Jungle hangs thick on the far side of the bay — unruly, untamed, never quite tamed — where luxury resorts now stake their claim. Progress, perhaps. But it’s a paradise built on edits: sand shipped in, stories paved over, mangroves once home to golden warblers and nesting sea turtles now manicured into shoreline for tourists who never ask what came before. The past is brushed neatly from the frame.

Still, this is an island dripping in beauty and despite its popularity, resists being flattened into brochure gloss.

My son calls me back to the here and now. His toy shark is wedged in the pool filter and we make a fuss retrieving it. There are silver-dollar pancakes to eat, and happy sandcastles to build.

We swap hotels and spend afternoons at Catherine’s Café, swim off Nelson’s Dockyard, and linger over salt fish and plantain. Eventually we check into Curtain Bluff, the kind of place that once hosted presidents and rock stars. Unlike the others, it feels rooted—part of the land, not imposed upon it.

One jasmine-scented evening I turn to my husband and notice as if for the first time. I’m so lucky. Some people go their whole lives without meeting someone like you.

Still, it’s Carlisle Bay I return to in my mind—the lush gardens, the poolside hush, The Bugatti Queen open on my lap.

‘Je crois que la chance a perdu mon adresse,’

Helle Nice once said—I think luck has lost my address. But here, luck has found me.

In the botanical gardens, I learn the moringa tree can do what oranges do fifteenfold. That green jelly fruit clears the body like a monk. That plantain flag leaves are big enough for a small boy to sit on. That fan palms, hibiscus tea, and dagger plants with blue leaves all have their use.

By July, the island gives back: mango, pineapple, sugar apple, breadfruit. And then, in August and September, the hurricanes rise, fed by heat.

One morning I draw a shell from the sea—it is as big as a coconut, the sea’s bounty washed up daily. I raise it to my ear and scribble another note in my journal. A final thought on beautiful Antigua perhaps:

‘In the heart of the shell, the roar of the sea remains.’

Viewfinder: Antigua

Rum in your suitcase, red dust on your shoes. Antigua is mango mornings, cricket commentary and a slow dance with the sea.

Roomkey

Carlisle Bay — laid-back luxury with a window onto the bay. Cool linens, jungle green and Caribbean blue in perfect balance for a joyful family escape.

The Table With a View

Catherine’s Café — feet in the sand, rosé on ice, and the bay glittering beyond the tamarind trees.

Through the Lens

Look out from Shirley Heights at golden hour; frame the curve of Galleon Beach with a swimmer mid-glide.

On The Road

Touch down in Antigua. Rent a vintage-style open-top Land Rover Defender from Antigua Defenders Rentals or test boutique versions via Premier Motors Antigua — the island’s official Land Rover agent outfitting vehicles for its tropical terrain. Follow the winding coastal road to English Harbour. Salt-streaked windows, warm wind, jacarandas in bloom. Go for a Defender or vintage 110 — mechanical, honest, iconic. Perfect for contouring the bay and chasing vistas.

Windowseat

Direct flights from London to VC Bird International with British Airways or Virgin Atlantic. Window seat left-hand side for coral views on descent.

Future Frame: For The Global Citizen

Antigua’s coral reefs are under quiet siege. Partner with Adopt-A-Coral-Reef or the Environmental Awareness Group (EAG) to support marine nurseries and mangrove rehabilitation. Book with low-impact operators and charter catamarans with hybrid tech — sustainability here means preserving the soundtrack of the sea.

Original commission for the Telegraph Media Group on behalf of Little London Magazine. With special thanks to the Antigua and Barbuda Tourism Authority.