he characters are still there. You approach them via a sandy beach that might be a good spot for a swim if it wasn't cheek by jowl with Chinese tourists dressed in their Sunday best, ladies struggling through the sand in high heels. Among the diversions as you queue to have a photograph taken beneath the characters is a large turtle who'll flap his legs about pitifully for anyone who's prepared to pay the equivalent of a few cents to pick him up. A clutter of stalls aggressively sell Coke and local equivalents such as canned asparagus juice.

It was an anti-climax. I went and sat on the sand away from the crowd. But then it occurred to me that, purely by accident, I'd struck upon a deep truth about Chinese tourism: they promise you Hawaii, and you end up at the end of the world, queuing to have your photograph taken with a crowd who can't decide who's more interesting - you or the turtle.