Punte Del Este, according to the marketing spiel, is a "world class beach resort" and was actually somewhere we were heading for before deciding upon Piriapolis, until we realised that to stay there over Christmas and New Year would necessitate our committing a crime akin to the great train robbery first in order to pay for it.
It's a 'Bojangles' sort of place, Uruguay's Miami, more suited to your two week splurge in the sun rather than the near final knockings for grimy and almost skint middle-aged backpackers.
So a day trip was the best way for us to have a gander, particularly as it was only 40 minutes down the coast road by bus from where we were holed up.
We took an immediate shine to the place on emerging from the bus station, seeing a gleaming blue 1970s Ford Mustang parked up for us to leer at, more so to feel the 30ish degree temperature and the warm wind blowing off the sea.
Looking towards the beach we saw an icon of Punte, five huge, sculpted fingers emerging from the sand.
These attract a lot of attention and their mesmeric qualities caused one woman to lose concentration for long enough to trip, stagger, involuntarily run downhill and then take a dive headfirst for a mouthful of beach.
In such moments, with recording equipment to hand, are cheques for £250 earned.
Punte is one of those places where the beautiful congregate and as we took a walk around the promontory on which it is built, ogling the bespoke, (presumably) seven-figure-worth properties, the bronzed and toned inhabitants and holidaymakers were jogging and cycling past us in their droves.
There were so many athletically inclined people that it made you feel out of place if you weren't sporting a pair of Lycra clad buns between which you could crack walnuts.
As our taut and honed bods have all but deserted us following months of 'high living', we slunk away and sat under a palm to watch the other half playing on the water on their jetskis and in their boats, only feeling inclined to move once I'd identified that Kerry was sitting squarely on an ants nest.
Continuing the fitness theme of the city, a few yards down the road were some exercise apparatus, free for anyone to use. I had a quick go on the bench press and as Kerry stood admiringly a couple appeared, intent on conducting a joint workout.
Impressive bodies they surely had but micro bikini and speedos was somehow humorous attire to walk down the street in and begin to pump iron.
Anyone remember the character 'Sylvester' in the film "It's a mad mad mad mad world"?
Well, it looked like that, only more ridiculous.
Returning to Piriapolis felt like some sort of homecoming and though we had to move rooms, from the upgrade to an inexplicably fly-infested standard room on the first floor, it felt nice to be back.
We swatted fifteen flies before going to sleep that night and, presumably tired from the exertion, spent all of the next day lounging around and following the footy online before hitting the beach.
It was a scorcher today and we simply had to take a dip roughly every twenty minutes in order to prevent cooking in our own juices.
That evening, desperate for a meal that didn't consist of steak and either salad or chips, we acted on the advice of the Brits from the other night and went to a locals restaurant called "Picasso".
It took a bit of finding and we wondered whether we were in the right area more than once before a kindly and barrel-chested chap pointed it out to us.
It was basically a private enterprise, operated from someone's house with plastic patio furniture throughout the ground floor and, as it's peak season, out into the drive to cater for waifs such as us who may wander in unannounced.
The food was truly amazing, delicious fish in sauce, but the ambience was atrocious.
Things looked reasonably good until a party joined the next table with two under fives among them.
The youngest dropped a wine glass on the floor before wailing and roaring until the mother whipped her top up and began breast feeding.
A child at another table began screaming hysterically, a car alarm went off and couldn't be silenced which set the neighbours mutt off, barking at a million decibels just the other side of the fence - which frightened the first baby who started crying again.
It was certainly a memorable experience.
Having that opportunity to walk through the suburbs of town we saw just how affluent a nation this is.
I suppose that was obvious from the prices of the hotel room and the meals in restaurants but this confirmed it.
Most houses were unique, often bungalows with large plots and swanky cars in the drive.
This is a world away from Bolivia and Peru.
On Monday we took a day trip to Montevideo for a brief look at the city and while it was all very interesting we really hankered after the beach all the time we were there.
We walked a few miles, around the old town, to the port, through the main shopping area and out to the old railway station; the latter a beautiful old building now a haven for the homeless.
As it was New Year's Eve the inhabitants were in party mode and we were soon introduced to a local New Year custom.
Soakings are the order of the day on New Year's Eve with people squirting water off their balconies at passers-by.
Some people have bottles of water to try to tip on you as you walk past, others have hose pipes.
Another way of dousing you is to pour beer or cider on you as you pass in the street.
Without wanting to poop their party neither Kerry nor I particularly wanted to get soaking wet, even less to be covered in grog considering we had a two hour bus journey to get back to Piriapolis.
This saw us adopt evasive tactics, weaving through the streets to avoid anywhere with tell-tale pools of water and steering clear of the drum beat of the main crowd of revellers.
I'm pleased, not to say amazed, to be able to report that we stayed dry using this method.
There was one close call as a wild-eyed and dreadlocked chap came up to us on one street and said in a rasping voice, whilst priming his litre of cider in our direction:
"Do you know the custom here?"
But our cowering and repeated pleas of "No, no, no" seemed to make our assailant think again before he skidaddled.
For our New Year's Eve we revisited the scene of our night with the Brits; close by to our hotel and food to die for.
It was a muted night by comparison with our last visit but was somehow fitting that after so much time spent without anyone else over these months, the year should end for Kerry and I solely in each others company.
Let 2013 be different though for God's sake!
If I don't soon spend some time with someone with whom I can have a deep and meaningful about whether 'Arry can pull off the great escape for QPR, why Villa are as effective as a blancmange screwdriver and why Man City's attack has been firing more blanks than the Territorial Army then I may not be responsible for my actions.
January 1st was spent the way that millions of people spend it, nursing a throbbing head and quaffing gallons of water to try to rehydrate our withered bodies.
The weather had turned today and the sea was wild while the wind was blowing a hooly.
We braved the elements later on to go for a walk but we managed less than two hours before returning to our sanctuary and collapsing once more into piteous heaps.
On Wednesday, after twelve days of doing not an awful lot, it was finally time to move on.
Colonia Del Sacremento was our next stop, a former Portugese run smugglers port founded in 1680 and one of the quaintest places we've seen.
We knew we needed to cut costs after our Yuletide splurge so opted to stay in a hostel dormitory rather than a private room.
It's ok, up to a point, but there undoubtedly comes a time when you don't really want to share a bedroom with others, their bodily noises, odours and rustling and banging about when you're trying to sleep.
That time is now actually, but needs must.
Colonia was a lovely little place but you can see it in one afternoon.
With that done we were done, with Uruguay.
We booked our ferry tickets to Buenos Aires for the next day and prepared to cross the border into Argentina for the third time in the past month.
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