I am rocking, with my head cradled in my hands, silently willing myself to die. Actually, I am willing him to die, or at least to be spirited away from this hotel room where our relationship breakdown is being played out against a glorious sunset and frantic inquiries from housekeeping as to whether we will ever vacate the room.

Outside I can see a hundred happy couples, holding hands and tossing their shiny hair. Inside it is all bawling and spent tissues, and that’s just the soon-to-be ex. For I am on a “romantic holiday”, and it is the first rule of a romantic holiday that amorousness will play second fiddle to the mother of all bust-ups.

The above took place on Capri, home to the despotic Tiberius, whom I decided was not pushing slaves off precipices because they failed to arouse him, as legend has it, merely disposing of bickering couples. But it’s not just Capri. Oh, no, I’ve got form. I have split up with people in all the most romantic destinations in the world: Rome, Paris, Tuscany...

Armed with this knowledge, I have done long-haul only on my tod, so Shimla, Mauritius and the Caribbean remain untainted. However, I have managed to have a relationship implode not once but twice in Venice, a city that I now frequent only alone. So jittery was I when I recently found myself in Seville with a loved one that I was a wreck within hours, bleating: “I can’t stand the suspense. Let’s just get it over with.” I have done frosty in five-star and cringing on the Croisette; emperor beds have gone undisported in and tasting menus unconsumed. Hell, I’ve even blagged myself a downgrade to avoid a freshly minted ex.

Part of the problem is sheer human perversity: if one is obliged to behave in an amorous fashion, then it is Sod’s Law that one will feel more like knocking the whole thing on the head. Moreover, there is a tendency to suggest a tender travel adventure only as a last-ditch effort when the writing is already on the wall. Hence the phrase “Let me take you to Paris, darling” should always be viewed with suspicion. I have male acquaintances who have arranged a week somewhere precisely because they are about to end it all, reasoning that both parties should get in a final week’s sexual intercourse. (Fools, don’t they realise that “romantic” holidays never result in sex?)

Travel, of course, presents its own stresses. A male friend tells the story of arriving at an airport with girlfriend in tow only to turn on his heel and try to buy a ticket back: the very flight had been more than he could stomach. Small imperfections bearable amid the distractions of home quickly intensify into deal breakers. Why must they always leave it to you to withdraw currency/prattle in pidgin Italian? And exactly how much does one have to love a man to tolerate his appearance in sandals and shorts?

While behaviour that is in character may provoke, much that is out of character can prove testing. The occasion for contemplation provided by even the shortest break may spur “Where is my life going?” type questions or, more to the point, “Who the hell is this?” In a period of introspection, the drunken lobster lolling next to you may fall short.

At the same time, various local contingencies come into play. A tender stay in Verona was blighted by the “Amarone effect” whereby a mere half bottle would turn me and my then boyfriend into froth-mouthed maniacs; not for nothing is the said vino Hanni-bal Lecter’s tipple of choice.

And, then, there is the claus-trophobia born of a shared lavatory. To my mind this is why a lot of men enjoy travel: the chance to test out a different sewage system while brandishing favourite reading matter. Civility and a lack of sound-proofing present no impediment. Small wonder that the main boast of five-star establishments tends to be separate bathrooms — no single innovation serves to preserve a relationship more.

So forget moonlit strolls and his ’n’ hers towelling this Valentine’s Day. Pine for your other half and send plaintive texts if you must, but remember that the most romantic course is to go it alone.

Read Hannah Betts’s relationship advice in Times online’s newly launched wedding site, The Hitch (www.timesonline.co.uk/ thehitch).

Romance on the rocks: the top five

Venice — pressure is such that most relationships are DOA (Dead On Arrival) at Marco Polo airport.

Capri — its charms will turn the most mild-mannered individual into a slavering tyrannical pervert.

Paris — the city of broken dreams and spectacularly b*ggered up relationships.

South of France — in a villa, no one can hear you scream.

Brighton — so raffish, so charming, so utterly impossible to sustain even a dirty weekend.

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