I hate Benguerra Island. Come to think of it, I hate the whole of Mozambique, not just its sun-drenched archipelago, which has called to me like a siren from the winter sun brochures. Staring at the pinched faces of fellow passengers on the number 205 bus as it crawls across London, I wonder, not for the first time, why I bother going abroad on holiday.

Several hours ago I had spent £60 and several hours of my so-called holiday sorting out a visa, a deeply resented £50 on injections and anti-malaria pills and I'm now wondering why I didn't just opt for a quiet week walking in the Lakes.

Certainly the journey, if not the weather, would have been far more welcome. I'm not really in the right frame of mind to wait for three hours at Heathrow before taking a 10-hour flight to Johannesburg; then wait for another two hours before taking a two-hour flight to Vilanculos, one of Mozambique's larger cities, followed by a 30-minute minibus journey before transferring to a motor launch which will take me somewhere where my mobile won't work, where I can't read the papers and where being able to see the all-new series of Scrubs on E4 is about as likely as getting an upgrade at the British Airways desk when I turn up in shorts and sandals and claim to be a travel journalist.

My worst fears are confirmed as the launch speeds across the Indian Ocean towards the island and Marlin Lodge, a resort of some 20-odd chalets, where I'll be staying for five days, which seems a criminally short time considering the length of the journey. It seems apposite that Benguerra used to be a Portuguese prisoner-of-war colony. As I look at my fellow guests on board the launch, all sporting new wedding rings and fixed grins, I get a sinking feeling that I'm about to take part in a twisted reality show, 'Non-Entity Love Island', from which there is no escape, no viewers to put me out of my misery, no prospect of a Hello! spread when I leave.

And then, there it is - Marlin Lodge. I make out some of the chalets nestled among the trees as the launch nears the beach. They are timber-and-thatch affairs, nicely, respectfully, spaced out. In front of each is a wooden walkway leading to sun loungers, all with unbroken views of the beach and the sea beyond, on which decrepit dhows, launched optimistically every morning by fishermen, return each day with the freshest produce for the lodge's chef.

I enter my chalet and London feels a long time ago, the stress of the journey instantly expunged. There is a four-poster bed the size of my spare room that looks as if it has come from the set of The English Patient. The shower is an impressively colonial affair; the floor is polished teak and there is a huge fan hanging from the ceiling. Outside my door lies a hammock on which I can watch the sun go down over Africa and ponder on the uncomfortable fact that only a few years ago Mozambique was a geopolitical basket case, a country ripped apart by a seemingly interminable civil war that saw landmines planted with the sort of enthusiasm normally reserved for GM cash crops and Marxist ideology disseminated to the locals with a gusto once confined to East Germany.

And now look at it - an African success story. Proof that countries can change. Mozambique's economy has grown by an average of 8 per cent a year for the past 11 years. Tourism is now its biggest industry. Instantly, unsurprisingly, I know I will be happy here; just me and the skyline for company, the air at night crackling with the laughter and songs of the 1,600 locals who live in the hills behind the chalets, many of whom work for the lodge, which has ploughed money back into the island's infrastructure, building a school, training people, limiting the spread of tourism by resisting the temptation to add more chalets.

This becomes apparent one afternoon when I have a picnic in perfect solitude at the southernmost tip of the island, having been dropped off by a 4x4 that then wended its way through the outback, past the shabeens and lakes containing crocodiles.

The chef has packed a sumptuous lunch for me and I sit with only the sand crabs for company. I watch them commute to the sea at high tide, a comic, furtive sideways dash for freedom and I think about the 205 bus and how long ago it seems.

Back at the Marlin, I spend my afternoons taking a dip in the pool. I try miserably to swim off the gargantuan four-course lunch which, at $25, is very affordable. Huge crayfish the size of lobster; sweet succulent squid and king mackerel steaks that are truly majestic and which make yellow fin tuna seem insipid; all so fresh they were still swimming in the sea only a few hours before.

But I know I need to do more exercise if I am going to do justice to the braai on the beach in the evening. This is when the staff deck the beach out with candles and build a big bonfire, around which me and the dewy-eyed honeymooners sit after digesting a proper African barbecue and watching the fire's sparks float into the Mozambique night.

So I opt to go snorkelling. It's like something out of Finding Nemo. I swim with a giant turtle through shoals of fish so brightly coloured they can induce a migraine. Around me are scores of Americans and South Africans with scuba gear, taking advantage of some of the world's best diving. I reckon the mako sharks will go for them first, if I keep close to the reef.

I return to my chalet. Outside is a small forest of ferns, in the middle of which is a steel bath filled with hot water and aromatic oils and topped off with flower petals. I sit in my bath in splendid naked isolation watching the sun go down while sipping on a glass of Chablis and contemplating the deep tissue massage I am to have the next day.

I do not know it yet, but the masseur will tell me I have the second worst back he has ever seen. Only the CEO of a German logistics company was worse, he will say, something which I will find strangely comforting, because it tells me what I instinctively know. 'You are very stressed,' he says. I think about leaving this paradise and returning to crowded, claustrophobic London.

'Yes,' I say. 'I am.' But, for a while, a brief, impossible while, Benguerra has taken all of this away. And it will live with me for a long time to come.

When Harry met Chelsy in Mozambique

A decade ago Mozambique was licking its wounds after 20 years of vicious civil war. Last week, underlining its rehabilitation as a tourist destination, it was chosen by Prince Harry and his girlfriend Chelsy as the location for their lovers' break.

Where to go

The fashion set are heading to the country's stunning coast, often to relax post-safari, instead of the traditional options of the Seychelles or Mauritius. Attracting the most attention are the Bazaruto archipelago, which includes Benguerra (where Jamie Doward went) and Bazaruto Island (where Harry and Chelsy were last week). There's also a buzz about Pemba, in the country's far north, from where the 32 islands of the Quirimbas archipelago stretch up into the waters off Tanzania. More intrepid travellers are heading to Maputo, one of Africa's most attractive capital cities, which has a Latin influence - thanks to the country's history as a Portuguese colony - and lively nightlife.

What to do

Diving is the main activity and the marine life and reefs are among the best in Africa. Game fishing is popular and there is also some good surfing. Few tourists go to the country for safaris, but dhow safaris (looking for whales, dolphins, manta rays and dugongs in a traditional boat) are popular by day and night.

What's it like?

Portuguese is still the main language. English is not spoken everywhere, but Mozambicans are renowned for their warm welcome. British visitors need a visa from the High Commission, 21 Fitzroy Square, London (020 7383 3800; www.mozambiquehc.org.uk). Malaria is widespread so tablets are vital. It is still one of the poorest countries in the world, but conditions have improved rapidly since the end of the war.

How to get there

There are no direct flights from Britain to Maputo. The easiest way to get there is to fly to Johannesburg with British Airways, South African Airlines or Virgin, then fly back up to Maputo with South African or Linhas Aereas de Mocambique (LAM). For the beaches and islands around Bazaruto, you fly to Vilanculos. There are daily scheduled flights from Johannesburg and from the Kruger National Park in South Africa with Pelican Air (00 27 11 973 3649; www.pelicanair.co.za). Getting to Pemba by road would be a mammoth task - it's 1,400 miles from Maputo on poor roads - but there are daily flights from Maputo with LAM (www.lam.co.mz). In the UK, try Africa Travel Centre (0845 450 1541; www.africatravel.co.uk or Trailfinders (0845 058 5858; www.trailfinders.co.uk).

Tour operator

Jamie Doward travelled with Original Travel (020 7978 7333; www.originaltravel.co.uk). Five nights at Marlin Lodge, including full-board, all flights and transfers, costs from £1,310 per person.