Arrowtown book buyer Miranda Spary continues her regular column about her recommendations for a good read and life as she sees it . . .
We are tied up in a bay full of expensive, chic boats.
There's just one boat letting the side down and it looks like a floating Otago student flat.
There are sheets hanging up all over the place to stop the sun waking the young men who sleep on the deck, beer cans, clothes and towels lying everywhere - it's our boat. But for all our grotty ways, I am sure we are having the most fun.
There was a tearful farewell as my darling's brother and family left us yesterday after nearly three weeks aboard. Our crew organised a surprise farewell treat for them - we thought they couldn't swim (not surprising, as when we asked if they swam, they said no, but they meant they didn't swim when they were working).
Anyway, they swam to shore and picked a huge bunch of wildflowers and swam back with it, then proceeded to make an elaborate three-tiered table decoration of piled-up wineglasses and tin foil and candles floating in red wine and chopped fruit - very fancy!We've had more time together as a family than ever before and it's all been terrific.
We've been betting on everything - in 10 years, we will be opening the envelope with our bets on who guessed the closest to the number of grandchildren we'll have by then, and there was much hilarity at dinner in a restaurant when we all put bets on how much my darling weighed. It was much harder to guess, given that the same set of scales owned by the enterprising 10-year-old who wanders the restaurant area can weigh the same person twice and get readings with a 7kg difference.
The weight thing is a bit tricky, given that delicious food is everywhere. For example, we can swim ashore here and wander around the farm. They have goats, sheep and chickens and harvest wild thyme and sage. One old lady sits in the middle of the paddock surrounded by the enormous heaps of fragrant herbs next to an open fire - even though it is 32 degrees - where she is making gigantic round loaves of flat bread for sale to hungry boaties.
This life is great - my lovely sister-in-law and I were sitting high on the hills above pretty Fethiye in the King's Tomb. We were admiring the view and talking about our old friend Howard Patterson when we realised it was eight years exactly since he died.
Howard was the greatest people person who ever lived - he got along with everyone and everything was 10 times more fun when he was around. The most important thing he taught us all was that every day could be your last, so make sure you enjoy it to the full with the people you love most.
Finding things to enjoy here is no problem, although keeping track of time is tricky.
Everyone on board is mad keen on sport except me - I am of the firm belief that you can never know too little about sport.
On Saturday, we started scouting around for a place to watch the men's final at Wimbledon.
There are tiny restaurants that open up around the coast with no planning permission whatsoever, and as long as the structures aren't too permanent, and don't create rubbish or problems, their existence goes unchallenged.
It's a brilliant idea and makes for really fun boating (especially if you are of the disorganised variety and haven't got enough food on board).
Anyway, one such restaurant claimed to have a TV suitable for men's-final watching, and the bleating of goats wasn't going to be a problem. The commentary here is in Turkish anyway, and we can probably understand goat talk better.
The only tiny problem was that the generator wasn't working properly, so we had to hurtle to town just in time for everyone to watch Nadal not win.
I just don't see the point.
Surely the nicest, friendliest-looking one should win?
But there is one sport I am very keen to see.
During our English lessons, I was asking the crew what they enjoy doing. One of them claimed to like something to do with olive oil and little boys and mimed a lot of hugging and rolling around. I was most concerned and wondered whether the police or an asylum needed to be contacted.
It turns out he coaches the junior oil wrestling teams and there is a huge tournament in August, so I hope we can get along to see that.
We've been getting oiled up ourselves - Turkish baths are fabulous and are in every town.
You get scrubbed to within an inch of your life on a hot marble slab and slapped around with a warm, bubbly pillowcase, then slathered with oils and creams.
The men have all become addicted to Turkish shaves, which involve cut-throat razors, flaming things that remove the hair from noses and ears - it looks and sounds like torture, but they do end up with baby-soft skin.
I haven't done nearly as much reading as I had planned - there always seems to be other stuff to do, and I sleep so well here that my usual middle-of-the-night three-hour reading jag has come to a grinding halt.
However, I have just read another book by the great Maggie Gee. I know that many of you have read her brilliant My Cleaner, where the ghastly, bossy, snobbish Vanessa Henman can't see that her Ugandan cleaning lady, Mary, is far cleverer and better at everything than she is.
My Driver is more of the same and looks at the silliness of political correctness with the same characters but set in Uganda this time.
And don't forget, it's the launch of Garrick Tremain's book on Monday evening.
