The plane circled over Aitutaki, a coral atoll flung like a handful of pearls across the Pacific Ocean, each islet shimmering in the blinding sunlight. I pressed my nose against the window, gazing down at the lagoon that seemed almost implausibly blue, a colour that should exist only in the overzealous imagination of a travel brochure designer.
It was a view that belonged to dreams, to postcards, to the fanciful notions of paradise conjured by poets and romantics. But this was real, as real as the slight clamminess of my palms and the hum of the small aircraft preparing for descent.
Pacific Resort Aitutaki greeted me with the understated charm of a place that knows it has nothing to prove. There was no grand entrance, no gilded columns or chandeliers, just a thatched reception area framed by swaying coconut palms and the smiling faces of the resort staff who welcomed me with a fragrant frangipani lei and a chilled glass of passionfruit juice.
