Hotel Heaven: Petit St Vincent, Caribbean

Chilled to the max on a luxurious private island

Small turquoise waves broke languidly on the sand, fizzing as they ran up the beach. They toyed with tiny fragments of snow-white coral but their hearts weren’t in it and they gave up the game, depositing the debris at the waterline. The breeze that had spent the morning whispering through the casuarina trees was equally lethargic, barely lifting a grain of sand.

It was that searing time of day in the Caribbean when the mercury hits its highs and the waves and wind have a siesta. All was becalmed.

I had just woken from a nap on a palapa, a wide, double hammock slung under a small, wooden awning with a thatched roof. I stretched out and smiled as I remembered this was only day two of seven during which nobody required me to do anything. My only commitments were ones I had set myself: snooze in hammock, sunbathe on lounger, float in sea, eat lobster, drink rum… and maybe learn the odd new word, like palapa.

The palapas were well spaced along West End beach and each occupied its own little gap in the foliage at the back of the beach so I neither saw nor heard my daytime neighbours. Each spot also had a couple of beach loungers, which I would migrate to in the late afternoon, when the shade of the casuarinas had crept over them.

I was peckish after my nap, so I rolled to the edge of the hammock and padded between the small bushes to try out the resort’s food service system. Each palapa spot comes with its own bamboo ‘mailbox’, a rolled-up daily menu and a small yellow flag on a rope. Hungry guests fill out the menu, replace it in the bamboo tube and raise the flag. Flag down means ‘leave me alone’; flag up means ‘please feed me’.

The resort staff cruise around in pastel-blue mini-mokes to check on the flags and attend to guests’ needs. By the time I had floated luxuriantly in the crystal-clear water and attempted a few yards of backstroke, the mini-moke arrived driven by a man bearing gifts: lobster in a sweet lime and chilli marinade, a mango salad and two beers nestled in a small bucket of ice. I ate in silence, marvelling at everything around me. After a dozen trips to the Caribbean I had found my perfect spot.

I was in St Vincent and the Grenadines, a scattering of 32 islands and cays in the Windward Islands archipelago. The Caribbean is full of exotically named islands: Martinique, Montserrat, Curaçao, Guadeloupe, just to name a few. St Vincent and the Grenadines is another; it could easily double as the name of a calypso band, a cocktail or even an ancient order of chivalry. I quite fancy being a Knight of the Order of St Vincent and the Grenadines but I’m not sure lounging around in hammocks qualifies me.

I was on Petit St Vincent, the most southerly dot of land in the Grenadines chain. If I had had the strength (and a waterproof pouch for my passport) I could have swum the channel to neighbouring Petit Martinique, which is part of Grenada, and presented myself at immigration in my swimming shorts.

Petit St Vincent is occupied by the luxurious private private resort of the same name, which accommodates a small number of guests in 22 stunning private villas dotted around the island, so bumping into your fellow beach idlers is quite rare.

The villas are delightful, more like lavish holiday homes. Mine was on the top of a low cliff. It had a large living area, even larger bedroom and three outdoor terraces, one of which had 180-degree panoramic views looking north and east over the ocean. In the mornings, I watched the sun rise somewhere over Barbados, went for an early run and got back in time for an alfresco breakfast before the heat of the day set in.

A bright yellow bird joined me on my first morning, waiting patiently at the edge of the wooden table, chirruping occasionally. He was – I later found out – a bananaquit. How friendly is this guest, he was asking himself as he tilted his head left and right. Fortunately I am a bird nut so before addressing my own needs and devouring coffee and a large pain au chocolat, I cut some papaya into beak-sized morsels and laid them out on a plate for him. We ate breakfast together, chatting about the weather and other important bananaquit news.

Guests can eat all meals in their villa if they choose – with or without a bananaquit – but it’s worth dining at the main pavilion restaurant near the boat jetty a couple of times too. It’s a good spot to chat with fellow guests over a Trinidadian curry and a glass or two of local rum. The place even has its own wine cellar, with more than 6,000 wines, rums and champagnes.

The other dining venue is the beach restaurant, which is must for sundowners and supper. Sip a Rum Punch at Goatie’s Bar, grab a table on the sand and savour conch fritters, jerk chicken, tropical salads or (in season) lobster straight from the beach barbecue.

Despite being a sucker for lobster, rum, champagne and lavish clifftop villas, my real Petit St Vincent highlight was my spot on West End beach and by day four, it was definitely my spot. I greeted it each morning like an old friend, relieved that no other guests had nabbed the loungers or palapa for the day.

By the end of the week I’d clocked up almost as many hours there as in the villa. I have simple tastes: give me a virtually deserted Caribbean beach and a lobster-and-rum diet and I’m happy. Oh, and a five-star, private island resort, of course.

Book via the resort’s website, email info@petitstvincent.com
or call +1 (800) 654 9326 or +1 (954) 963 7401