Every time the Christmas season comes to an end, I find myself reflecting on why we go through so much frenetic activity for what turns out to be just one day of carnal excess. Just occasionally the thought has occurred that it might be a good idea to give the whole over-hyped commercialism of it a miss and do something entirely different.
Last year that thought became a reality. For the first time we were going to be away for both Christmas and the New Year festivities. We were off to Mauritius for a different kind of white Christmas - one where the sand is white and the sky is blue. And this year those white sands and blue skies beckon once again.

The island of Mauritius lies at twenty degrees south in the Indian Ocean, giving it a tropical climate. This means that on the coast with its cooling sea-breezes it's shirt-sleeve weather, both day and night. The sea stays at a steady twenty-eight degrees like a luke-warm bath, clear turquoise blue and inviting. Walking from the beach into the water is extraordinary, there's no thermal shock at all, the temperature of the air and the water are much the same.

Tourism in Mauritius is still in its infancy, although it now represents the third largest industry after sugar and textiles. The airport in Mahebourg is strangely reminiscent of Dublin's Collinstown in the sixties - small and unhurried. So unhurried that a wait of an hour or more for your baggage is common, even though there is unlikely to be any other arrivals. When you're used to the perfunctory passport checks in Europe the slow, immensely thorough immigration control seems odd. But once over these minor distractions the real Mauritius awaits.

It's a volcanic island, with a rich, red fertile earth that was once dotted with black volcanic rocks. Unlike Ireland where cleared rocks and stones go to make partition walls between the fields, in Mauritius these rocks are heaped into huge, random piles around which grow sugarcane, tea, tobacco and pineapples. Some have been turned rather artistically into little pyramids. Craggy peaks up to three thousand feet high are visible in almost every direction, with the intervening land heavily cultivated.

The majority of its inhabitants are Hindi speaking Indians and Tamils, with the next largest group being the Creoles, who speak a French patois. Chinese, Arabs and a small group of Dutch, French and English descendants make up the rest of the population. Although the guide books will tell you that English is the official language, outside of the hotels French and Creole are the common languages. It's a bit like reading that Irish is the official language here and then trying to find someone to speak it to.

What is remarkable in this island of roughly one million people is the respect and tolerance that each ethnic group accords the others. All around the countryside are the white and red Tamil temples, the green and white Arab mosques, Hindu temples and Christian churches. A taxi driver explained the benefit of this to me. 'We celebrate all the holidays of all the religions. So Muslims and Hindus enjoy Christian Christmas; Christians, Muslims and Hindus celebrate the Divalie and Eid El Fitr holidays and so on. More holidays for everyone. Look, there's a Christmas tree outside a Hindu house.' I didn't pursue it, but if you took this line of reasoning to the extreme then no one would work on Fridays, Saturdays or Sundays out of respect for different Sabbaths. This same driver invited me to go fire-walking with him, an invitation I graciously refused.

In recent years the coastal regions, especially the dryer East coast, have become increasingly developed. Certainly on the East Coast the development is only of luxury standard. From the hotel San Geran southwards to its sister hotel the Touessrok lies a line of beautiful and expensive hotels. Mauritius seems to have decided to accommodate only those willing to stay in luxury hotels. Cheap, package holidays are not yet available. What these hotels offer a European is summer when it's winter, an incredible standard of service and cuisine, and the sublime Mauritian coastline.
All around the island is the coral reef which breaks up the waves from the Indian ocean leaving the lagoon between the reef and the shore a calm, warm, shallow basin filled with colourful tropical fish in clear water - a snorkeller's delight.

We stayed in the San Geran, which is built on a long, sandy promontory stretching into the lagoon. Shaped like an eye, every room looks out onto the sea, while the inside contains a large artificial lake filled with koi and tilapia fish, and by night singing bull-frogs. You can step out of your room through the sliding doors straight onto the palm-lined beach and listen to the waves breaking on the reef or watch the French women sun-bathing topless. In the quiet of the night the sea breezes rustle the dry palm fronds under a sky of unfamiliar constellations. And talking of constellations, it takes a moment or two to adjust to the fact the sun's apparent motion - to us left to right as you look at it - is reversed as it travels right to left. Even the phases of the moon are reversed.

Public transport is a little more rudimentary than we are used to. Some of the buses and commercial vehicles are the same models that I remember as a child - bull-nosed Commers and Bedfords. The roads are filled with elderly Morris Minors and Morris Oxfords with number plates like 'M 21'. Nearly everything newer on the roads is Japanese. If you're of a nervous disposition the best way to travel is using the eye-patch they give you on the plane so you'll never see the endless near-misses.

The easiest way to explore the island is by taxi. It's worth knowing that Mauritian taxis don't use a meter, so it's best to establish a price before you get in. A ride from the San Geran hotel to Flacq, the nearest town, costs £10 which includes a wait of up to two hours and then the return journey. Flacq is predominantly Indian and its Sunday market is like a souk; stalls are packed tightly together, the paths between them a mass of swirling humanity. Foods of all kinds, spices, clothes and hardware are on offer. In the town main street colourful Mauritian cotton prints can be bought cheaply and there are shops that specialise in artefacts, such as wood carvings, cut marble and polished fossils.

The biggest problem facing a tourist in the comfortable surroundings of a hotel like the San Geran is persuading yourself to leave it to go on some mind-improving tour. The fact is that it's just fine in the hotel complex, and once you've seen the capital, Port Louis, a second trip looks de trop. In the hotel the service is extraordinary, the attention to detail mind-boggling. An example; going to bed late one night after playing the casino I came across the nightly paint squad, touching-up every scuff and mark of the previous day. With a staff to guest ratio of 2:1 you can expect, and will get, the kind of service you could very quickly take a liking to.

Every possible watersport is available: diving off the reef, sailing, kayaks, hoby-cats, snorkelling, water-skiing, para-gliding and jet-skiing as well as land-based sports such as tennis and golf, or simply swimming in the enormous pool which surrounds the restaurant and the bar. At night you can choose one of three restaurants: haute cuisine, grilled lobster on the beach-front, or the poolside. At the poolside restaurant there are spectacular buffets of Chinese, Indian and Mauritian food, surmounted by elaborate ice carvings. There is cabaret every night: sometimes the Mauritian dance called Sega - a name that has Italians choking with mirth - sometimes Creole, Chinese or even shows featuring Broadway musical numbers. The resident Rising Sun band are stunningly good musicians: so good the King of Sweden has them over once a year to play at his birthday party. With all this to hand it can be hard to venture beyond the sanitised compound of the hotel.

Cocooned in a hotel full of rich South Africans and Europeans it's inevitable that dinner conversation started to revolve around the other guests. People kept pretty much to themselves, so you had to guess who they might be or what they might do. Eventually we had code names for many of them. The Swiss family who contested the loungers with us every morning were the Robinsons; the Frenchman Bernard Tapis - who was soon to take up residence in a French jail - became Des Kelly on account of his surname, and his entourage, men in black from Marseilles, became the Corsican Brothers. Big-hair, No-neck, the Gladiator, One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest and Pamela Anderson I can picture still. You do meet the odd celeb staying in the hotel - Benny Anderson out of Abba, Boy George out of Culture Club and Ornella Muti out of Italian movies spring to mind.

Now that I've tried it, I have to say that Christmas day on a beach under the tropical sun has a lot to recommend it. As I lay on my lounger with a cool glass of Mauritian Phoenix beer in my hand the thought of the snows of Wicklow brought me no nostalgia at all.