This news sparks a flurry of packing. The resting mule train, having traversed a steep winding track known as the gold trail for nearly three months, is reloaded for the last leg of its journey. Each mule is burdened with up to 180 kilograms of gold and gems. At the farm抯 tollhouse, muleteers pay a fifth of their gold in taxes to the Portuguese king before trekking to Paraty where bullion is loaded directly into a waiting galleon destined for Portugal. It抯 17th century Brazil and the Atlantic coastline is covered with lush forest. Guyanas, the regions flat­footed, nomadic indigenous people hunt and fish along the shore while the discovery of gold in the interior, by Portuguese colonialists, begins a gold­rush epoch, the ciclo do Ouro. The gold trail, originally a dirt track, was formed by Guyanans as a means of transport between the coastline and their upland villages. Once it became used by colonists improvements were made; the slog and sweat of slaves turned it into it a stone­paved road. Wider and with more trading stations than other routes, the road became Brazil抯 official gold trail ensuring Paraty was, for a time, one of Brazil抯 most important ports. Paraty prospered as long as the precious cargo continued coming along this trail and by 1820 the village had grown to include 400 whitewashed houses and more than 20 stores. There were 150 distilleries and, as if to compensate for the drinking and carousing, six churches. As the supply of gold and jewels diminished, sugar cane, essential for Brazil抯 famous rum, cachaca, became the hot commodity. A coffee boom followed with the gold trail servicing the extravagant lives of coffee barons who requested finery from Europe, and pianos, be transported to their plantations.The area抯 prosperity, be it from gold, sugar or coffee, was based on the exploitation of slaves primarily from Africa. Their expected working life was just 12 years because of the hazards, accidents and diseases they were subjected to. Late in the 18th century, after the abolition of slavery, the prosperity of the region collapsed and the gold trail became disused and neglected. Paraty withered and died and remained derelict until its tourist potential and historic value was recognised and, by presidential decree, Paraty became a national monument in 1966.

Today the charming old town is much like it was 100 years ago, its heritage preserved by only allowing foot traffic, hooves included, along its slender, stone roads. Homes are hidden behind white walls stretching along the entire length of a block and each house is defined by a solid wooden door in the wall, painted boldly in pumpkin orange, ocean blue, salmon pink and mustard and, sometimes, window frames are brushed in matching colours. Family and street numbers are scribed daintily onto blue and white tiles, balconies drip with red hanging flowers and metal door­knockers and coachman lamps spell a finishing touch from the colonial era. It抯 still a trading post and Paraty stores that once suppled gunpowder, salted codfish and preserves now seduce customers with locally­inspired, cleverly­crafted gifts that are, like Paraty, ablaze with colour. Scarlet macaws dangle from ceilings alongside miniature hot air balloons striped in brilliant primary colours. Miniature fishing boasts, resting on tables, have hulls painted bright blue or canary yellow and finished with ladybug red rims. They are small replicas of boats typically seen trawling in nearby bays or tied up at the wharf.

I arrive in Paraty in the early evening just as waiters manoeuvre tables and chairs outside and precariously place them between the street抯 thick cobbles. The lopsided angling of these worn stones creates a challenge to any footwear and I watch in admiration as women, tottering in high heels, negotiate the paths. Tables are decorated, candles carefully lit and the evening抯 mood settled by the slow strumming of strings and crooning of a favoured guitarist. I start with a caipirinha ¬Brazil抯 national drink. It抯 a cocktail doused in Paraty抯 famous white cansasha rum, swirled with lashings of crushed lime, sugar and ice and garnished decoratively with a lime shaped into a sunflower. Each barman has his own subtle style of creating the concoction and garnish but the effect is the always the same; after a few sharp sips it抯 not just the table and chair that seem on a strange angle. It抯 All Saints Day and in a predominately Catholic country like Brazil it抯 celebrated as a public holiday. It falls on a Friday giving a long weekend and little old Paraty is bulging with city slickers from Rio de Janeiro and S鉶 Paulo, adding their spell to the holiday excitement. Chatter wafts along walls as cutlery tinkles and glasses chink. In the background a choir sings hymns in a nearby neoclassical church and adding to the ambience is theage­old sound of horses¬hooves as they draw their carts of supplies for delivery to shops. On the streets, butted against walls, hopeful and happy­go­lucky artists spread their wares; jewellery, wood­crafts, painting and decorated glass. Statuesque figures dressed as angles or saints stand ice­still until the sound of a tinkling centavo coin thrown into their money tin signals a change of pose. A lean, dark­haired Spanish beauty sits at a table across from hopeful customers foretelling their futures with her dog­eared tarot cards. Over the road a cart fi lled with sticky homemade cakes bumps along over sunken cobbles. I wake before sunrise and stroll around town. The roads are nearly empty except for scrounging dogs and men fi shing in the Rio Pereque­Acu, a long river that runs from the Bocaina Mountains and glides through Paraty before meeting the sea. An arching footbridge links the old town to the new and kayaks and small boats steadily stream under it. On the seashore children wait while their father wades into knee­deep water and slings a net and when he returns to the bank the family crowd around to inspect the catch. It seems every Paraty man likes to catch his own fish and there抯 plenty to go around. It抯 no surprise the town抯 name originates from the Tupi Indian word paratii, meaning white fi sh. In the harbour fishing boats, once in better nick, reek of gutted fi sh and salt spray while finer ones, and sailing boats, are available for charter. Small wooden boats are painted candy pink or lime and the crew boldly call to any passing visitors to catch those who haven抰 booked for the region抯most popular tour; a day of island hopping, snorkelling, sunbathing and snacking on seafood while cruising the beautiful bay. Travel­savvy Paraty has plenty of entertaining tour options on offer. I choose a four­wheel drive jaunt into the foothills of the Bocaina Mountains. We leave the town and glittering ocean behind and our vehicle climbs over hills clad in tropical trees threaded together by vines. We visit three waterfalls and as it抯 a hot day we take the time to swim at each one. At one a group of daredevil teenage boys entertain us by taking turns at surfi ng barefoot across a smooth­surfaced boulder before dive­bombing into a rock pool. We call in to Three Farms, now converted into a museum. It was named this because it once had three houses; the landowner occupied the upper house, slaves the middle one and the other was reserved for guests and toll collecting. Now only the upper house is left and it抯 filled with furniture and memorabilia of colonial times. On its exterior lower walls hang farming­tool relics including a row of worn horseshoes; I look over them and wonder how many would have been used by the messenger boy抯 horse on the gallop into town to scan the bay for pirates.

LAN Airlines operate daily, ex Auckland and Sydney, to Santiago, in Chile, with onward connections to Sao Paulo and Rio de Janeiro. www.lan.com Paraty is three hours south of Rio de Janeiro and six hours north of Sao Paulo. Buses leave from both to Paraty. Buses in Brazil are safe, modern and comfortable. There are plenty of pousadas (family­run accommodation) to choose from in Paraty as well as hotels.