Mauritius

• Go in the summer silly! - Indian Ocean
• Lovers in Luxury - Maldives
• Feet first into the Maldives - Maldives
• No news, No shoes - Maldives
• My wedding pact with David Walliams - Maldives
• Push the boat out - Seychelles
• Relaxation Addict - Seychelles
• Mauritius the Delicious - Mauritius
• Mr Perma-Tan in Paradise - Mauritius
• Never seen you looking so lovely - Mauritius
• Island Iffy No Longer - Sri Lanka
• Having a swell time! - Seychelles
• Perfect, even for the world’s pickiest guest! - Maldives
• Do not disturb - Mauritius
• My tantrum in paradise - Mauritius
• Calendar girl makes a date - Maldives

OH FOR HEAVEN'S SAKE, this stupid wind keeps ruffling my pages and flipping them over when I’m trying to relax and read this piece on Carla Bruni,’ I said to myself.

‘How ANNOYING!’ And then I caught myself just as I was about to say: ‘Can’t they do something about the wind?’

With those unspoken words, our stay in a spa resort on the island of Mauritius had turned me into my old chum Elton John. Not, sadly, the talented piano-playing part. More the I-want-what-I-want-and-I-want-it-now aspect, as witnessed in the documentary Tantrums And Tiaras.

It took him years of being indulged to reach the point where he complained about an inconvenient breeze. Me? Just five days.

Exclusivity and Luxury

Mauritius, a tropical pear-shaped drop in the Indian Ocean to the east of Madagascar, itself off the south-eastern coast of Africa, is the holiday destination you are reminded of when Royalty (Prince Harry and ex-girlfriend Chelsy), pop stars (Kylie Minogue) or pop royalty (Simon Cowell) are photographed there.

The 12-hour flight makes it quite remote and therefore discreet, and the image is always of exclusivity and luxury. Mauritius gained independence from Britain 40 years ago, and there’s still a feeling of charm from a bygone era.

A fusion of Indian, African, European and Chinese, the harmony of its society could serve as a model for the rest of the world. They speak both English and French, as well as their own patois, and the French, traditionally the owners of the sugar plantations, still have a big presence.

It’s where, for instance, Rachida Dati, the ravishing French justice minister, was photographed last year with one of the men now rumoured to be the father of her baby girl. And it’s where Sarkozy retreated to, pre-Carla, with another girlfriend during one of his marriage splits from Cecilia.

It’s hard to keep up with the complex love lives of French politicians but there I was on a private sunlounger below our terrace, giving it a go, when the wind disturbed my Vanity Fair.

I had wept tears of happiness when partner Grant and I arrived and saw the view of the lagoon from our suite and waves crashing over the coral reef. I couldn’t understand how I had been lucky enough to fetch up there. The truth was, I was being spoilt rotten. I’d had a vile bout of shingles and sunshine was prescribed.

With half-term consuming short-haul flights, we looked further afield. There it was: Mauritius and the Movenpick Resort and Spa – way beyond what we’re normally accustomed to. We’re not from Planet Peasant, but have you ever stayed where you have your own waterfall tumbling gently into your own plunge pool? Nor us.

Would you know what to do when it stops one day? Us neither, as in, ‘Who on earth do you think I call to get the waterfall going again?’ Maintenance, and it took them just 20 minutes to switch it back on, should you ever need to know.

I know I’m going on about it, but our suite was so big that we didn’t discover our third bathroom until Day Two. I told Housekeeping that we seemed to have only one bath towel. It was in the ocean view shower, and the vast loo and dressing room at the back had only hand towels. Within minutes, Ramesh, apparently our butler, arrived bearing armfuls, and looking perplexed. ‘But there are plenty in your other bathroom,’ he said. ‘Well actually, there aren’t,’ I said, leading him into it.

Ate Lobster at Candlelit Dinner

‘No,’ he said, ‘your other bathroom.’ He walked purposefully towards what we had assumed was the connecting door to the next suite, opened it and led us into a little tropical, jungly walled garden. All hibiscus, frangipane and multi-coloured foliage. Ours. At the end, a vast glass-walled bathroom sported a huge Jacuzzi, another shower, extra bathrobes, even more products (did I tell you they were normal-sized) and rafts and rafts of bath towels.

We watched the sun set into the ocean from a dinner table set up on the beach at the water’s edge. Ate lobster at candlelit dinners in La Grand Caze, the colonial-style restaurant. Had champagne and chocolate-dipped strawberries in the flower-strewn milk-and-honey bath we shared after a double massage in the Aldana spa.

Curiosity peeled us from our loungers and beyond the gates of the resort. Winding past deserted beaches, we drove by fields of sugar cane and tiny villages to the capital, Port Louis.

We'd Have Emigrated

After a trip to the market and lunch in a cafe (two curries and Diet Cokes cost all of £5.30) we fled to the quiet of Pamplemousse Botanic Gardens. If Monet had seen the long pond of giant Amazon waterlilies, he’d have dumped Giverny and emigrated.

We went dolphin-watching in Tamarin Bay, a beautiful day spent on a catamaran, O’Plezir. A large pod were not just leaping, but spinning several times before landing back in the water. As we turned to sail home, we spotted three whales, lazily floating. ‘Just as well we’re here for only a week,’ I said, thinking of the Indian buffet the night before. ‘Otherwise I’d be looking like them.’