Playa del Carmen, Mexico

The course of true love never runs smooth, or so it is said. And in less than a month we'll have been together for 13 years - unlucky for some! But we're pretty bloody fortunate as from that very first thunderbolts and lightning moment when we clapped eyes on each other we've been two peas in a pod, yin and yang, Gilbert and George, Rogers and Hammerstein, Morecambe and Wise... Patsy and Edina!

Sadly, the same can't be said for everyone and while the hotel insists on giving us the full five-star romantic package, all around us other couples are starting their lives together with a string of beachside weddings of varying successes, the most noteable of which turns out to be the OTT but disastrously ill-fated nuptials of Cody and Christie which keeps us entertained for days.

It's on the day of their wedding, Sun 6th Jan, that Coman and I are booked in for both an aromatherapy "couple's massage" and our very own anniversary dinner, as arranged by Julia in public relations. It's a month to the day since our fourth anniversary of getting hitched, and Coman was away on a work trip that week so we hadn't really celebrated properly outside of a slap-up pub lunch and Coman sending me a gorgeous bunch of flowers, so it seems appropriate for us to be acting like love-struck honeymooners.

We start with the massage at the hotel's newly-built spa. The whole area is very swish and the room we're shown into, with its twin massage beds, dark wood interior, candles, aromas and the inevitable new-age chillout music of buddhist bells and chants, is very tranquil. Eighty minutes of hot stones, aromatherapy oils, cranial massage, reflexology and general full body workover later, and Coman and I float out of the spa with a Zen-like calm. It's been fantastic.

That evening, as we watch the aftermath of poor old Cody and Christie's wedding party (of which, more to come later) we're seated in La Terraza for the anniversary dinner. However something must have been lost in translation for the maitre'd as when we arrive we're presented with our own personalised menu, celebrating the "Honeymoon of Mr and Mrs Luff". And again the following night, at our romantic dinner on the beach entitled "Clair de Lune" our personalised menu is for Mr and Mrs Luff.

It's quite amusing, at least the first time we see it, and we've got to say, the levels of acceptance demonstrated to us as a same-sex couple have been magnificent from staff and guests. No-one's batted an eyelid at any point and despite there not being another gay couple around there's not an ounce of difference in how we're treated by anyone, anywhere - which is of course exactly how it should be, but isn't always guaranteed.

At the next table to us are sat Harry and Meryl, a couple in their sixties, from Connecticut. They strike up a conversation immediately, asking us how we're enjoying our honeymoon. We explain we did a civil partnership a few years ago and they're intrigued by the concept, saying they fully support gay marriage and are hopeful the US will make progress on the issue during Obama's second term.

As long as two people love each other they think it should be celebrated and we even discuss marriage in American churches as there is an order of Dominicans in their diocese who defy the Catholic church and conduct ceremonies for gay couples and as a result have a very vibrant, liberal, ever-growing congregation reflecting the social attitudes of New England, whilst all around other churches are struggling to attract members.

They're lovely to talk to and we bump into them around the resort over the next few days and say hi whenever we see them. Unfortunately at breakfast one morning they're seated with a timeshare rep selling-in the joys of eternal membership. We try to catch their eyes to warn them off signing away their life-savings but fear Harry and Meryl's retirement may well be spent in various Palace Resorts in Mexico and the US rather than on the cruises around the world as they hoped.

Our dinner, complete with an artfully-arranged napkin loveheart, is mostly delicious. We have starters of tuna caprese for me and spinach and parma ham with melon and goats cheese for Coman, then each get served a Passion Cream Velloute, basically a courgete and red pepper soup. The main is a cacciatora veal roll for me and a salmon fillet in a parsley crust, flambe'd in brandy, for Coman. Our dessert is named 'Coup of Desire'; dark chocolate with a white chocolate mousse and strawberries.

The dinner is completed by a lovely Argentinian Malbec, decanted at our table over a flame, and a Mayan coffee, which proves a little too aniseed-y for us. Thank goodness we didn't buy that Mayan liquer en route to Chichen Itza. Cody and Christie's wedding party don't seem to have been so restrained on their alcohol intake though, as the remnants of the guests stagger around the pool while we eat. We first became aware of their dramatic inclinations as the beach was prepared for the ceremony while we watched from our sunbeds soon after our massage. Not for them the plain white simplicity of some other weddings. Oh no! Christie's mum and dad have travelled down from Kentucky with suitcases full of blue and green taffeta.

Her dad, the size of a walrus and a heart-attack waiting to happen, paces up and down in tiny shorts while her frantically stern mother, who has - as Victoria Wood would say - a look of Eva Braun about her, wraps the taffeta around every chair, stakes out an aisle on the beach and even wraps it around a makeshift bridge that's placed over the pool for Christie to cross.

The printed banners unfurled in the palm trees still have the wrong date on them as apparently the wedding has been postponed by two days due to illness. Judging by the well-oiled guests ("totally loco!" as one of the bar staff giggles) gathered by the bar mid-afternoon, the illness may well have been self-inflicted.

And by the aisle a sign is placed in the sand announcing, "Leave your shoes behind and bury your toes in the sand, love Cody and Christie". At this rate it'll be bury your face in the sand, they're all so unsteady on their feet.

Up by the enormous Christmas maypole that had been outside our original room are lined up all the bridesmaids in turquoise gowns, unaware of the fate soon to befall them, while down beside the pool, on the other side of the makeshift bridge are lined up the groom's friends in green shirts and khaki shorts. Slowly the bridesmaids descend the stairs to a gobsmackingly schmaltzy song and one by one cross the bridge hooking up with a male partner as they go.

Then all of sudden the music changes to 'Yo Soy Americano' and they all start dancing a conga, the bridesmaids waving their bouquets in the air and the groomsmen producing maracas, and onto the sand they lumber, mal-coordinated and in some cases barely upright, yelling the song as they go, to the rapturous whooping of the other guests. By this point the entire rest of the beach has stopped en masse to watch events unfold. It's, quite literally, mesmerising.

And then there she is, Christie, the bride, all hair extensions and gleaming teeth, descending the stairs with her train flopping behind her. Once over the bridge she meets her father, now sporting his best polo-shirt over his shorts and obviously banned from setting foot on the flimsy bridge for health and saftey reasons, and together they make their way towards Cody who is looking pretty dazed and unsure as to what's going on.

The ceremony is conducted by what seems to be a priest; he at least announces that we're all gathered together  in the sight of God, but I fear God may well be wearing sunglasses and drinking pina coladas on a different beach. Cody's father, who fancies himself a singer, serenades the couple with a couple of hymns, karaoke style, but is woefully out of tune. Even the seagulls desert the beach while he warbles along in his own unique key.

Once Cody and Christie have plighted their troth, for better or for worse, they walk up the aisle straight to the bar specially constructed on the beach and grab a drink. They're joined by the bridesmaids and groomsmen who all start knocking back champagne at a rate of knots until the DJ changes the music from 'Pie Jesu' (a requiem not a wedding song, you numbskulls!!) to 'Shout!' (sadly not Lulu's version), at which stage the conga starts up again.

For reasons best known to themselves they take the conga back up to the pool and over the bridge, at which stage the inevitable happens and with three of the larger bridesmaids still dancing away, the whole thing gives way sending them plunging into the pool. There are gasps of concern from the wedding party and the by-standers on the beach while Coman and I, obviously wicked to the core, fall about laughing. This is priceless, a work of utter genius! And as the bedraggled bridesmaids are pulled from the pool - all the time being videoed by various guests - Christie is howling frustration over by her parents while Cody wanders around on his own, like a man in the middle of a nightmare.

Later that night as we watch the drunken guests fail to open glass doors without walking in to them we give the marriage three months. So it's no surprise on Wednesday morning to see Christie having breakfast with her disappointed-looking parents and Cody nowhere to be seen. Maybe it's all over in just three days. Well, we certainly won't forget it for a while!

We're still laughing about it on the night we have our 'Clair de Lune' romantic dinner on the beach by candlelight, straight after we've returned from Cozumel. We've both put on the diaphonous silk shirts that had seemed like a good buy a couple of years ago on our trip to India, but have barely seen the light of day since, and scrubbed up as well as we can, unlike our fellow diners.

A wooden platform has been constructed upon which are six tables for two, intimately spaced, looking out to sea (and the ferries to Cozumel!) and around which flaming torches are lit to complement the candles shimmering on the tables. The ambience is enhanced by the crashing of the waves, the twinkling of the stars and the trampolining of the children next door at Senor Frogs, an all-you-can-drink style bar for 18-30 clubbers and their bouncing offspring. But despite the enormous yellow ferries and nearby revelry, it's actually pretty lovely.

Our servers Nubia and Elvia keep us well topped-up with champagne and various other libations while serving is a really gorgeous meal, marred only by a main course that is so cold it could benefit from a couple of minutes in the microwave, minus the prawns which already seem to have been cooked for a week.

I start with the Aphrodisiac Trilogy; angus beef tartar, avocados, and tomatoes served with a sage goats cheese basket, while Coman errs on the side of caution with a caesar salad. The soup is cream of garlic which seems an odd choice for a romantic dinner, but at least we'll both be honking, and then the main is Surf and Turf with the bizarrely-named "smothered" potatoes, which just appear to be baked. Our dessert is a Passion Mayan Cup; caramelised pineapple tart with local stabentun liqueur and eggnog cream, perfectly tasty and not as overpowering as the Mayan coffee.

We leave happy, contented and grateful that our romance endures as strong as ever. After all, if you're not still making each other laugh for all the right reasons then it's maybe not the way to spend your days. Let's hope Cody and Christie find such happiness... but in the meantime they've given us new reasons to laugh our heads off, and we'll treasure them for that!

And now on to our next adventure, for tomorrow we channel Indiana Jones and explore the jungle pyramids of Coba. It's a tale of veritgo-inducing, white-knuckle fear... oh, and another buffet lunch.