Luckily, I’m sailing in on my “hotel,” therefore eschewing the considerable cost of accommodations on the British isle. So later that day, when I disembark in the capital, Hamilton, and hit its store-lined Front Street, I’m braced for the apparently inevitable financial onslaught and (almost) ready to splurge. But something is amiss. The prices are, dare I say, reasonable — at least by New York City standards. No Swarovski-encrusted seashells. No $1,000-an-hour anything to rent. No $20 rum swizzles garnished with gleaming curlicues of 14-karat gold leaf. Really?