Forget trekking across the Himalayas on a diet of yak’s milk, wading through the leech-infested swamps of a Vietnamese jungle, or bareback horse-riding across the plains of Mongolia. You haven’t earned your stripes as a seasoned traveller unless you have perched on a rain-soaked seat on the upper deck of an open-top bus trundling along a Home Counties high street, clutching both a camera and an umbrella in a lashing gale.

I did just that at the weekend, during a visit to Windsor. Mini breaks are my main indulgence; they’re where most of my money goes, and they’re what I look forward to most. And no mini break is complete without an open-top bus ride.

Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it. Being driven around and told, via a jaunty audio guide, about various sights along the way is a great way to get your bearings.

I don’t care what the travel snobs say. I’m not ashamed to admit that I enjoy being a tourist. I like being led around and told snippets of information I’d probably never have known otherwise.

Being a culture vulture, I’m not big on beach holidays, mainly because when I travel somewhere, I want to see more than a stretch of sand and assorted sun-loungers.

I’m at my happiest on a European city break, traipsing around an ancient market square, marvelling at the stonework of a medieval cathedral, clicking my camera at Gothic-inspired rooftops, or wandering through the sumptuous banqueting rooms of a stately home.

If there’s a museum, I’m there. I don’t care what’s in it; I’ve trailed around museums devoted to everything from antique fans to 13th century torture implements, Napoleonic uniforms to Roman fish salting. I just like absorbing information through multi-lingual earphones.

It’s easy to mock parties of American or Japanese tourists in matching baseball caps being herded by tour guides, their heads turning, bird-like, as they’re told where to stop and what to look at.

But, as anyone who’s latched on to a guided tour may admit, it can be quite a learning process. Surely it’s better to pick up some expert knowledge, with a few anecdotes thrown in, than wander around aimlessly trying to work out the difference between a medieval scold’s bridle and a Victorian whisk.

Being a self-confessed tourist goes hand-in-hand with being a connoisseur of the souvenir shop. When you’ve spent the best part of an afternoon wandering around a castle or an Elizabethan manor house, the lure of the brightly-lit gift shop becomes irresistible.

Nothing rounds off a decent mini break like a pair of novelty oven gloves and a tin of jellied fruits.