Admittedly we were a bit anxious about the Andamans. All we really knew was that a guy from Alabama was killed there by an endangered tribe in late 2018 – fairly recently in the wider scheme of things.

Confronted by all manner of moral dilemmas about whether we should go, but with no intention of being anywhere near anyone for the purpose of arrogantly trying to sell them ‘something-they-absolutely-do-not-want-or-need’, we overcame our anxiety with a healthy dose of enthusiasm and respect for mother earth, and the wonders she’d given us all to (at least once-in-a-lifetime) check up on.

Getting from the airport terminal to the jetty at Port Blair, and then through Customs & Excise, had its dicey moments (my heart skipped a beat when I spotted a puppy on the side of the road, sadly killed by a passing motorist / Jit had a couple of heart palpitations when for a split second it looked like our haul of beer and wine provisions might be confiscated)* but after a few deep breaths and nods to mother earth and her doings, we were soon seated on the ferry, concentrating on the horizon, and heading as far from the madding crowd as we could possibly get.

And it was well worth the near-monumental effort to get there, all sparked from a love affair with captivating images on a 27-inch home office computer screen back in Wellington. Pristine Beach Number 7 is bordered by deep, lush jungle and forest, it’s a stone’s throw from coral reefs and mangroves, and has the purest white sand stretching as far as the eye can see (some parts are weirdly and artistically dotted with tiny holes made by burrowing crabs) – it’s truly one of the world’s most stunningly beautiful jewels, and understandably a hotspot for young loves and newly-weds. We met a gorgeous couple from New Delhi on the ferry, her bridal hands, arms and feet still covered in wedding Mehndi, or henna, the tattooing ceremony a way of wishing brides good health and prosperity as they journey from life before the wedding through marriage. And here these two now were, heading off into the sandy sunset on their honeymoon – and whatever that first night together might bring.

But with the brand-new bliss of intoxicating young and early love now happily and comfortably behind us, hidden in a much earlier chapter, and now being (voluntarily trapped) in this incredible setting only for a matter of days (an experience to be remembered but which would tragically be gone in the blink of an eye), here were Jit and I – looking forward to a timetable of doing nothing other than relaxing wearing not much at all (bikini (me), bathers (him)), decompressing to the point we could barely remember what day it was (both of us), and forgetting about every inch of our lives back home other than our precious furries Morse and Satchmo (and now of course each of the 60,000 honeybees we’d recently acquired too).

It’s thought 80% of the Andamans are untouched, with most completely unpopulated. Its remoteness once made it a great spot (?) for the British to set up a prison in Port Blair for Indian freedom fighters, used right up until India’s independence from the British in 1947. Knowing this fact only because we’d booked a night in Port Blair before our return to the mainland (the hotel’s quirky selling point being that it’s right next to the prison), and with another of the guests creatively tackling the challenges of isolation (a young mother who’d tied tiny bells round her toddler son’s ankles so she (and we!) knew where he was at all times), you can imagine our alarm when, completely out of the blue one blissful afternoon, while lying on the beach thinking about not much other than the sand between your toes and what you might order at that afternoon’s cocktail hour, a military helicopter appeared out of nowhere and circled the sky, three army tanks noisily took to the beach from the bushline less than 200 metres away, and naval barges launched up out of the water onto the beach, their hatches opening wide and their infantry – all fatigued and weaponed-up with assault rifles – dropped to the sand and manoeuvred up the beach in what appeared to be an amphibious assault.

It was all hugely dramatic and confusing – verging on the satirical in such an idyllic setting – and while it turned out to be a collaborative exercise between the military and coastguard, one distressed German guest had to be checked by the hotel doctor she was that perturbed. Most of the others headed straight to the bar to calm their nerves – it didn’t take much to convince us to!

But military excitement aside, it was easy for Jit and I to keep things simple in this new hot-and-slow way of life. During the long, lazy days we’d lie on the beach, swimming to cool off in the tepid sea when the scorching heat got too much to bear.

By night, after a fluorescent orange sunset as-bright-as-bright-can-possibly-be, and moonlit swimming being completely out of the question owing to saltwater crocodiles recently being spotted in the shallow surf, we’d head up to the restaurant for an epic fish or prawn biryani, grilled snapper or tuna, paratha and spicy paneer – the Head Chef, taking time out from his duties to wander from table to table, wearing his tall toque blanche like the kitchen’s High Priest, asking each guest whether they were enjoying their thoughtfully prepared plates.

Later, we’d join other guests in the bar quietly sipping a rum or two or three, listening to the exceptionally talented Christobel – a superstar staff member with the sweet voice of an angel – performing acoustic covers of what we each wanted to hear.

One night she belted out a superb Jack White-penned Many Shades of Black for Jit and randomly and completely unexpectedly on another, she launched into Space Oddity, mum’s favourite Bowie tune, which was particularly bittersweet given we’d planned to be here in this paradise especially to remember her passing away four years ago to the day. It was incredibly special, Bowie and mum in this magical faraway land, and we toasted many drinks that night to the stars and absent ones, to broken hearts and happy ones, to old love and new.

* A little note – Glass and plastic bottles taken to the preserved and heavily-protected islands are either reused and refilled or collected and returned to Port Blair and the mainland for recycling.