Over the past few weeks, I have realised that I am the worst kind of British tourist. My crime is way worse than binge drinking in Benidorm, or mortifying locals in Rhodes with sex acts performed in front of their Orthodox chapels. I’m the party pooper who, while on holiday in destinations popular with Britons, has the audacity to ask: what actually happened here?

For example, I had the good fortune to find myself in Jamaica last month after a filming stint in Kingston, when I realised that my hotel was actually named after a former slave plantation on whose grounds it still stands. That history is completely invisible to the predominantly British tourists who stay there, unless they go out of their way to visit Rose Hall, a museum on the other side of the vast estate where the owners’ “Great House” still stands.