The Caribbean... crystal clear water lapping gently over fine white sand, backed by palm trees and under a cloudless blue sky.
It's the travel agent's dream and there's no denying that Playa Ancon, one of Cuba's top beaches, is a beautiful spot.
We had decided to head there for our beach time, rather than the package holiday destination of Varadero - on the Atlantic coast, because this could be the only chance I ever get to dip my toes in the Caribbean sea.
However, while Ancon's beauty is undeniable, I couldn't help but find its calm, lukewarm waters, well... a bit dull.
To me, a good beach involves crashing waves, nipple-numbing seas and the wind whipping sand into your sandwiches.
Still, I was glad to sprawl on a sun lounger by the time we got there.
Typically, rather than allowing ourselves a day of complete relaxation, we had opted to walk the 10km or so from our base in the little fishing village of La Boca.
At least we had been able to punctuate the journey with some snorkelling at one of the little "playitas" along the road.
These rocky bays were pretty, rather than stunning, but I almost preferred them to their more famous neighbour.
In fact, we ended up spending more time on the stony sands at La Boca than anywhere else.
A stone's throw from our casa - Cuba's B&B-style private homes - the beach was perfectly placed for a twice-daily dip to cool off and chat to friendly Cubanos spending their holidays shoulder-deep in the sea while passing a bottle of rum between them.
Not a bad life.
We had been determined to get in a bit more beach time before we returned home, not least to finally put some colour into our pasty-white complexions.
Having spent most of our trip in the relatively chilly Andes, then hit the equator in time for the sweltering but largely overcast rainy season, four sun-kissed days in La Boca were just what we needed.
What made the experience for us, however, was the company of casa owners Guillermo and Viola.
Rather than facing the pressure we had experienced elsewhere to book taxis or fishing trips with casa owners - for a commission, of course - we were left to our own devices during the day.
They even loaned us their bicycles without charge one day when we needed to get to the bank in nearby Trinidad.
It was a pleasure to eat in their house. They served delicious meals on the terrace, where we watching little fishing boats head out for the night under a sky tinged pink by the sunset.
Cuban cuisine is often criticised for lacking imagination, no doubt partly because of the shortages.
However, we found the ingredients made up for the lack of variety. The pork - cooked however simply - was easily the tastiest I've eaten, while a whole red snapper served up by Guillermo was tender, subtle and cooked to perfection.
Each night after dinner, we sat in the terrace's rocking chairs and chatted about everything from life in Cuba and the British and Irish economies to pop music and, inevitably, football.
It was so comfortable and really gave us the feeling of being free to relax - something that doesn't happen that often when you're travelling.
It made for the perfect break to recharge our batteries and at the end of our stay, they even presented us with a gift of a garden ornament. We were both very touched.
It's only a shame we are unlikely to see them any time soon.
We were glad of the rest, having been at the end of our tethers by the time we got to La Boca.
One of the drawbacks to the casa system, which allows homeowners to let rooms, is that this relatively new form of private enterprise has created a cut-throat culture.
Everyone wants their share of the highly lucrative tourist dollar.
Tourist information workers may "recommend" one casa, then phone ahead to tell the owner they expect a commission, while your taxi driver might drop you at a different place entirely in a bid to get a fee.
In both cases, it's the guest who's expected to foot the bill.
It all gets a bit wearing when you just want to get to a place you've heard is good.
So when we stepped off the bus in Trinidad, tired and grumpy, to be surrounded by touts trying to lure us to whichever casa would tip them, we just weren't in the mood.
We successfully fended off a few but one guy persisted, following us up the road.
When my unconvincing denials that we spoke English or Spanish failed to shake him off, the One With The Common Sense told him in perfect Spanish that we had a reservation elsewhere.
"It's a good price," he argued.
But it was when he turned to the One With The Common Sense and said: "Baby, listen..." that my patience finally snapped.
"Don't call my wife 'baby'," I warned, pointing aggressively and marching towards him.
I'm not proud of getting so aggro, it was all a bit childish, especially thinking back to how we'd found dealing with nuisances with a smile on your face had worked so much better at the start of our trip in Asia.
But I was tired and had had my fill of the high-pressure approach. While I was sworn at for the first time in a while, I must have looked a bit wild because he retreated to grumble from a safe distance.
We knew the restaurant was a mistake the minute we walked in.
A beautiful colonial building, its courtyard was about as pleasant a dining area as you could find.
But the table was set with too many knives and forks for my liking and it was only after being handed an plush menu that we noticed the wrought-iron furniture was of the size normally found in a primary school.
Meanwhile, feet away, a woman was doing a bizarre dance to the music of the house band. I think she was trying to act sultry but to me she looked like a demented belly-dancer.
While state ownership ensured prices were similar to elsewhere, the elegant decor and overbearing waiting style hinted at the opulence most of its clientele might enjoy.
It just made us uncomfortable - like when a hotel bellboy carries bags when you're perfectly capable of doing it yourself. (Not that we've experienced that too often).
Nothing was troubling the other diners, however, who were bantering with the band. A hefty Italian guy, a few too many chiantis down the line, was proclaiming "Viva Cuba" to anyone who would listen.
The One With Common Sense and I looked at each other and something very odd happened; we acted decisively.
Ditching the menus, we skulled the beers we'd ordered on arrival, paid up and left for somewhere a little less grand where we could relax and enjoy ourselves.
We had intended to visit the Casa de la Musica - the home of the fantastic live music we were keen to hear.
However, we didn't need to.
We walked out of our second restaurant and straight into the path of a carnival march.
It was the first we'd come across since being in Latin America and we watched white-clad musicians pass, followed by guys twirling huge upright batons with gold streamers.
Tagging onto the end of the parade, we marvelled at how the Cuban kids seemed to be born with rhythm - even their pudgy-footed shuffles looking better than the cringeworthy efforts of the few tourists who tried to join in.
Recognising our inability to find time with the thumping rumba beat, we walked at the back until half way along its route the parade stopped.
There began a spectacular display of the most lethal fireworks I've seen since the Catherine Wheel flew off its mounting and rolled across the field, scattering onlookers, at the Guy Fawkes display at my Auntie's hospital when I was a nipper.
Mothers carrying children dived for cover under balconies as loud crackers sent bits of flaming pyrotechnic floating onto the crowd below. It was brilliant.
Then we were off again until we reached Trinidad's main square, where - having played and danced around half the town - our musicians and dancers went through an even more energetic and varied repertoire of Latino music.
It was pretty impressive, especially given they were just one of perhaps a dozen groups in the parade.
The atmosphere was fantastic - with the sort of pure, uninhibted and fervent joy you usually only find at football matches and gigs - and it proved a great way to end our stay in the area.
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