Heaven on Earth

By Olivia Williams

Actors don't go on holiday lightly. When the work dries up, you are not
"resting" - that hilarious expression people who have never been unemployed
taunt actors with. Unemployment isn't restful, nor is it a holiday, and I
have only allowed myself trips that include some kind of business for many
years. Even my honeymoon conveniently coincided with the press junket for
Peter Pan. Yes, we were in the Four Seasons in LA, but eight hours a day
were spent telling the press what a joy it was working with 14 children and
a randy St Bernard, while my brand new husband was poolside with a
cosmopolitan and some impressively enhanced babes.

So, three years later, we decided we needed a real honeymoon, to do some
resting, rediscover a little romance, and (a teensy spanner in the romance
works) entertain and nurture our two-year-old daughter, who is about to
have her world shattered by the arrival of a sibling. The dates would
comprise our third wedding anniversary, husband's birthday, and my last
travel date before the arrival of second baby, signalling temporary
suspension of all romantic services until further notice.

A website called Babygoes2.com miraculously seemed to fulfil all our
criteria with a hotel called Little Good Harbour in Barbados. I flinched
slightly. As a self-confessed cultural snob, my impression of Barbados was
of an island visited by inane sun-worshippers and high-maintenance posers
on yachts. But, my husband pointed out that relaxing meant not scheduling a
gruelling tour of museums and churches and cultural events, and the website
of Little Good Harbour, arrested my runaway prejudices.

So, cut to Gatwick airport, a nightmarish flight with broken TV monitors
and inedible meals and the 'relaxing' was not off to a good start. However,
when we finally arrived at the hotel the sun was setting across a liquid
titanium sea and our house, at the end of a row and set back from the sea,
made us almost weep for joy. Andrew the proprietor greeted us in that
inimitable Australian version of laid back that gives the impression you
could ask for anything and it would be "too easy". A pint of milk?
Babysitting for tomorrow night? A table at the restaurant in half an hour?
"Too easy. Couple of beers?" He clearly thought I needed a drink as I ran
through the conditions of our deal. Car hire, bottle of champagne and
catamaran trip included? Self-catering three bedrooms for the price of two?
All in order, as negotiated by Babygoes2.

A terrace with a priceless view of the Caribbean ran almost the entire
length of the house with a dining table and comfy sofas and white curtains
swaying in the evening breeze. So was I relaxed yet? I would be as soon as
I'd checked out the walk-in showers, the free-standing bath, the super-king
beds, worked out how the cooker, air-conditioning, and the washing machine
and dishwasher worked and applied lashings of mosquito repellent. After a
quick coating of the thoughtfully provided OFF! (wonder if it works on
Westminster Parking Operatives) we sauntered through the garden across a
little road to the restaurant. In the twinkling of an eye, we were drinking
rum punches looking out at the unimaginably clear blue shallows of the
Caribbean, as the gentle waves lapped the ancient stone of the fort.

Little Good Harbour comprises The Fish Pot (a destination restaurant on the
island even if one is not a resident) which makes self-catering optional at
all mealtimes, as they serve breakfast lunch and dinner, and will bring
them to your apartment.

We were staying in the new Vineyard houses, beautifully designed three-bed
duplexes, that you can rent or buy in a scheme whereby you hand over all
the hassle of maintenance and renting the villa while you are away to the
hotel.

We had a couple of false starts trying to find our ideal beach. Barbados
has countless perfect white sand, blue sea and palm tree beaches along the
south and west coast, but as you head north the beaches increasingly suffer
from the unpredictable effects of the hurricane season. However, one of the
most attractive things about Barbados is that all the beaches are public.
Thus, even the Sandy Lane Hotel (Luxury Orchid 2 bed suite US$1700 per
night low season) cannot stop grungy people like me, with non-matching
bikini top and bottom and an absurd range of plastic bags and buckets,
forming a camp on their wide expanse of virgin sands.

We made an expedition to the south coast where tourism is most developed,
but even here we found the peaceful and enchanting Miami Beach. Locals
wallow in the water chatting for hours, and the whiteness and blueness and
perfection of the beach constantly test your ability to believe what you
are seeing.

Many of the names of beaches and towns have a surreal familiarity. You can
visit Margate and Scarborough but our favourite was Folkestone. Park in the
public recreation area attached to the beautiful St. James' church, with
architecture and stone that remind you of the Cotswolds, but banish that
comparison, head through the trees and find a perfect shady crescent of
sand and warm turquoise sea.

The shape of our days was accidentally but successfully dictated by the
mild jetlag of a four-hour time difference. We were up early and on the
beach while the palm trees cast long cool shadows. As the sun became too
hot at around 11.30 we got hungry and walked the length of the beach to the
admirably laid back Surfside Bar where a flying fish-burger and fruit punch
were the perfect brunch. For our siesta we gleefully immersed ourselves in
Little Good Harbour, reading, sleeping and drifting around in white until
the heat had subsided. After a swim in the delightful overflowing pool we
watched the sun recline on its pink cloud chaise longue from our terrace.

If you are self-catering, Holetown sports a shopping mall and supermarket
that miraculously stocks Waitrose products, but Speightstown (pronounced
Spikestown) market has local produce and tourists are thin on the ground.
Even further north, the local fishermen bring their catch to Braddy's Bar
(a corrugated iron shack on a narrow strip between the road and the sea) at
around 4.30 or 5 o'clock. You can either take it home and cook it yourself
or rely on Gloria, toothless purveyor of fish and wisdom, to cook it for
you on Thursdays and Saturdays on her outdoor grill.

But what of romance? In rainy London my husband made it clear he wanted to
be 'surprised' on his birthday by being taken to The Cliff. One of Conde
Nast?s 50 hottest tables, it was definitely in my Posing on a Yacht
Category of unrelaxing things to be feared. I didn't want the stress of
having to drop names to get a table or risk being shown to the duff corner
by the toilets. I was warned that a coveted position "by the rail" meant we
had to be there by 6.30 and would be given the heave-ho at 8.15. To please
hubby, I decided to comply with their conditions, and to pack Lulu Guinness
handbag and shoes to ward off evil.

I hadn't factored in the Bajan personality, which took the sting out of
being in the very sanctum sanctorum of the jet set. The valet parkers took
care of our sandy Toyota Yaris without a hint of disdain. The stunningly
beautiful people at the Maitre D's desk apologised profusely for the short
lease we had on our table, but promised to find us a gorgeous alternative
place to sit at 8.15, where we could linger as long as we liked. We walked
out into a small amphitheatre of terraces and tables built into the tiny
bay descending to the water, all lit by blazing torches and hung with white
drapes. It was the kind of place where you briefly consider taking the
ideas home - these gas-powered cast-iron flaming torches in the shapes of
branches would look wonderful in our Marylebone flat!

The only difficulty in ordering was tearing your eyes away from the lapping
blue water where a turtle paddled by, long enough to pick between the pate
de foie gras and shrimp open ravioli.

After a gentle reminder at 8.15 sharp we moved up to a zebra-striped sofa
on the upper terrace where we ate cheesecake and sorbets and lounged until
10. A picture of Minnie Driver in the loo briefly reminded me that this was
a celebrity hangout, but there was nothing to break the atmosphere of calm
or interrupt our relaxed, romantic evening.

On nights we were too lazy to cook and too mean to pay for dinner and a
babysitter, the hotel sent round Grace, cleaner by day and chef by night.
She can rustle up Bajan specialities from what you have in your fridge... a
West Indian chicken curry that filled the heart and stomach with joy and a
kind of yam and mince Bajan shepherd's pie. She performs this for the sum
of 50 Bajan dollars, around 13 British pounds.

If warm flat calm waters and lying down becomes just too relaxing, head for
the wilder Atlantic Coast. The sea is rough, Bathsheba is Barbados's surf
town, the people are all Bajan, and the landscape is rugged. Have Sunday
lunch at the Atlantis hotel and experience Bajan life that is not laid on
for tourists. The buffet, serving hardcore local food such as Souse (pigs
feet marinated in lime juice, mmmmm) and Pepper Pot, starts as soon as the
clientele can get down the coast road from Church. Everyone is beautifully
dressed and on best behaviour, the bonhomous but discrete proprietor
cruises between the tables making everyone feel special. Rather like
Venice, The Atlantis hotel has made peeling paint an interior designer art
form and you can sit outside letting the blustery Atlantic winds blow away
the cobwebs.

The drive through the north of the island shows you an entirely different
side of the island. Some tropical rainforest survives the British cane
plantations around Welchman's Gully and we visited the Wildlife reserve, an
immediately gratifying and eccentric place, where what they promise is
delivered as soon as you push through the heavy wooden door in a rough
stone wall. Scattered around the refreshment area are tortoises, milling
about as if they are outside a cinema waiting for the doors to open. We saw
green monkeys and (it being a romantic holiday) lovebirds and strange
distant relatives of the hare who were about the size of a fat whippet.
Tucked behind the iguana enclosure was a beautiful treetop walkway we
almost missed. It was the perfect size to satisfy adults keen to get to
Sunday lunch and toddlers with a shortish attention span.

The other compulsory activity for even the most catatonic peace-seeker is a
trip out on the water. From water-skiing to bouncing around on a huge
banana, the choice is yours. We elected to try the 90-minute trip on a
glass bottom boat and a catamaran trip. Both trips were again made hugely
successful by the charm and warmth of the Bajan crews, who in both cases
guided and helped nervous snorkellers. The Catamaran crew catered for
everyone from the thrill-seekers of high speed wind travel to the group of
lively middle-aged singletons who wanted to get drunk and sunburnt and to
dance to the tannoy music. Even the elderly couple from Atlanta Georgia who
just didn't want to break anything clambering over the deck went home
euphoric. Es made firm friends with the captain, who lavished her with
attention and care, allowing her to pretend to helm the boat. Supplied with
a life jacket she bobbed in the water with turtles inspecting her toes,
then slept for the entire return journey in the shade of the jib on the
rope mesh between the hulls, with the blue waves splashing beneath her.
Magic.

It wasn't a cheap holiday, but the impossible combo of
Relaxing-Toddler-Friendly Honeymoon was miraculously achieved, due in no
small part to the ethos of Little Good Harbour and all the Bajans who
welcome visitors to this stunning island without no discernible resentment
or weariness. Barbados provides many interesting things that I didn't do or
couldn't fit in, and a many other great venues worthy of mention, Olives
for classy good value food, Mango for ambience, Fishermans pub for music.
The threats of too much glamour or too much package holiday were easily
avoided, and even the flight home failed to shift our unassailable good
humour.

(Independent - Travel Section - 20 January, 2008)