Praia do Forte, Brazil

It's our final morning in Salvador, and hotter than ever; just stepping out of the air-conditioned environs of the hotel ensures we're dripping from every pore within just a few metres. The humidity is really quite overwhelming.

We have a few hours to kill and having been struck by the incredibly colourful art that adorns every street and gallery throughout Pelourinho we set off to find the painting that caught our eye on the first afternoon. 

Of course, there's far too many temptations everywhere we look and we end up with a giant sculpted apple, a Pelourinho street scene and an elongated African goddess before we find our original choice - abstract Bahian ladies in blues, whites, yellows and reds. Lord knows how we'll transport them all around Brazil, let alone where we'll hang them when we get home, but we'll worry about that later.

Our shopping expedition gives us the chance to soak up Pelourinho's vibrant back streets again, albeit crammed with lots more tourists after the relative peace of Good Friday, all snapping pics of the balcony where Michael Jackson "famously" sang to the residents of Salvador, God help them.

However we make a wonderful final discovery, another church - the Igreja da Ordem Terceira Secular de Sao Francisco da Bahia - with a remarkable museum attached stuffed full of statues, art and an ossuary full of the relics of saints and prominent Brazilian families. It's fascinating if a little disturbing.

At 1.30 Marcus arrives and drives us ninety minutes up the coast to the seaside resort of Praia do Forte. He tells us that the Bahian coast extends for 1700 km and is an unbroken beach the whole way - it's one of the wonders of Brazil. Every 200 km or so has a different name, the Palm Beach, the Sunrise Beach, the Whale Beach and so on. Praia do Forte is part of the stretch named Coconut Beach and is apparently paradise.

He drops us at our hotel for the next two nights, the adults-only Refugio do Vila, and our initial reaction is one of mild disappointment. Somewhat more, erm, rustic than we expected with a compact pool that seems overflowing with children, we lug our cases up two flights of stairs to a room that is a little more basic than our travel agent had led us to believe.

Yet, as everyone knows, we're not ones to complain so rather than be a pair of spoilt queens we decide to embrace our situation and not check straight into the super-swanky, mega-upmarket resort we saw next door. Oh no. We're not that shallow. Or rich.

Having not eaten since an early breakfast, we grab a quick sandwich in the lobby and decide to explore the 'pretty little village' we've chosen to stay in. With skies becoming overcast it's possibly not the best time for us to encounter hordes of tourists and tons of shops lining the route to an overcrowded and extremely noisy little beach. Hmmmm, this really wasn't what we were expecting.

Wandering up the seething main street we wonder if we've actually come to the same place everyone raves about. We were expecting a tropical idyll, a place of tranquility and vast sandy peacefulness. Instead it feels like Gran Canaria.

We decide that the only way to cope with the next two days is to drink our way through it. A swift visit to the supermarket to buy a bottle of red ensues and we head back to the hotel just as the heavens open and a tropical downpour pounds on to our balcony.

Unpacked, showered and a couple of glasses of red wine later, we brave the hordes again in search of a restaurant for dinner. There are plenty of options but everywhere is rammed to the gills so we traverse almost the length of the main drag with hunger making us both increasingly more desperate until we find Sabor da Vila, which has a few tables left and a menu that isn't quite as exorbitant as some of its rivals.

It's never going to win culinary awards but it's amazing what a bit of dinner and a couple more glasses of vino do for the mood. Seated facing the street it's the perfect place for people watching as a parade of Brazilian tourists in various states of attire drift pass and the balmy evening starts weaving its magic.

We even find next door's band entertaining which is quite a feat as they murder 'Sweet Home Alabama', strangle 4 Non Blondes, blast out a bizarre samba version of 'Satisfaction' in Portugese and then attempt quite possibly the most unique take on 'Sunday Bloody Sunday' known to man, which Coman thought was actually '50 Ways To Leave Your Lover'. We leave to the strains of a 'Get Lucky' that we don't think Daft Punk would bother claiming royalties for.

Twinkling in the night time our hotel now seems rather attractive, the pool and gardens an oasis of zen serenity, a little gift of Easter eggs hanging from our door handle and a map of Praia do Forte we purloin from reception revealing huge swathes of white, sandy beaches to be explored in the morning.

I think we might be about to fall in love after all...