By 4:30pm, with everyone present and correct, the steward ushered us over the tarmac towards a nine-seater, settling us into its charmingly scuffed leather seats. Taking off ahead of schedule, we spent only 25 minutes in the air before our pilots made a swooping right turn towards a tiny landing strip with a green and blue painted terminal. Goats grazed nearby and a dog wagged its tail in welcome, while jade-cloaked mountains loomed above.
We had touched down in Bequia (pronounced Beck-way) from Barbados, a slither of an island in the Grenadines shaped like a lightning bolt. Neatly guarded by the neighbouring islands of St Vincent and Mustique — and only 9km long and 2km wide — you can easily walk across it. We had flown there in an ex-air ambulance, remodelled by the Bequia Beach Hotel, our final destination, to smooth the passage of its guests to this hard-to-reach island. Clambering into one of the converted pick-up trucks you see all over the island, we set off for the sweep of Friendship Beach, the warm afternoon breeze softening our travel-weary faces. The Atlantic coastline sped past in a blur of fishing villages and chattel houses, like a sun-washed postcard from the sleepy Caribbean of old.
Arriving at the hotel, it quietly but quickly established itself — much like Bequia — as just the kind of place I love. Enveloped by ten acres of lush gardens, almond trees vye for the sun’s attention with towering palms stooped with coconuts, and frangipani and jasmine scent the air. It is owned and run by the Mortstedts, an Anglo-Swedish family who are often spotted around the grounds chatting to guests or greeting the next batch. A self-styled ‘accidental hotelier’, Bengt Mortstedt fell in love with Bequia while sailing around the Grenadines and snapped up an old B&B.
Since opening in 2009, he has gradually added to it with the help of his family — including a recent clutch of private villas — deliberately designing it in a way that cannot go out of style, because it was never in style in the first place. A Palm Springs-esque pool is framed by green hillsides, and flanked by marshmallow pink cabanas inspired by Bengt’s favourite hotel, the Beverly Hills. While over in our beachfront suite, the interiors took us on safari, dressed with a leopard print chest of drawers and cane chairs, and kept cool with rattan ceiling fans. Just beyond our balcony, waves crashed with authority on the usually calm beach below, reminding visitors that Bequia always dances to its own tune — so slow down, give in and, er, drink rum.
Days here were as languid or action-packed as we liked. Each morning, I surrendered to the perks of London to Caribbean jet lag, drifting from bed to balcony to watch the sunrise over the far left curve of Friendship Beach, the trade winds whipping the sea into a frenzy before calming just in time for my first dunking of the day. Fuelled up by fresh passion fruit juice and an ‘everything omelette’ at Bagatelle, the hotel’s beachfront restaurant, it was time to explore — or not.
One day, armed with directions from reception, we walked out of Friendship up to the island’s spine, marvelling at the view of Port Elizabeth before descending again to Lower Bay. With its calm turquoise waters and horizontal vibe, it became my preferred spot on the Caribbean side of the island. We wallowed in its velvety shallows as kids splashed about nearby, pausing from the lunchtime sun to eat grilled red mullet and sink tall jars of creamy piña colada at De Reef. Idle chat with its owner alerted us to a party that night at Plantation House, part of the annual Bequia Music Fest; and led to a spontaneous trip on a tiny wooden boat called Peaches with a local fisherman called Hayden. He pointed out Moonhole, a private enclave built into the cliffside further up the coast, and we cast handheld lines in the hope of tuna. We caught nothing — “come back around the full moon” he advised — but it was just the kind of serendipitous afternoon Bequia seemed to offer up in spades.
The next day, an island tour with the charming Roberto revealed its swashbuckling past and wild vantage points (ask to see his favourite view across to St Vincent), as well as a volunteer-run turtle sanctuary in the north. Stopping in at Port Elizabeth, the beating heart of Bequia, fishermen cleaned the day’s catch on the harbourside while market sellers hawked lime jellies, guava jams and wood carvings — soundtracked by their patois chatter.
With note-perfect timing, Roberto dropped us just in time for lunch at Princess Margaret’s Beach, where the late royal stopped off during her honeymoon on her way to Mustique. It is now home to Jack’s, the Mortstedt’s relaxed beach bar and restaurant, which draws in a British yachtie crowd with its blackened tuna burgers and lobster Caesars. A few cocktails down, there was little to do for the rest of the afternoon except soak up the sun on its yellow-striped loungers, and occasionally wander up this perfect slice of beach in search of coconuts.
But despite the seductive qualities of Bequia’s Caribbean side, I was always drawn back to the Atlantic one. Perhaps it was the near emptiness of this horseshoe-shaped bay, where a clutch of fishing boats that bob around at its far end as pelicans dive in between them; or that its waves lulled me into a deep sleep each night. Or perhaps it was the fact that Bequia Beach is the only hotel on Friendship Bay, making it feel like going backstage.
On our final evening, we headed for sundowners at its newly minted Sand Bar, an easy breezy shack with swinging chairs and mahi mahi tacos, and met a salty cast of local characters who have all washed up on the island in the last ten years. They included Laura and Carlos, who own a restaurant (named after her) just off the Belmond boardwalk in town where we ended up eating sauteed shrimp for dinner that evening. Just another of those fortuitous Bequia meet cutes that I will be dining off until I return to the island — hopefully next year.
