Half an hour of tuneless singing and dedicated hammock swinging had finally lulled my son into his siesta. His big sister and father were in the hotel swimming pool and, aside from a local teenager offering rides on a scruffy old horse, there wasn't anybody else in sight.
What to do with the temporary freedom? I sipped from a bottle of beer beside me and picked up a book I should have read years ago. It was enjoyable enough, but soon a darting movement caught my eye and I found myself looking at an iguana instead.
We stared at each other for some time until he scampered away and I was left looking at an apparently empty Pacific beach. Then the sand began to move before my eyes. Crabs with stolen shells on their backs scuttled about their business, while their smaller less protected cousins pitted their speed against the reflexes of the birds padding about at the water's edge looking for lunch. Pelicans flew along the foaming breakers beyond searching out bigger prey, and a lone yellow butterfly headed off on some unknown mission towards the sun.
The book stayed unread. People or no people, there was just too much world to watch going by on the beach.
Troncones does not have the wondrous turquoise water and white sand of the Riviera Maya, or the adventure of the wilder parts of Mexico's coastline. The dilapidated glamour of corners of Acapulco is similarly absent, as is the party scene found at Puerto Vallarta. Still Troncones envelopes its visitors in natural beauty with such unfussy grace that, in my mind, it's as lovely as a Mexican beach resort gets.
I am, I found out during our five days there this summer, in illustrious company in my assessment. Beaten to it, more like, by a coterie of international art world celebrities whose presence provides mere mortals with quite a fun game to play while walking along the beach - guessing which villa belongs to who.
We are moderately confident we identified the home of artist and filmmaker Julian Schnabel while on our way to a natural tide pool surrounded by rocks and filled with bright blue tropical fish. It wasn't just the faultlessly tasteful house, and the faultlessly tasteful sand castle in front of it. There were also the orange hammocks slung gracefully below a palm leaf palapa - an open-sided thatched hut - decorated with similarly coloured glass buoys which, for me at least, conjured up images of Schnabel's film The Diving Bell and the Butterfly.
Rumour has it that Schnabel's good friend, Francis Ford Coppola, is currently scouting out a winter residence for himself. The Mexicans have their fair share of notables too, headlined by the foremost modernist painter and sculptor José Luis Cuevas. And the British are represented by none other than Damien Hirst, reputedly drawn to Troncones by his wife's enthusiasm for surfing.
Surfers are among the most identifiable group of lesser known visitors too, attracted by a large number of "left-turn point breaks" that are reputedly both high quality and smooth, making them ideal for novices and veterans alike. All of which, I am reliably informed, holds particular appeal for those who favour a "goofy foot stance".
This year, surfing tourism suffered somewhat following three shark attacks in March that left two surfers dead and a third requiring a thousand stitches. Freak events, say many who insist nothing like this has ever happened before in this area which first began to creep on to the alternative tourist map in the mid 1990s.
It began with a handful of gringos buying up beach land and establishing the unwritten rule that all development would be low impact. At the time there was little more than a tiny village sandwiched between the ocean and a small, steep, jungle-covered mountain, home to fishermen and former construction workers turned subsistence farmers. Today there are about 250 rooms in small hotels along the three-mile-long beach costing between $50 and $250 a night.
It is a shame that so few of them are Mexican owned. But at least the locals seem to have done significantly better out of tourism here than those swallowed up by the kind of mass resorts usually promoted by the Mexican authorities, resorts like Ixtapa and Zihuatanejo, a 30-minute drive south.
Most visitors to Troncones are foreigners too, most of them from the US and Canada escaping cold winters at home and arriving at the Ixtapa/Zihuatanejo airport a 45-minute cab drive away. But there are some Mexican tourists, many of them happy to drive the nine long hours from Mexico City, as we did.
We stayed at a pleasant bed and breakfast called La Casa Delfin Sonriente - the Smiling Dolphin House. Not, I add, that we witnessed any of the aforementioned creatures said to frolic off the shore. It cost about US$70 a night for a family room with breakfast included, a pretty pool, and a cooler full of beer. All just steps from the beach through a garden filled with butterflies.
It was perfect for us, though I could have done with a few less power ballads on the communal iPod. We could have done with a few less meals hastily prepared by me in the kitchen from the limited stocks in the local shops. It was far nicer when we got it together to walk up, or down, the beach to one of the restaurants serving fresh fish day and night. The best meal we had was at the Manzanillo Bay Inn where we got stuck one afternoon when a thunder storm scuppered our first attempt to play in the tide pool and we had walked on past the rocky point into the bay looking for shelter. Unfortunately the restaurant is tucked away from the hotel's spectacular views, but the seared tuna and ceviche were excellent.
The Delfin Sonriente's owner, a friendly Californian surfer and one of the original Troncones pioneers, points out that the added value to the place doesn't stop at the waves, the celebrity spotting and the odd posh restaurant. There are also jungle hikes, caving, mountain biking, diving and bird watching. Not forgetting the more recent proliferation of yoga retreats, and the prevalence of massage tables on the sand's edge complete with ethereal white drapes fluttering in the breeze.
None of these were really options for a family with small children, but contrary to my rather envious nature I did not find myself fantasising about them either. True the sun did pound down mercilessly most days, and we did run into a serious storm on the other. But for most of the time, being in the middle of the May-November low season meant we had the beach pretty much to ourselves, and that was priceless. Only as the sun set did a few more people emerge to play in the waves, the more confident taking on the undercurrents to go beyond the breakers and body surf back. At this time of year we also had a reasonable chance of seeing a turtle lumber up the sand to lay her eggs as night fell. We weren't that lucky but we were happy enough to watch the crabs scuttling about.
Way to go
Getting there
British Airways (08444 930 787, ba.com) flies Heathrow-Mexico City then Mexico City-Ixtapa/Zihuatanejo with a local carrier from £937.30 rtn inc tax.
Where to stay
La Casa del Delfin Sonriente (+55 5264 6582, casadelfinsonriente.com) bungalow rooms from $57 per night.
Further information
The Mexico Tourism Board: 020-7488 9392, visitmexico.com.
Country code: 0052.
Flight time: London-Mexico City 11¼hrs; Mexico City-Ixtapa/Zihuatanejo: 55mins.
£1 = 16.78 pesos.
