Mr & Mrs Smith

After a rocky sea crossing, Mrs Smith and I are rather looking forward to setting foot on dry land. Anything solid and immobile will do. The fact that it is the neon-white coral sand of the Capricornia Cays’ Wilson Island, off Australia’s Queensland coast, coupled with the welcoming faces of our hosts helping us off our vessel, makes it all the better.

We are lead along the creatively named Main Beach towards the trees where two sunloungers, the location for sunset drinks, beckon invitingly. Almost immediately, the green tinge around Mrs Smith’s gills starts to fade. We continue into the bush, avoiding ambush from the locals – the resident bridal terns, nesting seagulls and shearwaters that occupy this remote island.

Our tent is poetically called Rapture and, as a lover of hammocks, I’m immediately won over by the ivory linen number suspended on the balcony. The tent itself is more than this camper could hope for – white bathrobes hanging to one side, comfy armchairs, bountiful pillows in neutral tones, dark wooden floorboards, a big bed (thankfully no blow-up mattress in sight) and a cleansing foot bowl outside the door to keep sand out of said bed. And that’s before we turn around to see the view that will greet us in the morning – a couple of metres of slate rock and then the multi-hued blues of the ocean stretching without interruption to the horizon.

Our host on Heron Island, where we hopped aboard the final boat transfer to Wilson, has given us two pearls of information. First, there will be no mobile phone or WiFi coverage on the island. Bliss. The second is that the only other creatures we will be sharing this little coral cay with are our fellow guests and the seasonal nesting turtles, who return to their birthplace to lay their eggs at certain times of the year.

I’m just about to succumb to the splendor of my hammock when we are invited to carry on to the Longhouse where we will dine throughout our stay. The sand underfoot and the two barbecues in the kitchen convey the simplicity of the dining room, but they are a misleading forecast of the cuisine that will later be presented by the resident culinary whiz. Before we leave the Longhouse we sneak a glimpse of the fully stocked bar and wine collection to which we’re told to help ourselves any time, day or night. By now Mrs Smith’s colour has fully returned and I notice a subtle spring in her step.

I’m now in a hurry to get myself suitably attired and envelop myself in the very inviting waters of the Great Barrier Reef. So, after a whistle-stop visit to the amenities to locate our private Rapture shower room, where I notice we will be enjoying my favourite Molton Brown products, we are off to the beach.

We while away the afternoon lying in the shallows on Main Beach. The only thing we can see on the skyline is the distant speck that is Heron Island. The sun blazes and we spot neither passing boats nor people. The most difficult decision we face is whether we should have a pre-sundowner in the community tent or retreat to the hammock on our own.

Over the first of our sumptuous barbecue feasts – a dinner of scallops with bacon followed by roast chicken with grilled field mushrooms and merlot sauce, as well as accompanying wines – we are told that the island was reputedly named after an explorer who wanted to turn it into a turtle soup factory. Luckily for us that dream never came to fruition and we spend the rest of the evening sitting under a vivid tapestry of stars and watching the beautiful mama turtles laboriously building nests for their eggs.

Other than turtle watching, we spend our time on Wilson swimming, snorkelling, wallowing in the hammock, reading, eating too much beautiful food and yarning with our fellow guests who seem to come from all parts of the world, despite the fact that there are only six intimate tents here. By the time our final morning rolls around I am ready to give up city dwelling for life in this place of remote perfection.

We rise early and wander down to the beach where we are met by the sight of a lone turtle heading back out to sea. Mrs Smith and I watch her slow progress then set off into the water for our swim. As our departure time looms I have to be pulled from the sea. I consider hiding but realise my game will be up once the lure of the barbecue draws me out.

When the boat comes to take us back to the mainland, Mrs Smith drags her feet. I can picture her as a child not wanting to leave a birthday party. The image is completed minutes later when I catch her shedding a tear as the boat moves off. In my most creative imaginings, which take me to all sorts of exotic places during long work hours, I could not have conjured up such an idyllic escape. We determine to make it a short return to the mainland before we castaway to Wilson Island again.