The hotel is not without its critics. Some journalists have labelled it “chavtastic”, claiming it’s full of D-list celebs, lottery winners and surgically-enhanced Essex girls.

According to its own website, Sandy Lane is the “premier luxury resort in the world”, an oasis of “serene style in a gloriously exotic setting”.

They can’t both be right, can they? To find out, I checked in for a night last week.

The Sandy Lane experience starts as soon as you clear customs at Grantley Adams International Airport. You walk out of the terminal building to be met by an attractive uniformed young lady who holds a large sign that reads, in handsome swirling script, Sandy Lane.

The sign is not only for your benefit. As the young lady leads you to your waiting limo, she holds it aloft to indicate to your fellow passengers and the hordes of meeters and greeters that, despite your scruffy appearance, you are in fact a genuine VIP. Literally, the crowd parted.

On arrival at the hotel I was met by a phalanx of white-gloved door-openers and luggage haulers, and handed a glass of fruit punch. As I was escorted to my room I was surprised to see - at 4pm - quite a few guests strolling around in lounge suits and posh frocks. Had I come underdressed? Oh no, said the receptionist. “It’s a wedding party. They're American.”

I had expected the rooms to be over the top, but mine was discreetly plush. The furniture was well upholstered, the bed huge (and one of the most comfortable I’ve ever slept in) and the closets large enough to accommodate the contents of half a dozen suitcases.

The bathroom was huge, with marble floors, a powerful multi-headed shower and piles of fluffy white towels. Lovely, except for the toiletries, which were so pungently rose-scented that it was possible to smell which guests had used the hotel soap and which had brought their own.

To the beach. The odd thing about Barbados is that all the posh hotels are on the west coast, whereas the best beaches are on the south coast. Although Sandy Lane’s strip of sand is far more attractive than most of its rivals’, it’s not huge. Consequently, the sunloungers are a little close to each other. You can hear other peoples’ conversations. I got the impression that some guests didn’t mind this.

When you check in and first wander down to the beach you are allocated a sunlounger, which is yours throughout your stay. Because of the limited space and the shade created by the hotel buildings, some parts of the beach don’t get any serious sunshine until after 11am. This is the equivalent of social siberia.

It’s no surprise, then, to learn that one of the biggest causes of complaints amongst guests is their sunlounger position. Nor that beach attendants wield quite a bit of power. When I turned up at 5pm there were very few guests on the beach but the attendant seemed uncertain as to whether or not to give me a lounger. I had the distinct feeling he was angling for a tip.

So what are the guests like? I had hoped to spot some minor celebrities topping up their tans. Charlotte Church cavorting in the surf with a new boyfriend, maybe. Instead, I saw a lot of middle-aged, middle-class, middle-Englanders. These people are not stylish. The men are overweight and loud. They look like they’ve made their money in double glazing or rental property. Their smug wives have wasted countless hours in hairdressing salons, having expensive highlights, blowdrys and pedicures. They still look like dogs’ dinners.

The sort of conversation you might overhear at Sandy Lane: “Our third time, actually...can't fault the service...none of that foreign muck...trying to get the handicap down into single figures...sold the business for three million...we deserve to splash out a bit...more champagne, waiter...what did you say you do?...BMW 7 Series...satellite navigation, the works...corked you say?...tastes fine to me...Jeremy Clarkson, very funny...BA Club...God, yes, we couldn’t possibly fly cattle class...ha ha ha!”

Sandy Lane does not look like the kind of hotel where genuine A-list celebrities hang out. It’s simply not sufficiently private. I was not surprised to hear that Leonardo Dicaprio had stayed recently but found the rubber-necking so invasive that he cut short his visit and fled instead to an island resort in the Grenadines.

Leo might also have been annoyed by the birds. Not the Essex type, but the flying, pecking, poohing variety. One of the most attractive features of Sandy Lane is its collection of mature mahogany trees. Unfortunately, trees attract birds and at meal times when tables are laid out al fresco, the birds see their chance to swoop. The problem was particularly bad at breakfast: in the time it took me to pop inside for more orange juice, the little blighters had pecked apart my pain au chocolat.

Not that I blamed them: the breakfast was outstanding with a huge selection of fresh fruit and pastries, and expertly-made omelettes. Lunch at the beach bar was less impressive: when I pay £15 for a burger I do at least expect it to come with decent chips. Mine were too cold and too soggy.

I had dinner at L’Acajou, the hotel’s fine dining restaurant where new head chef Marcel Dressien - a man with a couple of Michelin stars under his belt - has recently redesigned the menu. As you might expect, L’Acajou is not cheap, with a three-course menu costing just north of £100, plus wine.

I was joined by resident manager Eric Mapp, a charming and erudite Barbadian, who persuaded me to try the seven-course tasting menu. Curiously, each course was prepared using a different type of local rum.

It was clever cooking, but too clever at times. The rock shrimp risotto with saffron curry jus was excellent. At least, the individual components were excellent. But melding them together, along with a red bell pepper confit infused with vanilla rum, plus leaks and zucchini crisps, was just too, too much.

No wonder many British guests order the cottage pie instead.

* Tempted to give it a try? A week’s B&B at Sandy Lane costs from £2,495pp in summer, £2,775 in winter, including British Airways flights from Gatwick with ITC Classics (www.itcclassics.co.uk).

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