THE note in the welcome pack left me confused. “If you have made the mistake
of bringing a cell phone with you, we ask you to use it only inside your
cottage.” I had been told they didn’t work at all, so, as I was waiting at
the departure gate at Gatwick I had left an ostentatious message on my
mobile, telling all and sundry that if over the next ten days they wanted to
get hold of me, they might as well forget it.
I was heading with my family for Petit St Vincent, a small island in the south
of the Grenadines, billed as the ultimate hideaway: no phones, no internet,
no electronic organisers; no nothing.
The real excitement began at Barbados airport when the call came to board our
twin prop jet for Union Island. There were only four other passengers — a
German and a Bajan couple — as we flew southwest over the azure sea
interspersed by Bequia, Mustique and several smaller islands before dropping
suddenly over a few houses and on to the landing strip. From there we were
driven a few hundred yards in one of those toy trains, perhaps a
hand-me-down from a British theme park, and on to our waiting boat.
I had imagined an outcrop of golden beaches shaded by palm trees, but I was
struck by how lush and hilly our new home was. We were met with a cocktail
by the new manager, John, who took us in his Mini Moke to our cottage, where
lunch was waiting on the veranda table. I was full of questions. Where’s the
best place to swim? Which are the best boat excursions? When should we raise
the red flag (“do not disturb”) or the yellow flag (“room service”) outside
the cottage? Take your time, John said. No rush.
The whole point of PSV is not to do very much, and what you do do, don’t do in
a hurry. The place was acquired by an American, Haze Richardson, in the
1960s, who had the idea of turning it into a “private island for private
people”. He has lived there ever since, with his wife Lynn, in a house on a
hill.
The 22 guest cottages are dotted around, some on cliffs, some, like ours,
directly on the sea. Most of the guests seemed to be honeymooners from the
US, although people do pop in from yachts moored just off the jetty —
including Tony and Cherie Blair the summer before (a signed picture of them
hanging in the reception knocked me temporarily off my holiday mood).
I was delighted that there were no other children when we were there. Our
daughters, Constance, 9, and Alex, 13, were marooned with us. Not only that,
but no television or computer games either. I was intrigued to see how they
would cope with a week of just collecting shells and sauntering around.
How, too, would my wife Lucy and I cope without knowing what’s going on in the
world? I felt a certain disappointment on finding out that the mobiles did
work, but we set ourselves a test. I would make two calls — one on the first
day to my sister to check that she was feeding our cats, and the other on
the second day to my work. I couldn’t resist mentioning that I was lying on
a hammock staring out to sea. Having got those calls out of my system, I
ceremoniously switched off the phone.
So how did we fare? I suppose it isn’t possible to morph in a week from a
manic metropolitan workaholic to a Robinson Crusoe. I did lounge for quite a
few hours a day — mostly on the hammock reading novels (I never seem to have
time to read fiction at home). I had two excellent massages from Lisa, a
half-Brightonian-half-Grenadian. She is also a yoga teacher, and Lucy
attests to two very good sessions on a deck on a bluff overlooking the sea.
Lisa also gave the pair of us a one-hour introduction to stress management,
including flow charts, but no matter how adept her insights were, I think
the task of managing my stress may be beyond the gift of mere mortals.
In spite of our best efforts we did plan our days just a little. I played
tennis most evenings (usually with the friendly barman, Hazreem); Lucy and I
did try to use the jogging and exercise trail at least once a day. We
climbed the island’s only hill, Marni, among the banyan and frangipani
trees, for the perfect view of the archipelago. We couldn’t work out why it
was supposed to take an hour and a half when we made it up and down in what
seemed like 20 minutes. Perhaps we were still walking too fast.
The girls got into the swing more easily. They would invent games and listen
to music. The highlight of their day, however, was hooking up with Maddy,
one of the receptionists, for her 5pm walk along the beach with the owners’
six white retrievers. Sometimes they could be gone for two hours, returning
exhausted and soaking after frolicking with the dogs.
The greatest joy, inevitably, was the sea. There are few places in the world
where the distance from your actual bed to a coral bed is barely ten yards.
So each morning, shortly after sunrise, we would put on our fins and masks
for an early morning snorkel with the brightly coloured fish before
breakfast was brought in a Mini Moke to our cottage. Often we would do the
same at sunset.
We left the island twice. On our first full day we went out of interest to
neighbouring Petit Martinique for the Sunday service at the Catholic church,
to hear the priest from the island of Carriacou admonish the younger female
members of the congregation for bearing their midriffs in public. Later in
the week we took an excursion with Captain Chester Belmar in his sport
fishing boat to the Tobago Cays. We investigated more coral and swam with
more turtles, but the highlight — apart from being thrown about in the gusty
conditions that morning — was a swim off the boat to the islet of Petit
Tabac.
The week disappeared just as I was getting into the swing of doing as little
as possible. Some do not emerge from their cottages all week. Many people
are repeat visitors, and some stay for a month at a time. I can understand
why. The downsides? The service is variable, and while dinner in the
restaurant is top notch (fine wines and beautifully prepared, freshly caught
fish), breakfast and lunch are rather haphazard affairs.
But as we said goodbye to the retrievers, to John, to several of the staff and
to the turquoise sea, it was clear to me that, given the choice between
laid-back luxury or oppressive opulence, I knew which one I would go for
every time.
Need to know
John Kampfner and family stayed at Petit St Vincent (001 954 963 7401,
www.psvresort.com). A cottage for a family of four (two adults and two
children, aged 6 to 16) costs from £533 a night, including full board and
boat transfers. The resort is closed in September and October.
Getting there: British Airways (0870 8509850, www.ba.com)
flies daily from Gatwick to Barbados from £532.
Tour operators: ITC Classics (01244 355527,
www.itcclassics.co.uk); Caribbean Expressions (020-7433 2610,
www.expressionsholidays.co.uk); Carrier (0161-491 7620, www.carrier.co.uk).
Further information: www.definitivecaribbean.com
