, drinking and socialising last until the early morning, when they nip back home for half an hour's kip followed by a shit, shower and shave. Then they go to work. Greeks have the longest working hours in Europe but are the second least productive per capita. No wonder.

We did try to adapt to this eminently sensible system, but couldn't get our Northern European body clocks to synchronise with it. Anyway, it never seems to really be worth starting anything productive in the half an hour available between after sunset and drinks starting. Then we go to bed just as the first Greek shops are closing their shutters and the taverna staff are relaxing in the two hour gap between the last tourists and the first Greek customers.

As a result we are, by the end of the summer, in a state of effete, raddled dissolution. We have the muscle tone of Stephen Hawking and the aerobic capacity of Pete Docherty. Our mental acuities are about on a par with those of the late, lamented Jade Goody at her intellectual peak.

Come winter, though, all that changes. There are about a hundred liveaboards in Ag. Nikolaous this winter, and the number of activities increases exponentially as the number of liveaboards goes up. Liz has started a yoga group three times a week. We go on organised walks every Thursday. They are led by Tony and Tessa, who are so frighteningly fit they could almost pass for Kiwis. Scooping up the stragglers is Dave, who doesn't even break into a sweat while carrying exhausted yotties up near vertical scree slopes, despite apparently being fuelled by a mixture of whisky and roll-ups. Mind you, he is from Yorkshire. The walks started off at the Ranulph Fiennes level and became progressively more demanding. By halfway through the winter we've progressed to crampons and karabiners and we fully expect to be issued with oxygen cylinders for the next couple.

Not content with doing the equivalent of the three peaks challenge every week, I decided to get myself properly fit this winter. Those who remember last winter's gym fiasco will be coming to a justified diagnosis of either early onset Alzheimer's or terminal stupidity. Having buggered up my hip running on tarmac every day for a fortnight I joined the local gym and have so far managed to avoid ending up with a football sized bulge poking through my abdominal wall.

We still had about 28 minutes of the week unaccounted for, so I joined a band and inflict the tenor saxophone on anyone within a kilometre radius twice a week. In between all this I'm trying to fit in an hour of Greek every day and the list of undone boat jobs grows by the day. On top of all that I promised Liz I'd knock off that best-seller by Easter. We don't have time to draw breath. How did we ever manage to hold down full time jobs?

In fact, I think I'm going to have to go and have a lie down for a bit.