Being a die-hard foodie, one of my firm maxims is that you can't expect to eat well in a country ending in 'A'. It may sound extreme, but it works for me. I've eaten fish I wouldn't give to the cat in CroatiA, bland filth in AmericA, and don't even get me started on RussiA. So why venture into CubA, a gastronomic desert known best for its food shortages and a fairly nasty national dish of rice, pork and beans?

Well, as a food snob, I respect Castro for not allowing KFC, McDonald's and those ubiquitous coffee shop chains to soil his principles. Also, I'd heard that he'd recently allowed paladars, privately run restaurants in people's homes, to operate outside the black market. More importantly, last year saw the opening of two allegedly five-star hotels on the island: the Saratoga in Havana and the grandly-named Royal Hideaway Los Ensenachos, billed as "Cuba's most luxurious beach resort ever" on the north coast.

Having travelled regularly with my husband to the Caribbean for the past 20 years, it seemed time we gave Cuba a whirl. I don't equate travel with suffering, so if the country's gone five-star, then I'm all for it. The Saratoga turned out to be a marvel. It's in a perfect position in the centre of Old Havana overlooking the Parque de la Fraternidad and the handsome Capitolio, ironically modelled on the Capitol Building in Washington.

A hotel once before in the 1930s, it's been stripped to the rafters for a major makeover. Our room was typical of a smart Spanish parador: dark wood four-poster, ochre-tiled floor and wrought iron balcony, with a tremendous view overlooking the park and beyond. The downside? Earplugs are vital for the ceaseless traffic noise, and the plumbing is hopeless. Toilets block regularly and our shower may have washed a small lettuce, but it couldn't wash me.

Still, I can forgive them everything for the rooftop pool and bar, currently the coolest cocktail spot in town. Slipping into the shallow end with my first mojito was one of those sublime travellers' moments, worth being jet lagged for. The thrill of Old Havana is its unique juxtaposition of shanty-style poverty and faded neo-classical grandeur, and this is where you get the city's best view.

Getting a panoramic fix on its crumbling facades, abandoned buildings tugged down with creepers, and almost artful rubble heaps - as if it just survived a war last week - is essential. The Saratoga's sun-beds are perfectly positioned to take it all in and look down on those famed 50-year-old classic American cars which give the city its film-set sex appeal.

Friends, and even the tourist board, had told me that you don't come to Old Havana to eat. You come for the Latin sounds, the baroque glories of the Plaza de la Catedral, to buy your Cohiba cigars, ranked the world's finest, at the Partagas factory, and for the rum cocktails. A mojito at La Bodeguito del Medio, once frequented by Hemingway, Graham Greene and Errol Flynn, plus a daiquiri at La Floridita, another Ernest favourite, are tourist essentials.

That said, we had the dinner of a lifetime at La Guarida, widely regarded as the best paladar in town. There's no sign outside, yet all the cabbies know it. It's easy to think you've got the wrong place as you ascend the worn marble stairs in a shabby tenement block with washing across the yard and urchins kicking a ball around in the shadows. Three floors up and a knock on a discreet wooden door gains entry to a magic box.

Inside is a candlelit shrine to decadence with film posters, Hollywood starlet pin-ups and pictures of past satisfied customers, including Jack Nicholson, Steven Spielberg and the King of Spain, on the walls. There are religious effigies next to the loos and pink ballet shoes dangling from the ceiling. They break even more taboos by serving Coca-Cola and Californian wines. The food is just as amazing, and surprisingly good - red snapper ceviche, followed by mahi mahi with fufu (mashed green banana), or swordfish with vanilla sauce.

I could easily have spent longer round the Saratoga pool but Cuba is known for its superlative beaches and the Havana traffic was becoming oppressive. City and beach make excellent holiday partners but do insist on the short internal flight from Havana to Cayo Las Brujas, a nippy five minutes from Los Ensenachas. When we visited the flight hadn't started and we had to endure a punishing five-hour taxi transfer through boring flatlands.

Royal Hideaway, which opened last summer, is an all-inclusive resort of more than 500 rooms, owned by the Spanish Occidental group. This is the company's third venture in Cuba and its first stab at a five-star property. First impressions were of an unexpectedly grand airy lobby, heavy with marble and giant chandeliers with lots of squishy sofas and Windsor chairs - think of a John Lewis furniture showroom in the tropics.

Our two-storey junior suite had two of everything, including loos, TVs and seaview terraces, yet looked bland put next to the Andalucian-style charms of the Saratoga. The plumbing worked better, but there were some shabby bits, including a jagged piece of wood and plaster missing out of the staircase, as obvious as a bite out of an apple.

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