Cook Islands

• Floating in a South Sea bubble - Cook Islands
• A Fling with Fiji - Fiji
• On Location - New Zealand
• Wonder Walk - Roaring Burn
• 6 of the best - New Zealand
• Stein on wine, Kiwi style - New Zealand
• Singing the Praises - New Zealand
• No frills? Not us! No expense spared - New Zealand
• Geyserland! - Rotorua
• A perfect 10 for Polynesia - Tahiti

DURING HISTORY LESSONS at school there were times when I know I drifted. Learning about the South Sea Bubble, which I seem to remember was a speculative financial scandal in the 18th century, was one of those moments.

But it has new meaning now I’ve been to the Cook Islands. For one glorious week, I lived inside a South Sea bubble that was iridescent and sunshine-filled.

I was surrounded by a shining lagoon, gardenia perfumed the air, and for most of the time there was a scarlet hibiscus behind my ear.

It was winter in Britain, but 12,000 miles away, on a dot in the Pacific, I feasted on mango and fresh mahimahi fish, and was greeted everywhere with smiles and kisses. No wonder I never wanted the bubble to burst and real life intervene.

Touch down at Rarotonga, the capital of the Cooks and the only island destination with a regular air service, and you know you’ve left Heathrow far, far away. The reason for this immediate sense of well-being? Partly it was the cheerful gent in the arrivals lounge serenading me with his ukelele, partly it was my guide, Papatua, waiting to lasso me with an ei, a garland of gardenia and allamanda.

Partly it was the smiles, and the warm air, and the coconut palms.Partly it was my hotel.

The Little Polynesian is a newly-refurbished boutique hotel. I will never forget climbing out of the airport van and standing rumpled and unwashed in reception.

Bottomless pacific

In front of me was a huge arrangement of cerise ginger flowers and an azure infinity pool. Beyond, an aquamarine lagoon, rippling out to the white froth of the reef and the deep blue of the bottomless Pacific.

‘I thought,’ I later told Dorice Reid, the hotel owner, ‘that I’d died and gone to heaven.’ She, for her part, gave me a cup of locally-grown coffee, smiled and kissed me on both cheeks. St Peter, please note, if I’m very good, will you please greet me that way, too?

The Little Polynesian has ten luxurious bungalows, each with its own verandah looking out across the pearl-white sands, littered with black volcanic boulders.

And I soon discovered that the hotel chef had a light, delicious touch with local produce. Every meal was delectable. Do not miss the citrus tart with vanilla ice cream and mango, a seductive mixture of sweet and sharp.

Dorice is not only the owner of the hotel, she is also the elected chief of her clan, the Te Tika.

Though the islanders are fervent Christians, and 19th century missionaries liked to destroy Maori customs, the current generation works hard to restore them.

Dorice took me to the marae (the sacred ground) where her investiture took place 20 years ago.

Spiritual protection

Indeed, a great change missionaries did introduce was the concept women could take on a chief’s job. Queen Victoria was an impressive female role model, after all.

Before we could step inside I had to put on a necklace of rauti, special leaves stripped and twisted together, for spiritual protection.

She then showed me the altar where a pig was sacrificed, its head cut off and then presented to the new chief. At her investiture Dorice had to bite the pig’s right ear, symbolising that she would always listen to her clan.

The investiture throne was a huge block of volcanic rock. The original was destroyed by missionaries but the clan found a new one in the jagged-ridged mountains.

The rock was brought down by forklift truck but the nervous driver dumped it outside the marae wall, for fear he would be punished by the gods for desecration.

Dorice and a few strong warriors had to put it in place. At first they couldn’t lift it. Then the priest started chanting and they found they could carry it effortlessly.

We returned to the hotel to meet Dorice’s deputy chiefs, a formidable group of women, and we sat together in her pool, talking about the struggle for indigenous peoples the world over.

Count the colours of the water

The islanders are intensely warm and always speak their mind. Rosie, an ample sportswoman who organises the netball championships, shouted in Maori to my guide Papatua, sitting shyly nearby. They all laughed and so I asked for a translation.

‘I said come and cool your b*lls in the pool,’ said Rosie. ‘Don’t worry, it doesn’t sound rude in our language. Nothing sounds rude.’

To inhibited Europeans, the traditional dancing does look a little rude. Girls wear wreaths around their hips and twitch and rock them, while they smile and lift their hands gracefully.

As the drums beat vigorously, the men stamp and knock their knees together, displaying yards of muscular thigh. These island nights would certainly challenge the Strictly Come Dancing judges.

From Rarotonga, a plane takes you to the most popular of the other islands, Aitutaki. Its lagoon, dotted with islets, is where the Survivor series was filmed. The Pacific Resort is a splendid hotel with a luxurious pool and a huge, broad beach. My room had a view of white sand, lagoon and leaning coconut palms.

At Aitutaki it’s almost obligatory to take a cruise around the lagoon to visit the islets. On One Foot Island, I fell asleep under a palm tree, my head and feet resting comfortably on coconuts.

I tried lazily to count the colours of the water. The dark green of a distant island, bordered with a bright topaz blue. A streak of aquamarine and a bright lemon over a sand bar. And the emeralds and navy blues of the deep water.

Laid back friendliness

Our guide was a beautiful young giant, Philip, son of the local chief. He was taller and hunkier than Tarzan, with a voice as deep as Barry White’s, and he showed us the best spots for snorkelling, and how to find the tiny hermit crabs.

He summoned us back by blowing on a conch shell. On the way home across the lagoon, Philip played bongos while the captain played ukelele and steered with an elbow. The first mate strummed a guitar as they sang Polynesian ballads.

For couples who want to be alone, there are self-catering bungalows with extraordinary sea views on Rorotonga.

But don’t go looking for vices. I heard the story of a local lady whose son brought back from New Zealand an interesting new plant.

She put it in a pot, watered it, and gave it pride of place on her balcony, until the police spotted it, summoned all the local mamas, identified it as cannabis, and ceremonially burned it.

But then with the hot sun, the fragrant flowers, the sea’s lullaby and the laid-back friendliness of the Cook Islanders, nobody needs any further intoxication.