Long before Captain Billy Bligh and his crazy crew of mutineers in the making visited Aitutaki in the soon to be barbecued Bounty, legendary Polynesian warriors were succumbing to the spectacular sight of a lagoon so beautifully blue that it appears to have been painted. In fact, I’m left gaping like a slack-jawed idiot as our flight descends over the lagoon after our short flight from Rarotonga.

The island of Aitutaki is tiny and in minutes of landing we’re on a ferry to the insanely pretty Aitutaki Lagoon Resort & Spa.

On the other side we’re greeted by a “warrior” and the call of his conch. Raffles has a blow but instead of making a trumpeting sound he just leaves the poor warrior with a spittle covered shell. Sorry dude.

We’ve barely checked into our beachfront bungalow and test driven its family-size hammock before the kids are whisked away for a traditional drumming lesson.

Long has our little lunatic loved to make noise and he proves a natural on the pate (log drum), as does Sugarpuff who insists on her own raucous turn before performing a toddler style hula and knocking back her third coconut for the day. I swear the stuff is like baby crack, such is her addiction.

Our hips are still wiggling, and the kids still giggling, when local tour guide Nga Tuanie collects us in his bright yellow four-wheel-drive to explore Aitutaki via a secret network of dirt tracks over the jungle covered hills.

There’s little traffic, besides the odd chook. The kids happily bounce about in the back of the jeep as we drive through plantations dripping with fruit. As we beat away the pterodactyl-size mosquito’s with leafy branches, Nga points out places of interest from WWII bunkers to the sacred site of an ancient marae (a sacred place that served as a ceremonial meeting place for everything from traditional feasts to sacrifices).

This particular marae was the site of some fairly brutal circumcisions that were performed on boys when they came of age.

Mr Eats World flinches when he sees the v-shaped throne of rock where the crude operations took place. Sadly for historians (though not to local 12 year old boys), most of the marae in The Cook Islands were destroyed at the command of Christian missionaries, and their secrets lost.

We return through villages bumping past locals in our jeep as they continue happily about their business but always with a wave and a smile.

Back at the resort there is till plenty of time for us to frolic about in the irresistible water before dinner.

Dinner is a Kaikai (feast) of root crops and meats wrapped in banana leaves and slow cooked for hours in an Umu (a type of underground earth oven) until tender.

A dessert of Poke, a traditional Cook Islands dish of sweetened bananas thickened with arrowroot and served in coconut milk, follows.

It’s an alarmingly unattractive glutinous brown mass not dissimilar in appearance to the contents of Sugarpuff’s nappy but, brave souls that we are, decide to brave it and discover a chewy, gluey taste sensation that has me going back for seconds. For Poke that is, not nappy fillings.

The following morning we rouse ourselves sufficiently for some lagoon magic with Te Vaka Lagoon Cruises who collect us from our extremely lovely doorstep

Dangling in the luminous blue from one of the boat’s life rings, Raffles joyful smile dazzles as dozens of butterfly fish surround him, squealing with delight/fear as a turtle pops up for air nearby.

After an on-board lunch of barbecued fresh-caught ocean fish, tropical salad and yet more coconut we head to a small uninhabited motu (islet).

Here we paddle around the clear shallow waters of the island, dodging the thick black and disturbingly phallic sea slugs that dot the water, and snorkel a little more before the sound of the conch signals it’s time to head back to our digs.

Before dinner there is time for crab racing, music and drinks with fellow guests.

Raffles selects a splendid looking specimen of crabhood and is invited to start the race.

We cheer loudly for our crab but he is resoundingly beaten by another wild-eyed crustacean who we suspect has been taking crab steroids.

We’re calling shenanigans on that one and insist they take crustacean urine samples.

Our disappointment is short-lived as we are quickly distracted by the need to rescue another hermit crab that our fearless Sugarpuff is attempting to eat alive.

Over a leisurely dinner we feed her something a little less inclined to bite back and, as the setting sun puts on a magnificent display of colour, quietly dread our morning flight home from this beautiful blue water paradise.

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We’re not what exactly what you’d call regular churchgoers. And by not regular I actually mean never. But in an effort to immerse ourselves into Rarotonga’s local culture, and out of respect for the local and their beliefs, we’ve found ourselves bathing in the glow of stained-glass in a pretty whitewashed church on a sunny Sunday morning.

It’s a full house but we’ve managed to squeeze in between two lovely local ladies dressed in their best floral muumuus and woven rito hats on the coral hued pews.

There are few places in the world where you’ll find people as devout as those in the Cook Islands. Like much of the Pacific, English Christian missionaries arrived in the early 1800s and were successful in converting the islanders from their cannibalistic tendencies, which has been a huge boon to tourists wanting to visit paradise without being marinated in a nice white wine sauce and served with a side of coconut.

As the Reverend uplifts his congregation Raffles, like the local littlies, begins to squirm, until the music starts.

Stunned into stillness he, like us, is enthralled by the scat-like musical improvisation of the Imene tuki (hymn of grunts). As the women fill the church with sweet melody the men interject with a rhythmic harmony that  is part chant, part spontaneous outburst of joy, wholly beautiful and something every visitor should experience, regardless of their religious persuasion… or lack thereof.

So welcoming are the parishioner’s that afterwards we’re invited to join them for morning tea. We’re extremely tempted but decline before they discover what a pack of heathens they have in their midst.

Instead we head to The Cook Islands Whale and Wildlife Centre, an unforgiving Tardis of whaling history that is all about hands-on education.  Raffles is taken by the sharks’ jaws but it’s the fossilised dinosaur poo that really floats his boat – that and a frankly gruesome live coconut crab dangling precariously from its mesh enclosure for all the world like an extra from a b-grade horror film.

Ready for some seafaring of our own we head to Avatiu Harbour and climb into the semi-submersible Raro Reef Sub, the hull of which is soon filled with cries of “Sound the Octo Alert, Whoop, Whoop, Whoop”, as Raffles embraces his inner Octonaut and we cruise over the wreck of the SS Maitai accompanied by a school of giant pouty fish, who’ve clearly been overdoing the collagen injections.

The Lagoon Breeze Villas offer us spacious, self catering accommodation and is proves and excellent home base for the next few days. Located opposite a sandy beach on Aroa Lagoon & Marine Reserve where we paddle on the resort’s kayaks, or “Gondola’s” as a confused (post Venice) Raffles insists on calling them, this place is perfect for families.

The swimming pool includes a shallow toddlers’ area and plenty of pool toys, not to mention beach toys by the bucket load. The children’s playground, trikes and a trampoline also prove popular with my tiny travellers but it is Coco, the villa’s resident pooch, who wins their hearts.

Following a hot tip from a cool local we find ourselves at Island Living, a gift shop with a pronounced regional flavour, to chat to owners Minar and Louis. With typical Cook Island hospitality they have opened their colonial-style home to visitors for a weekly gourmet three-course local dining experience with a difference where guests can enjoy restaurant quality dishes made from ingredients grown and livestock raised in their expansive garden.

We are lucky enough to enjoy a tour of the plantation with Louis. Raffles happily stalks the chickens and what must be the happiest pigs on the planet –  currently being porked up, if you’ll pardon the pun, on a diet of fresh mango, bananas, coconut and papaya – to make Louis And Minars’ family one mighty tasty free range feast.

Louis also gives us a lesson in the multiple stages and uses of the humble coconut (whilst fighting off a frenzied Sugarpuff who I swear given the chance would gnaw her way through the husk to get at the tasty prize inside) and lets us smell, touch and taste his edible garden and, best of all, lets us scoff sweet, sweet bananas and coconuts fresh from the tree. They are a  revelation of sugary goodness and Raffles can’t stop at one.

Our days in Rarotonga are spent eating, swimming, kayaking and cruising on waters too blue to be true to a fairly constant soundtrack of twanging ukuleles.

We open up the kids to the stories and culture of Raro at every opportunity and Raffles discovers his inner warrior.

We take a glass-bottom boat on Muri Lagoon with Koka Lagoon Cruises.

We find this dude just hanging around….

Sugarpuff scoffs another thousand or so freshly husked coconuts…

And the kids both enjoy anatomy lessons of the totem kind.

Keen for Raffles to suck in a little more Cook Islands culture we head to the National Auditorium where free lessons in the Cook Islands hula are offered. We suck. But the rubber-hipped hula dancers make quite an impression on our little movers and shakers. We decide to take in  a performance at the Te Vara Nui Cultural Village where muscular men dance with fire and ladies, clad in gravity-defying coconut shell bras, swing their hips to the beat, Raffles’ eyes following every last jiggle.

The performance is all kinds of awesome, but its most memorable moment comes during a poignant theatrical pause as Raffles shouts “When are the bottom dancers coming back?”  and Mr Eats World and I, hoping we’ve scored a few points with the man upstairs following our earlier church visit, pray for the earth to swallow us up.

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The best place, in my humble opinion, to start uncovering the real spirit of a new destination is via its local markets and we’re lucky to have arrived in Rarotonga early enough on a Saturday morning that we can join the locals for a stroll around Raro’s weekly Punanga Nui Markets.

It is here that Sugarpuff thirstily slurps her way through the first of many of her favourite fresh drinking coconuts and kids, dogs and dozens of chirpy chickens run randomly between stalls laden with brightly coloured pareo (sarongs), black pearls, woven goods, floral garlands and fresh fruit.

Raffles is not quite as taken by the consumption of coconuts as his sibling but does experience love at first sight when he spots a garish ukulele that’s been cunningly fashioned out of a hollowed coconut shell and decorated in the style of a gaudy Hawaiian shirt. It. Is. Hideous. And, of course, he demands that it come home with us.

One day he’ll spot something tasteful and declare it must be his. But, in what can only be declared a tragedy for my decor, today is not that day.

It’s still a little early to check into our hotel, so ukulele in hand, we scoot around the tiny island to take in the sights and get a feel for this impossibly pretty patch in the Pacific. And it feels good.

We’re in the Cook Islands for a week of sun drenched relaxation Pacific Island style. I know, I know. But someone has to do it!  And so, the rest of our post flight day is spent playing on the beach. More specifically, snorkelling in the clear blue water that’s literally metres from the door of our beachfront hotel suite at The Rarotongan Beach Resort & Spa, where we feed the hundreds of friendly fish of every size and colour that come to greet us.  Raffles is in fishy heaven.

That is until one flesh-hungry fish decides to bite the hand that feeds. I didn’t think they had piranhas in these parts but this bastard fish has taken a suspiciously large chunk out of my son’s finger. The result of which is a lot of blood and a small boy howling, in an Oscar worthy performance, that he will “never ever go in the water again.”

I spend an hour convincing my dramatic offspring that the other fish are friendly and promise him we’ll eat the pesky pesce that bit him for dinner.

“Can I bite him in the face?” he asks, bottom lip still quivering. Of course, I answer and my vengeful boy is smiling once again.

Sure enough that evening we dine on delicious fresh fish by the water’s edge. We manage to persuade Raffles that he has devoured his slippery nemesis and that the seas are once more safe for swimming.

In reality he is eating a lovely yellow fin tuna, served in traditional British fish and chip style, and it is so good we can’t help nicking chunks off his plate.

He gets his revenge as he digs into my dinner, the local specialty, Ike Mata, delicious raw tuna, lemon juice and coconut that I’ve fallen for hook, line and sinker. Yum.

In fact so surprisingly good is the food that we dine at the same resort restaurant each night, something we normally avoid in preference for street food and experimentation. It also makes sticking to our little one’s night time routines so much easier.

But Raffles favourite thing about the restaurant isn’t eating his nemesis or stealing my dinner, it’s the bizarre appearance at the exact same time each evening of a metre long black and white snake-eel that swims purposefully by as we scoff.  Either it’s the most OCD snake in Rarotonga, and it needs help from an aquatic therapist that resides in these parts or we’re sitting alongside a snake-eel superhighway at peak hour.

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