“It feels a bit Fantasy Island as my “butler” greets me and we golf cart it through a maze of paths to my villa.”
Sandals is upping their game with a new luxury hotel on the stunning island of Saint Vincent. PETER DAVIS checks in.
The grand Hall des Lumières, the former Emigrant Savings Bank on Chambers Street, is packed. Zuri Marley, the granddaughter of Bob Marley is there and so is actress Michele Hicks and models Sophie Sumner, Alex Lundqvist and Carol Alt. The walls are projected with moving images of swaying palm trees and the crystal blue Caribbean Sea. A turtle swims over the marble columns. Dancers in jewel-encrusted corsets and huge feathered headdresses shimmy by the bar to a reggae tune. At the center of what looks like a Caribbean beach carnival is handsome 44-year-old Adam Stewart, the Executive Chairman of Sandals Resorts. Stewart takes the stage and proudly announces that his family brand, Beaches Resorts is opening three new locations in Barbados, Exuma and Turks and Caicos. Glasses of fruity rum cocktails are raised, and applause fills the room.
Soon after Stewart’s party, I’m invited to check out his newest (and fanciest) Sandals resort in Saint Vincent—a verdant, tropical island in the Caribbean. I fly direct to Saint Vincent’s Argyle International Airport via American Airlines. Direct flights from JFK to Saint Vincent only started in 2024, thus Saint Vincent and the surrounding Grenadine islands were once very hard (and expensive) to get to.
Speeding along precariously winding, heavily-forested roads to the resort, I feel like I’m in Hawaii—lush flora falls over houses perched on steep cliffs high above the sea. The gates to Sandals Saint Vincent are tucked in a remote, private cove surrounded by a rainforest with a sprawling strip of white sand beach. It feels a bit Fantasy Island as my “butler” greets me and we golf cart it through a maze of paths to my villa. My island house is huge with an eat-in kitchen and screening room. I would have invited my sister and her kids, but children are a strict no-go at the resort.
After an almost six-hour journey, I’m hungry. I’ve never been to an all-inclusive resort (or all-inclusive anything for that matter). There are tons of restaurants—seafood (Scrimshaw), steak (Butch’s Island Chop House), sushi (Gatsu Gatsu) and a Jerk Shack, not to mention late-night brick oven pizzas and coffee shops everywhere. It’s like a Disney World of food. I decide to go “local” and have the tuna crudo (with coconut, sweet potato and red onion) and broiled spiny lobster with a peanut-chili sauce at Scrimshaw. Conch is a big item on the islands, but I avoid the marine snail whether grilled, fried or in a Bahamian chowder. I have a frightening memory of unknowingly chewing conch as a child on some vacation. Snails are a hard no. But there is nothing better than fresh local coconut and the semolina cake is moist with a mango sauce, guava caramel and a scoop of coconut sorbet. Back at my villa, I fall asleep in my king size bed within seconds of hitting the pillow.
“‘Great Aunt Margo’ as Princes William and Harry called her, had a house in Mustique and would visit Bequia in the 1950s.”
The Grenadine islands are famously chic. Years ago, I spent a Christmas in Mustique with family and friends. I went to the gym every morning at Cotton House, basically the only hotel on the island. Mustique is all about having a big house like Tommy Hilfiger, Bryan Adams, Paul McCartney and oodles of Royals. At the Cotton House fitness center every morning I’d see Kate Middleton, who was dating Prince William and a year later would become the Princess of Wales. Mustique is that kind of place.
“Charles Bail – the “King of Mustique” – has expanded his empire since I was here last. Philippe Starck rebuilt everything and it’s twice the size.”
From the ultra-modern Sandals dock, I take a boat—fast and choppy—to Mustique’s tiny marina. We dock by Basil’s Bar: Mustique’s very clubby above-water hot-spot. Charles Basil – the “King of Mustique” – has expanded his empire since I was here last. Philippe Starck rebuilt everything and it’s twice the size and now boasts a pricey gift shop (I buy a pale pink Basil’s tee shirt). Thankfully, the scene hasn’t changed. Sienna Miller, in Jackie O shades and a nautical stripe tee shirt is having lunch with her paramour Oli Green. Two Italian couples in lots of Gucci nearby devour plates of grilled fish. After lunch, I go for a snorkel right outside Basil’s before I indulge in more island hopping. Next stop: Bequia, the largest island at seven square miles (and my favorite) in the Grenadines.
We dock in Port Elizabeth, and I immediately hunt for Princess Margaret Beach. “Great Aunt Margo” as Princes William and Harry called her, had a house in Mustique and would visit Bequia in the 1950s. The path to the Princess’s beach is beyond scenic: a wooden walkway over the sea curves around the coastline to a pristine stretch of sheltered beach and Jack’s Beach Bar, which is Bequia’s answer to Basil’s. Jack’s is like a beach club, complete with lounge chairs and blue striped umbrellas. The members? Anyone smart enough to find it. I have an early dinner of the chef’s all locally caught sashimi and “Jack’s Signature Vegetable Curry,” a West Indian coconut curry with cinnamon sugar plantains, house-made roti and steamed basmati, which is the ultimate island comfort food.
As I’m walking back to the boat on Princess Margaret’s most scenic stretch of walkway, it starts to pour. I hustle but the rain thankfully stops minutes later. I discover a hobbled path near the port where a few super yachts are docked. The make-shift sidewalk with broken stones hugs the sea. I pass by ramshackle fishing huts and then boom: Whaleboner, a local watering hole with an entrance shaped like Moby Dick’s jaw. I ignore the long menu of rum cocktails and pizzas and spot what looks like a fashion atelier tucked in the back. I open the door and meet the house designer Ruthie, a petite woman with a toothy smile. Ruthie designs wildly stylish prints that Marni or Miu Miu would eat up. She hand screens her designs on shirts (I buy two), dresses, children’s clothing and bags. The prices are too good to be true, so I buy two baby blue Whaleboner tee shirts with a graphic whale on the back.
Back at Sandals, I’m surprised that nothing is ever over-crowded. I bike around the whole resort, stopping to get a cappuccino and coconut macaroon to go, and rarely see a soul, save for smiling employees in golf carts. Maybe I shouldn’t be that surprised. The two-story “Vincy” overwater bungalow with a 24/7 butler and private infinity pool goes for $1,614 per person a night. I was sold by the endless supply of perfectly made cappuccinos.
My favorite meal at Sandals (I didn’t have a bad one and the just plucked from the garden fruit salad every morning had me up early) was at Buccan. I meet friends from Miami, and we sit at a long wood table. An Arawak and Taino word, “buccan” is a wooden framework on which meat is slow roasted over a fire. It’s chef’s choice and dishes of fish, skewered chicken, charred salad and lamb curry arrive every few minutes. Plates of mango chutney crisp and fire roasted pineapple are set down. I start to worry about fitting into my couture Whaleboner shirts. I take a bite of each dessert and then find a bike outside and pedal back to my villa.
My last day in Saint Vincent is action packed. After breakfast, I join a kayaking group, and we paddle out to sea for what seems like a long time before we round a bend and are immersed in a lush cove. The guide tells me bats live in the caves, cupping his ear for some kind of bat call. In boarding school, a swarm of bats flew around my friends and I when we were doing something frowned upon at Pomfret School. Bats have terrified me ever since. Far from an expert kayaker, I deftly turn around and swiftly book it back to shore. I beat the rest of the group by 25 minutes.
On dry, hopefully bat-free land, I clear my brain by booking a hike of the Soufrière Volcano. The guided trek goes from sea level at Richmond Beach through a gorge known as Wallibou River to a summit of 3000 feet. It’s a workout and worth it for the sight of the enormous crater and panoramic views of Saint Vincent. I feel like I’m in “Jurassic Park.” On the way down, I learn that La Soufrière erupted four years ago. 16,000 people were evacuated. I think I am more freaked out by volcanos than I am by bats.
That night, I meet my Miami pals at Three Jewels Rum Bar for a nightcap. The long bamboo bar has been transformed into a stage for karaoke. I can’t carry a tune—Miss Casio at Buckley School told me to “just lip synch” Christmas carols in 2nd grade, ruining my chance as a singer slash songwriter. A guy who looks like he should be reporting the weather on TV with perfect hair and pearly teeth sings “Unbreak My Heart” by Toni Braxton with more flair than actual musical talent. A couple attempts “Shallow” but Lady Gaga she is not, and it fizzles, fast. The rambunctious crowd of around 40 party people is forgiving. A woman with a long braid in a red flowered sundress grabs the mic and belts out Jimmy Buffett’s “Volcano”—perhaps an ode to the temperamental La Soufrière. Her beautiful voice sounds suspiciously professional, and we decide she might just work at Sandals. Either way, I tell myself that singing to the volcano will keep it sleeping all night.
Saint Vincent is truly paradise, which is becoming increasingly rare on Planet Earth. Mr. Sandals himself, Adam Stewart is smart to open here. For now, Sandals is the only resort in town. My advice: go now before the island’s charming capital Kingston, is overrun by tourists.
