Everything always takes so much longer when you're in an unfamiliar country. I'm so wired into London, how things work and how to get everywhere. I hate that I'm now one of those irritating people who hover about in front of ticket machines getting in the way. I do finally find the bus station and even get on my bus, which as you can see has plenty of empty double seats. So why then does the stewardess insist that I wedge myself into a seat next to some poor girl enjoying her journey in peace, with my rucksack on my knee because it won't fit in the overhead rack? We have several exchanges, my side of it in sign language, and a few stops down the line she relents and lets me move. So now I'm also one of those annoying people on public transport who won't just sit down and do as they're told.
At the port it's VIP treatment all the way as I'm whisked off to the jetty on a golf cart to board the hotel's private shuttle.
So this is the hotel. I'm thinking not bad, but the rep who greets me is pointing out to sea at what looks like a bunch of floating shacks. I must appear crestfallen because he keeps saying "upgrade". I'm not so sure but agree to take a look.
This is how I get out there. The staff on the "island" are alerted by the ringing of a bell on the shore. Then you jump in and they start the pulley that drags the raft over. I'm met by a ladyboy with a cocktail and try to say that I'm not sure I'm staying. What an idiot. It's the upgrade of the century. This place is a floating idyll, a platform of luxurious suites with a restaurant in the middle.
Here's the view from my bed.
And here's my private jetty. There are quirky touches in the restaurant, too, which takes full advantage of the sea beneath each dining table. Forget al fresco, this is dining al pesco.
The view from above. It's important to dine in footwear with a tight grip. The fish hover expectantly, though probably not for shoes.
My room by night. When a storm whips up later I open the door to retrieve something I left out to dry and am nearly swept away. It feels like I'm on a ship out at sea.
The next day I walk the length of the island to find the perfect cove. Funnily enough, it's not the one where there's laughing gas on sale. Or the beaches where you couldn't get a sheet of paper between the sun loungers. I press on, crossing over the headlands between each cove and things gradually begin to get calmer and less crowded.
I eventually find my spot, Ao Nuan. There's perfect sea for swimming, a hammock for gazing at the horizon, even a little cafe selling fruit smoothies. And I'm sharing it with about four other people.
The trouble is, we Langmuirs have a family motto: To Rest Is Not To Conquer. It's just not in my DNA to be able to chill out at Ao Nuan for the rest of the day, not when there's an island to be circumnavigated. So on I march, passing rows of blissed-out holidaymakers on bamboo platforms having Thai massages that cost 50p. What is the matter with me? I stop for a while to swing about in this chair but look at the beach behind – I should be lying on it.
It takes a pancake to stop me in my tracks. I come to a quiet beach with a cafe strung out along a rickety old pier, its booths fashioned from recycled panels and decorated with driftwood sculptures and wind chimes made from sea shells.
To coin another family phrase, courtesy of my cousin Veronica, it's our Protestant Walk Ethic – I've finally sweated enough to earn my reward.
Fabulous shots of those painted planks! Have you heard the geckos yet? They kept us awake on Koh Samet.
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