Day 7. Rarotonga. A walk in the woods.

We thought we'd give the cross island trek a go today. According to the Lonely Planet guide book this should have been a fairly strenuous 3-4 hour hike across some of Rarotonga's more challenging terrain.

What a flaming understatement.

It was tough going. Really, really tough. Compounded by a few mistakes we made along the way.

Mistake number one was picking the most humid day of the week to go walking. It was stickier than Posh Spice on a pogo, and as we neared the foot of the first big hill we knew we were going to struggle. Mistake number two was asking Keiron, a 25 year old super fit Kiwi, if he'd like to join us. He set off at a suicidal pace which left the Brit and German contingents gasping for air and water after about 14 seconds.

A quarter of an hour along the trail and we were desperate for a break, so were mightily relieved to come across a wild pig who obliged us by posing for photographs. Keiron didn't share our excitement though, he decided he'd had enough of the dawdling geriatrics, wished us luck and pressed on. I think the twat might even have been whistling as he disappeared over the horizon.

There then followed 3 hours of what can only be described as hell. It was a 410 metre climb to Rua Manga needle, the highest point of the trek, which for a brief moment provided some spectacular views of the island. But unfortunately the climb - and descent - was through thick rain forest. So the only thing to see was Daniel's muddy arse as he clambered over fallen tree trunks.

At the bottom of Rua Manga we made mistake number three. Instead of sticking to the trail some bright spark (Wend) decided it'd be better to follow a stream which would lead us to the waterfall at the end of the walk. By this time delirium and severe fatigue had set in and while attempting to jump between 2 rocks in the stream I went arse over tit, falling into the water and smashing my watch against a boulder.

Not happy with this at all, and would probably have started crying if Katrin hadn't been within earshot.

Anyway, stiff upper lips in place, and weary Germans in our wake, we finally made it to the waterfall, and I can't remember ever having a more pleasurable swim.

Oooooh it was bloody lovely!

There was however, one final kick in the teeth to come. The mosquito repellent we'd been applying so fastidiously throughout the walk washed off as we jumped into the plunge pool, so as we left the water we were bitten to bits.

As we crawled back to Vara's for a cold beer we bumped into Keiron sprawled out on the sun-deck showing his muscles off to a couple of nubile Swedish blondes. He told us he'd completed the entire trek in under 2 hours.

Bastard.

Day 6. Rarotonga. Diving for Wend, rain for Dave.

Woke this morning to torrential rain and decided it'd be a good opportunity to catch up with writing the blog. Wend left me to it and went off diving again.

Inevitably she had - and I quote - probably the most spectacular dive since Jacques Cousteau was strutting his stuff. First of all she saw a couple of Eagle Ray (think crocodile hunter killer but 3x the size). Then a 6ft white-tipped reef shark put in an appearance. And finally, just as the dive was ending a bloody family of hump-back whales came swimming by.

I kid you not.

To see these magnificent beasts from the side of a boat is a rare treat, but to be right next to them in the water is about as big a thrill as it is possible to experience while diving.

AND I WAS BACK AT THE GUESTHOUSE SHELTERING FROM THE RAIN WRITING THIS SODDING JOURNAL.

In the evening we went to one of the traditional island nights that they lay on for the tourists. Lots of people at Vara's had told us it was something not to be missed. So despite our scepticism we paid our $5 and went along.

Oh dear. Call us a couple of miserable fogeys, but we really didn't dig this at all.

I smelled a rat when we entered the room and saw a mirrorball and disco lights above a line of bored blokes decked in plastic beads and flowers as they sat behind their drums. It was downhill all the way after that, with 'warriors' jumping around making a racket as they attempted to woo a line of lovelies wearing grass skirts and coconut bras.

Terrible, turgid stuff, although the bras were something of a redeeming feature.

I don't know. Maybe we're just cultural snobs, because most of the audience seemed to be lapping it up, but I can't believe Captain Cook and his cronies came across this kind of thing when they came ashore 250 years ago.

Day 5. Rarotonga. Into the blue.

It's been two years since the Smiths last enjoyed any diving, so we'd been looking forward to today massively. Wend, being a bit of a mermaid on the quiet, was particularly keen to get back beneath the waves and had done loads of research on what we might encounter in this part of the Pacific. Sharks and Rays a distinct possibility she reckoned with a remote chance of spotting some Whales if we were really lucky.

There's a small outfit called Pacific Divers a short stroll from the guest house so we opted to go with them - a wise choice methinks, as they turned out to be a friendly, professional and extremely knowledgeable bunch, with the inside track on all the island's best dive sights.

I buddied with Wend while Katrin teamed up with Sandy the (not ungorgeous) Dive Master. I'd never been diving from such a small boat before and must admit to being apprehensive when we saw how choppy the sea was, not through any fear of drowning- we were never further than 500 metres from the shore - but because of my messy penchant for sea-sickness.

Once we were under the water however, it was absolutely fine, and a real buzz to be down among the fish and coral after so long. The two dives were good without being mindblowing.

First up was a wreck dive which, if truth be told, was more of a mooch around something that might have been a boat half a century ago. Those years on the ocean floor had obviously taken their toll though and what was left of the vessel had disintergrated into something a lot less interesting.

Our second dive was more varied in terms of marine life with lots of Parrot, Angel, Butter and Trigger fish going about their business.

Undoubted highlight of the day was coming across a small but perfectly formed hawksbill turtle. He turned out to be an incredibly nosey little bugger, swimming right up to our group for a good five minutes before becoming turtley bored with the situation.

Sorry, couldn't resist that.

Day 4. Rarotanga. Uneasy riders.

Teamed up today with Daniel and Katrin, a German couple who'd been on our flight from Tahiti. We hired motorbikes to explore the island and discovered it's possible to get right around in about an hour. Beer stops notwithstanding of course.

The Cook Islands are 15 tiny specks in the middle of the Pacific, and at 12 miles tip to tip, Rarotonga is by some margin the daddy of them all. We'd been toying with taking a flight to one of the neigbouring islands at some point, but our quick circuit convinced us there'd be plenty to keep us amused here for the next ten days.

Essentially there are 2 roads on Rarotonga; the main one, which hugs the coastline in a big loop, and an older one running parallel further inland. All the restaurants, resorts and bars are on the outer loop while the inner road is mainly residential, showing a glimpse of what island life must have been like before tourism took a hold, with lots of chickens milling about, fruit & veg allotments and at least one pig outside every home.

Tourism is the life-blood of the island but thankfully it hasn't squeezed the character out of the place. There are no high rise developments and even the more up-market resorts are fairly small scale and unobtrusive.

There's a wonderful laid-back feel to Rarotonga. You get a sense that the locals are very proud of where they live, and quite rightly so in our opinion. Daniel pointed out that everyone seems to be smiling all the time. He finds this pleasant but at the same time mildly disconcerting; he reckons if a stranger smiles at you in Hamburg it means they're either a lunatic or are about to run a switch-blade across your face.

Nice. Note to self: decline any invite from Daniel and Katrin to visit them in Germany.

Day 3. Rarotonga, Cook islands. Church 'n' Surf

Jetlag ensured we didn't really know what day of the week it was when we woke at 5am. All very confusing. But the fact that no shops, restaurants or bars showed any sign of life hinted it might be Sunday.

The Christian missionaries obviously did a cracking job when they arrived here in the mid 18th Century, because to this day, the Cook Islanders are a pious old posse. Church attendances might be plummeting back home, but in Rarotonga anyone who's anyone dons their Sunday best and heads to the nearest service.

Curious to see what all the fuss was about, we decided to join them, and boy, did we have a good time - what a magical, heartwarming experience. Many more treats like this in the forthcoming months and we'll be a very contented couple of travel bunnies.

At first we tried to keep a low profile, standing towards the rear of the noisy gathering, but it quickly became clear that this was to be no passive gig, and we were encouraged to pick up our hymn books and get with the beat. The service was split evenly between English and Maori so at times was pretty hard to follow, but the singing was amazing; a 100 or so South Sea Islanders belting out their hymns with great gusto and harmony.

What's more - and I suspect you couldn't say this about too many Church services at home - everyone seemed to be having an absolute ball. Smiling, swaying, clapping and giving it everything they've got. Some of the more enthusiastic ladies even cutting loose with a little dance during the more up-tempo numbers.

Then, to top it all, just as we were about to leave, the vicar announced that there'd be free food and beverages in the Church hall for all the non-islanders who'd joined today's congregation.

Result!


Our tummies nicely filled and souls suitably cleansed we spent the rest of the day on the beach next to our guest house.

Vara's is a glorified backpackers lodge, but it's clean, cheap and smack bang in the middle of Rarotonga's coolest stretch of waterfront.

How cheap? Well, put it this way; a double room for a night is less expensive than one of those daft cigars Jan smokes back in London. Less smelly too.

The beach is like something you'd see in a Bounty commercial. Palm-fringed, powder white sand sloping down to the crystal clear water's edge for as far as the eye can see. To break the monotony, four islets sit about 200 metres out into the bay, each surrounded by coral outcrops and thousands of brightly coloured tropical fish.

I think we're going to like it here.

Days 1 & 2: Heathrow - L.A - Tahiti - Cook Islands

So 33 hours and 3 flights after locking the door to 149a we arrived at our guest house on the Cook Islands. We're shattered but very glad to be here, as on first impression Raratonga seems the absolute nuts.

The journey wasn't bad - just a bit, you know, long. The Virgin flight to L.A. was a breeze; only half full and on a plane less than 2 months old which meant everything had that nice 'new car' smell. We then had a 5 hour stopover before the Tahiti flight, so rather than spend a minute longer than was necessary at the world's grubbiest airport we jumped a cab to nearby Manhattan beach to stretch the old pins, take some fresh air and neck some cheap and cheerful sushi ('Octopus' @ 1133 Highland Avenue, Tuna sashimi highly recommended).

Highlight of the trip so far has to be the Ghanian cabby who took us back to the airport. He'd lived in Streatham when he was younger but had to quit London because the weather was making him depressed. A keen observer of international politics, he reckoned Blair used to me 'the maaaaan' but had screwed up royally by teaming up with that dumb-ass George Bush. We didn't argue and tipped him handsomely.

Nine hours later and some hula hula girls were putting flowers in Wend's hair as we left the plane at Tahiti. They did this while swaying to the beat of 3 fat blokes playing little comedy guitars. All very twee, but a lovely welcome nevertheless - and we couldn't help thinking these people could teach the groundstaff at Standsted a thing or two.

We'd loved to have stayed on Tahiti longer, but French Polynesia is absurdly expensive so decided not to leave the terminal. We did however treat ourselves to a pack of Tahitian cheesy wotsits. Very nice they were too.

Anyway, another hour and we were on the final leg of the journey. And 3 hours after that we were paddling in the Pacific.

...now the holiday can really begin.