That includes, we have to admit, the benefits of observing topless French women frolicking on a North-West Coast beach.

But before we get to that bit, your columnist fully understands that former US president John Kennedy has been paraphrased on that "ask not" quote exactly 1,066,300 times or, and quite coincidentally, the number of visitors to our sceptred isle during fiscal year 2012-13.

And, without appearing too rude, do we all try to put ourselves out for these rubberneckers or what?

Last week, for example, a gruff elderly Yank couple waylaid this correspondent in Launceston's St John Street with an inquiry over "the nearest Launceston train station".

When the old be-capped guy ("from Savannah, that's in Georgia, d'ya know it?) was told there had not been a timetabled Tasmanian passenger railway service for about 30 years he said he had just reckoned Tassie "was like everywhere else and had a railroad" and assumed that someone must have ripped out some pages from his Lonely Planet guide, "the ones dealing with express trains and such like".

Then this good ol' boy laughed in that gravelly Deep South sort of all-knowing way that may be interpreted as either genuine amusement or a deadly threat.

We envisage him back home sitting in a rocking chair eating corn off the cob and letting a sleeping dog lie.

"Pleased to be of assistance," responded your columnist.

As was the case with the two blonde tanned German "25-something" female backpackers whom we helpfully suggested where they might find a bed for the night, but (mindful of one's own domestic arrangements), not at our place.

Oh yes, and the confused ladies from New Zealand we met in the street who couldn't find Oatlands.

"Neither can I", yours etc joked before sending them on their way southward.

Now, come on do we hear the gentle, indeed patient, reader demand, what's the story concerning these half-naked French chicks?

And how are they assisting us in any way by offering a diversion?

Well, we must rely here on a source, a mate called Terry, who some weeks ago decided to spend some time "taking the air" at Coles Beach, in Devonport.

"I was just gettin' out of the old ute at the beach car park and spotted these chicks and several blokes throwing a ball to each other," Terry said.

Terry got to the nub of the matter fairly quickly with: "These women, they shouted at each other in French, they only had the bottom half of their cossies on so I knew they was Continentals.

"There was a bunch of local kids on the beach and they were staring a bit, a lot actually, but they [the Frenchwomen] weren't at all worried as they jumped around the place trying to catch the ball," he said.

"And not always successfully," Terry added, suddenly caught in an uncharacteristically quiet reverie.

Apparently, and after all the vigorous fun and games, the young foreigners retired to two nearby parked camper vans.

The moral of our story is that we must all put aside our gripes on how tiresome and demanding tourists can be, wielding their folded tattered street maps, wearing seasonally inappropriate attire and making urgent inquiries, and begin to enjoy their company by more closely observing their habits and customs as did Terry.

On deep reflection, this columnist would have been more than happy to invite the aforementioned pair of tanned Teutonic travellers back to our joint for a meet and greet.

Unfortunately, and I pass this on from a usually reliable domestic authority for the benefit of other male persons: "You can only take warmer relations with visitors so far."