Exploring holidays in Brazil

The country you meet on the ground makes more sense once you know a little of its recent past. A military dictatorship had held power since 1964, and its grip finally loosened in 1985, after which democracy returned in the same blend of chaos and optimism Brazil brings to most things. Economic reforms arrived in the 1990s, money flowed into people's pockets during the 2000s, and then came the 2014 World Cup, the Rio Olympics two years later, the impeachment of Dilma Rousseff, Lula's return to power, and a pandemic that struck the country hard. Through all of it, one thing stayed put. Argue politics until dawn with a Brazilian and the sunset remains the one subject nobody picks a fight over. Rio's coastline alone runs for 36 miles, and Copacabana at first light still earns its reputation: the bay glowing pink, joggers working the Portuguese stone promenade, old men at little chess tables under umbrellas before the heat arrives. By mid-morning the barracas are open, those colourful tents selling grilled queijo coalho on skewers and ice-cold beer in small plastic cups. Ipanema next door feels a shade posher, and the people-watching there is genuinely world class. Swimming isn't really the draw in Rio. The scene is.

More than 7,000 kilometres of shoreline run from windy dunes near the equator down to cooler, greener shores close to Uruguay. Six months of hopping between them would barely cover the surface. Each stretch carries its own lifestyle, its own rhythm, its own version of a good day. Pick the beach carefully and you've effectively picked the whole trip.

For a week of carioca life, a pousada or boutique hotel in Ipanema or Leblon does the job: small places with rooftop pools and breakfast spreads that could floor a horse. Copacabana keeps the big landmark hotels, grand old dames from the 1950s with cavernous lobbies and million-dollar views. Budget travellers do fine in the hostels up in Santa Teresa, the bohemian hilltop quarter of crumbling mansions and art galleries, though after dark it pays to keep to the main streets.

A couple of hours up the coast sits Búzios, the fishing village Brigitte Bardot put on the map in the 1960s. These days it's a glossy little resort peninsula of cobbled streets, boutique shops and white-washed pousadas tucked into tropical gardens, and the beaches are the real thing: crystal water, soft sand, a fraction of Rio's bustle. Geribá draws the surfers, Ferradura suits families, and Azeda, reached by a short trail or a boat, feels like a secret even though it isn't. Evenings revolve around dinner at one of the harbour restaurants, fresh grilled fish, a caipirinha or three, a slow wander along the boardwalk. A well-heeled Brazilian and Argentine crowd keeps the prices high, and the place earns them.

Further south, Florianópolis, or Floripa to anyone who's been, is an entire island of beaches and possibly Brazil's best quality of life. The east coast catches the swell, so surf towns like Barra da Lagoa and Praia Mole thrum with board-carrying kids, beach bars and young, outdoorsy energy. Facing the calm lagoon on the west side, families and paddleboarders get sunsets that stop conversation dead. Sporty and wholesome is the Floripa way: acai bowls, beach volleyball at dawn, nightlife that peaks around midnight rather than 4am. Rooms run from surf hostels with sand permanently on the floor to sleek pousadas overlooking the dunes.

For old Brazil, head to the stretch between Rio and São Paulo state. Paraty's colonial centre of whitewashed churches and cobbled streets sits on a drowned coastline of jungle-covered islands and emerald water. Boats chug out daily to empty coves where the only sounds are parrots and water lapping at the hull. Inside the old town, historic inns keep the modern world politely outside behind thick stone walls and heavy wooden doors. Nearby Ilha Grande is car-free and gloriously simple, pousadas painted in ice-cream colours, hiking trails through the Atlantic forest, and the famous Lopes Mendes beach, three kilometres of soft white sand that looks edited even standing on it.

Then the northeast, where Brazil's beach culture gets properly legendary. Jericoacoara in Ceará is a former fishing village turned barefoot paradise at the foot of giant rust-coloured dunes. No paved roads exist in town, only sand, and getting around means walking, cycling or a rattling ride in a dune buggy. Days go to kitesurfing in the constant breeze, lounging in hammock-strung beach bars, and the evening hike up the Sunset Dune, where hundreds of people sit on the ridge watching the sun drop into the ocean while capoeira circles drum away nearby. Nights bring forró dancing and cheap crab stews, and the accommodation is mostly rustic-chic pousadas built from wood and straw, fan-cooled rooms, hammocks on every veranda. Simple, sweaty and completely addictive.

For something truly special, there's Fernando de Noronha, a volcanic archipelago floating 500 kilometres off the coast. Its beaches are routinely ranked among the best on earth, and Baía do Sancho, with its cliffs, turquoise water and turtles drifting past, is the showpiece. A daily visitor tax caps access, which keeps crowds mercifully thin. Snorkelling with spinner dolphins at dawn, diving with rays and reef sharks, hiking to lookouts over impossibly blue bays: it isn't cheap and everything has to be flown or shipped in, but the eco-pousadas are lovely, the seafood is superb, and the whole island feels like a national park that happens to have a few lovely places to sleep.

Bahia brings yet another flavour. Around Trancoso, on the south coast, you'll find dramatic red cliffs, long empty beaches and a village square of colourfully painted houses that's become quietly fashionable. Beach clubs serve grilled lobster under almond trees, and boutique pousadas hide behind unmarked gates, all candlelight and plunge pools. Further up, Morro de São Paulo is a car-free island village where afternoons blur into music on the sand and the tide charts dictate your plans. Salvador, the state capital, pulses with Afro-Brazilian culture: capoeira on the beach at Porto da Barra, acarajé fried in dendê oil by the baianas in white dresses, drumming that carries through the streets at night. A restored colonial pousada in the Pelourinho district, with its pastel facades and tiled churches, is a proper experience.

Don't skip the far northeast either. The coast between Recife and Natal has some of the sunniest weather on the planet, plus the low-key vibe of towns like Pipa, where dolphins swim close to shore and the cliff-top bars host drum circles at sunset. Or push further to Lençóis Maranhenses, not a beach exactly but a dreamscape of white sand dunes filled with thousands of freshwater lagoons, like the desert and the tropics had a beautiful accident. My neighbour went in July and came back with 400 photographs of water.

Accommodation across Brazil falls into a few friendly categories. Pousadas are the bread and butter, family-run guesthouses where breakfast is taken seriously and the owners will happily book your boat trip, massage or buggy tour from a WhatsApp chat. They're brilliant value outside peak season. At the top end, Brazil does barefoot luxury exceptionally well: private villas in Trancoso, design hotels in Rio's hills, eco-resorts in Bahia where the architecture disappears into the jungle. Hostels are plentiful and social, especially in Floripa and Jeri, with hammocks, barbecues and caipirinha nights. Wherever you stay, the day is structured the same way. Beach in the morning, long lunch, beach again, shower, sunset drinks, dinner late, music late. Brazilians call this rhythm aproveitar, to savour, and it takes about 48 hours to fully adopt.

The food is half the fun. Fresh ceviche and grilled fish on the coast, moqueca, that fragrant Bahian fish stew, bubbling in clay pots, pastéis from beach shacks, coconut water sipped straight from the green husk, and feijoada, the black bean and pork feast, on Wednesdays and Saturdays. Everything tastes better with sand between your toes.

Timing matters, because Brazil is enormous and the seasons flip if you're coming from the northern hemisphere. Summer runs from December to March, hot and sticky in Rio and the south, with the northeast staying dry and glorious. This is peak season, Carnival usually lands in February or early March, and prices jump accordingly, so book well ahead if you want in on that madness. The dry season from May to September is arguably the sweet spot for the northeast and the Amazon: plenty of sunshine, lower humidity, far fewer crowds. Rio and the southern coast are cooler then, around 20 degrees, fine for sightseeing but the sea can be chilly. Surfers should chase the southern swells from April to October. Whale watchers should aim for Santa Catarina between July and November, when southern right whales cruise the coast with their calves. Christmas and New Year are magical, especially Reveillon in Rio, when millions dress in white and send flowers into the sea for Yemanjá, but you'll pay premium prices and share everything with everyone.

Keep your belongings sensible on city beaches, learn a few Portuguese words, and resist the urge to cram too much in. This is a country best enjoyed slowly, one coastline at a time. Whether you end up sipping caipirinhas on a dune in Jeri, dancing forró in Salvador, or doing absolutely nothing under an almond tree in Trancoso, you'll understand pretty quickly why Brazilians say their best office is the beach. Pack light and leave a little room in your plans for the unexpected. On the last morning of my own trip, a boy sold me a bag of cashews on the sand at Geribá for the equivalent of two pounds.