50 worldtravellermagazine.com
handful of cottages dotted around the
Deep South-y grounds. Broad lawns
flowed between magnificent mango,
banyan and flame trees; an old rum
still sat here, a rustic cotton barn there;
waterlily ponds ran alongside a path
to one of the estate’s wild beaches.
Hummingbirds and finches flitted;
there were cats, dogs, cows and horses
— and at the centre of it all were the
lovely 19th century wooden plantation
house and Uta Lawaetz, the hippy-fierce,
Austrian-born woman who’s kept the
place going since the 1980s, when her
former father-in-law owned it. As we
listened to her stories over breakfast
on her breeze-cooled verandah that
morning (our own cupboards still bare),
it all began to feel rather romantic
and heartwarming and natural.
And things were about to look brighter
still. An overseas supermarket is a
thing of joy, isn’t it? Shopping becomes
a brilliant treasure hunt for comedy
brand names, unfamiliar packaging,
what’s-that-for? ingredients, who’s-
that-for? flavours. I love it, and I loved
Massy Stores, 15 minutes’ drive east of
the cottage. The big fruit ’n’ veg section
was awash with all kinds of roots, sea
moss and ‘Vel’s Mauby Bark’ (still no
idea). We weren’t surprised to find a
million barbecue and hot pepper sauces
(we bought fearsome Viking, the local
brand), but were taken aback to see
Essential Waitrose olives, Bovril, Dorset
Cereals and Branston Pickle. A cornflakes
pack came with a recipe for Chicken
Party Salad (very ’70s dinner party);
Best of all, we found Alma at the
till. Scanning the contents of our
enthusiastically loaded trolley, she had
plenty of time to let us pick her brains
about St Lucian ways to spend our week.
We should go to the Choiseul craft centre
just beyond Balenbouche to buy straw
hats and clay pots, she said; to Soufrière
market for island- grown fruit, veg and
herbs. She sucked her teeth when I asked
if there was a less touristy alternative to
the Sulphur Springs volcanic mud baths:
‘Those baths keep me looking young.
You might see me there this weekend!’
Tips noted, groceries decanted, it was
— finally! — beach time. We’d alreadyad it all been a terrible mistake?
As I lay awake for too much
of our first night on St Lucia,
I couldn’t help wondering. Because
although I had made sure that our
cottage — cute and characterful on a
former plantation estate — came with
a kitchen, I had neglected to check it
would actually have windows. We had
bars for security, floaty curtains for
modesty and mozzie nets for sanity.
But amid dense greenery and without
glass, our bedroom came with a mega-
decibel lullaby. In lieu of sleep, we had
a drumbeat downpour, we had singing
cicadas, we had countless croaks and
ribbits and — bai-ee-ai — the full,
fortissimo frog chorus. We all groaned
together. But my husband was so cross
— irate of the Caribbean — he couldn’t
even relish his ‘I told you so’ moment.
It had all made perfect sense to me
back home. On European holidays, I’d
reasoned, we loved the villa thing —
stocking up at the market, chatting with
the grannies over the shopping basket,
hanging out with villagers in the nearest
bar. This time we’d do all that, just in
tropical temperatures in the Caribbean.
And with less bling than Barbados and
less edge than Jamaica, St Lucia would be
the easiest, friendliest, safest Caribbean
island for us to get a taste of local life.
My husband was sceptical. He’d visited
the mountainous island in a former
life as a brochure writer and knew its
strengths as the honeymoon favourite,
all discreet service and petal-strewn
romance. I’d convinced him we could
find something more authentic than
a hermetically sealed resort, make a
more natural connection with the island
than we would on a hotel excursion.
We’d stay in the less-developed south,
self-cater, self-drive, self-congratulate.
And yet here we were, wishing for
some of that lovely hermetic sealing.
Predictably, as we emerged the next
morning from our shrub-surrounded
cottage into the sunlight, things looked
brighter. We were staying on Balenbouche
Estate, an old coffee plantation in the
south of the island that’s now a hybrid
of organic farm, heritage site and
accommodation — ours was one of a