After a restful night and a bountiful breakfast buffet, we were back on the road for our morning reccy of the sanctuary of Olympia, birthplace of the Olympic Games. Just like their modern reincarnation, the games were held every four years and featured a series of athletic competitions. However, rather than the pursuit of national glory, with all that jingoistic flag-waving, the first games were a religious festival to honour Zeus, top god on Mount Olympus.

According to Demetrios, our all-knowing guide, the entire enterprise was a licence to mint money, with gifts to the gods flooding in from across the Greek world. Unlike most Olympiads these days, it made the hosts filthy rich.

The male competitors always competed in the buff. Imagine the sight of sweaty fellas in their birthday suits dripping in olive oil without a jock strap between them, their family jewels swaying from side to side like weights on a grandfather clock – surely they must have done themselves a mischief. But I guess that was the price they paid to be poster boys of their time, to be feted and fantasised about.

Women were not permitted to participate in the main games but had their own, separate events known as the Heraea Games, in honour of Zeus’ missus, Hera. They had to be unmarried, and unlike the ripped blokes, they kept their kit on.

The games ran for about a thousand years, from 776 BCE until 393 CE, when they were abolished by that Christian zealot, the Roman Emperor Theodosius I. The buttoned-up killjoy probably thought all that homoerotic nude wrestling was the work of the Devil.

It takes imagination to visualise the once magnificent temples and civic buildings. Nevertheless, the setting is stunning. And the museum is pretty good too. Liam was thrilled to be able to place his big toe on the ancient starting line at the very first Olympic Stadium. He kept his knickers on, much to the disappointment/relief (delete according to taste) of the gathering crowd.