Lone Star Restaurant & Hotel

‘That was no goal, man,’ yells the ’keeper, guarding the posts in front of Lone Star Restaurant & Hotel in Barbados. ‘It never crossed dem line, not in this lifetime and certainly not in the next, you crazy English fool!’ I’m not even listening – I’m far too busy running full pelt and carefree, having rediscovered my formidable (self-proclaimed) footballing skills in this improbable location on the other side of the Atlantic.

A smile creeps across Mrs Smith’s face as she studiously tries to stay engaged in her book while entertaining second thoughts about her refusal to take part in our game. ‘That looks fun, actually,’ she says, biting back sour grapes. She’s right. Our little beach/football pitch in front of the hotel really is rather special. Endless crystal waters? Tick. Coral reefs? Oh, yes. Palm trees bending above the waves? Of course.

A couple of goals and a particularly well-timed (well, I like to think so) sliding tackle later, I saunter back to our suite with Mrs Smith on my arm. Named Cord after the classic American car – you can also hole up in Studebaker, Lincoln or Buick – it is a Room with a capital R: acres of polished mahogany, an oversized cruise liner of a bed with the softest Egyptian-cotton percale sheets, enormous work-of-art-like mirrors leaning against each wall, White Company products in the bathroom and even a couch in the entrance hall in case the walk up from the beach proves too taxing. The outdoor space comes with a daybed and white deckchairs that offer a stylish contrast to the azure-blue throws. Forget ‘ocean view’ – ‘turquoise-sea-terrace-of-our-dreams’ is more like it. This is the sort of place in which you feel truly liberated. Our London life, with its deadlines, monthly targets and unreasonable bosses, seems a long, long way away.

The next morning, as I stand on our terrace, I feel like king of the castle. I know that the people I can see walking along the beach are drooling over our corner suite and its enormous terrace, 180-degree views of pristine coastline (there’s not a high-rise in sight) and private front door. Twenty or so steps (for Cord’s exclusive use) lead down to the Lone Star’s small-but-perfectly-formed beach. Before we head smugly down to breakfast, we are given the not-entirely-welcome opportunity to assess whether those frantic pre-holiday gym sessions have paid off. An incongruous oak-framed mirror has been casually perched against a pine tree on the sand.

After breakfast, and midway through changing into swimming trunks, I notice two black shapes dart towards the water. ‘Turtles!’ yells Mrs Smith, and I run down to the shore, leaving the aforementioned swimwear in a crumpled heap on the terrace. I baulk at actually entering the water. Nude swimming with aquatic tortoises may be fine for Robinson Crusoe, but I’ve heard that those long-necked fellows can administer a nasty bite. Mrs Smith and I settle down on the sand (she’s thoughtfully brought a midriff-covering towel for me) to watch our own personal marine-park show.

Later on, we drive up to the north of Barbados for lunch, and pass what seems to be around half the island’s population, dressed in their Sunday best, going to what sounds like a hip-hop gospel service. As we get further north, we drive through the middle of the St Peter fish market (where the produce is so fresh that it’s still flipping) and the locals, bottles of Banks’ beer in hand, wave at us warmly. We eat at the nearby Fish Pot, one of the island’s truly great restaurants, and gorge on langoustines, which we wash down with a bottle of crisp, ice-cold rosé.

Then, bellies full, we head back to our hotel. In keeping with its name, nighttime is when the Lone Star really comes into its own. Visitors from all over the island (as well as plenty of those who live in the vicinity) book weeks in advance to secure a table at the waterside Lone Star Restaurant, which is famed all over the region for its seafood-dominated international cuisine. I’ve eaten just about all the fish that one man can manage in one day, so opt for a comforting shepherd’s pie instead. Mrs Smith, perhaps with one eye on the long Nintendo DS Brain Training session she’ll be putting in on the flight home tomorrow, chooses the catch of the day.

Afterwards, we amble along the beach in the moonlight and look back on our stay in this beautiful Caribbean idyll. The Lone Star is far from your typical five-star resort. If you want to be sealed in some gated compound with gun-wielding guards on the door, then this isn’t the place for you. You’re somewhere in which the locals are not excluded from the beach, and Bajan culture – gospel churches, fishermen’s huts – is apparent everywhere. It isn’t about acres of sun loungers and drilled-to-military-standard teams of staff; it’s about genuine harmony. If only that could have been extended to the football pitch. I’m still convinced it was a goal…