Hermitage Bay

As we rumbled along that long dirt track leading to Hermitage Bay, it wasn’t an artfully made mojito we pictured awaiting us at the end. Let alone a small, secluded boutique resort. We spilled out after that filling-loosening cab ride into Hermitage Bay’s cool, open reception area where everyone greeted us by name, as though we were part of their extended family. I don’t even recall my own flesh and blood mustering up such a warm welcome.

Seated in the tasteful, dark-wood reception, the manager comes over to us and introduces himself. 'Forget where you've been and forget where you're going,' he utters profoundly. Heavy lidded eyes and a grave intonation suggest that somehow he knows of the five tumultuous days leading up to our stay at this sanctuary. More of what happened prior to our arrival later – right now, we’re revelling in this new paradise. Hitching a ride on a golf buggy up into the hills, we begin the most magical part of our Antiguan adventure.

Craftily blended into the hillside, our villa is shrouded in vegetation that masquerades the building’s angles and allows 360 degrees of privacy. Confronted by a private pool (one of which adorns each of these palatial hillside abodes), Mrs Smith shucks her clothes and dives straight in. Resting her chin on crossed wrists, she gulps in a panoramic view – cerulean from sky to sea. Meanwhile, I poke my nose around our new hardwood home, which quickly betrays the same meticulous attention to detail that greeted us in reception. Wooden Balinese shutters allow us to fold away the fourth wall and flood the room with unadulterated shimmering Caribbean Sea – well, at least an eyeful of it. Naturally a yacht named 'Just Wonderful' is bobbing on the horizon.

Entranced as we are by this stylish establishment, it is easy to forget the first chapter of our Caribbean island trip. It’s not as though our last hotel was particularly bad, there had just been three little hiccups blighting the beginning of this much-needed vacation. Firstly, unseasonably heavy rain had coaxed a few extra mosquitoes out to feast on Mrs Smith. Secondly, because I had escaped their bites, I’d become the source of her very targeted resentment. Thirdly? Hello, Mr Horse Spider. Harmless as these bugs may actually be (as we later discovered), the crystal-shattering, blood-curdling scream I let out on spotting one on our first night inspired repeated replays from Mrs Smith. And, much to my chagrin, earned me the nickname ‘Scream Queen’ for the rest of our holiday.

Masculine pride needed to be won back. Mrs Smith wanted Daniel Craig in the Caribbean, not Alan Carr. So, when gazing at that view of the beach dotted with cream parasols sheltering dark wood sun loungers, I knew what had to be done. While 1,200ft of secluded powdered alabaster seashore hints at the pace guests might find it easy to slip into to here, this would-be adventurer was keen to sample some sailing, snorkelling, windsurfing or kayaking in those aquamarine waters. Can’t you just see this Mr Smith emerging from the surf in skin-tight powder blue trunks and rippling torso? No?

Limbering up for my swimwear cameo in our sun-drenched outdoor shower, I earmark the view-blessed free-standing two-person bath by an enormous arched window for later ablutions. Suddenly the air is filled with the roar of Isaac Hayes – Mrs Smith has finished her swim and has plugged in her iPod. The Bose sound system's acoustics seem only to amplify that ever-dazzling vista. I trot over to the daily-restored fridge and pull out a chilled bottle of bubbly, and unpop the cork. Any memories of my Edvard Munch moment will surely well and truly be gazumped by now.

The following morning, over a mighty breakfast of all the food groups, we plan the day’s itinerary. Mrs Smith wants to explore the coastline in one of the Hermitage Bay kayaks; I want to lie in the sunshine and ruminate over which cocktails would best kick-start the day. Decisions, decisions. Mrs Smith wins and we take to the high seas.

Paddling ferociously, I have a sneaky suspicion Mrs Smith, seated behind me, isn't pulling her weight. Still, we circumnavigate the southern coast and soon a deserted beach comes into view. Backing onto dense vegetation we notice smugly that this sandy stretch would be near impossible to access via land. A brief stop-off later and we carry on to find another isolated beach, this even more stunning than the last. We haul the kayak onto the shore long enough to let Mrs Smith teach me how to float in complete monastic calm on my back, suspended by the warm turquoise sea. Bliss.

Back at the resort, we’ve earned an indulgent evening meal. The staff – ever attentive – quickly dispatches a menu of dishes that blend modern European classics with traditional spicy Creole favourites. And the callaloo, okra, cucumbers, thyme and coriander are among the ingredients harvested from Hermitage Bay's own organic garden. Mrs Smith is quickly convinced that our calorie-burning exploration of neighbouring beaches means she can enjoy that chocolate dessert from the award-winning chef guilt-free.

One of the pleasures of Hermitage Bay is the solitude offered by its remote location. And the efforts it makes to work harmoniously with its verdant surroundings. Don't be fooled by the charming, laid-back staff, because there is a Germanic attention to detail that underpins this hip hideaway. Every element combines to facilitate a stress-free stay and for the duration of your time here, the usual emotional traffic of the real world – for me, frustration and impatience – simply dissolves away. For a time, you are the very best version of yourself. Without any screaming.