Rule Britannia
Kathy Lette reports from Anguilla and discloses her hot spot My favourite destination is a cosy little spot which goes by the name of ‘G’, only men can never find it. Otherwise, Anguilla is my place of pleasure. This Caribbean island is Britain’s neglected paradise, mainly enjoyed by French and Americans, who boat over from nearby St Martin. Anguilla is still governed from Britain as an overseas territory and is famous for being the only country that Harold Wilson’s Labour government ever invaded, leaving helmeted and badly sunburnt bobbies patrolling its beaches. They had been dispatched to quell a rebellion which had the uniquely sensible objective of insisting upon British rule rather than independence.
Malliouhana Hotel is a resort so exclusive that not even the tide can get in. This serene family-owned hotel, nestled in the crook of a turquoise cove, inclines visitors towards the adjectival. When I first saw my Mediterranean-style suite overlooking the opalescent ocean, amid acres of billiardbaize grass where gardeners toiled like bees, I started haemorrhaging superlatives and had to tilt my head backwards so that my eyeballs wouldn’t fall out in amazement. The place is so perfect that even the local bananas look as though they are smiling from their bowls.
So many Caribbean islands offer service with a snarl. A beautiful beach is the compensation for the incompetence and surliness of the staff. I’ve tried French Caribbean islands, but they put the ‘bore’ into ‘Bordeaux’. I’ve tried American, but this just means that their culinary pièce de résistance is a dip enhancer. In Anguilla, they play cricket, listen to the BBC world service, drink gin and tonics and generally make visitors feel so welcome and happy that you’ll have your own cloud.
Just to put the cherry on the perfection parfait (as this secluded island still hasn’t really been discovered by the world), Mother Nature provides the most astounding floorshow. White butterflies dance in the emerald trees. Squadrons of pelicans swoop by in formation. Sherbet-winged parrots take flight. Even the palm fronds seem to wave in a friendly way.
It’s like being in a David Attenborough documentary, only without the bat droppings.
From the pano ramic bluff of Turtle Bay you can see the Mick Jagger impersonators (technically known as the fish Cleaner Wrasse) and the stingrays with their theatrical capes and stage-villain grins, frolicking in the sapphire-blue sea of one of the world’s most exquisite beaches. At the north end, I paid to swim with trained dolphins, holding on to their fins and waterskiing on their snouts. Snorkelling around the headland, I was treated to a silent fish symphony as clown, lion, parrot, puffer, butterfly and surgeon fish darted in and out of the coral massifs.
Local restaurants infuse classic French fare with Caribbean flavours using local seafood. But the best cuisine was actually at the hotel spa. Now, I usually greet the menus at spa hotels with the same enthusiasm with which I welcome a yeast infection. Is there anything more depressing than tofumunching gastronomic killjoys whose daily highlight is to massage their bowels with branflakes? A few such meals and your gastric enzymes are no longer on speaking terms with your tonsils. Spa food is normally so bland that starvation often forces the bulimics to start eating the anorexics.
While the Malliouhana spa menus are healthy, they are also tastebud-teasingly delicious. Broiled trigger fish Provençal-style, crayfish salad with mango, sugarcane vinegar and vanilla dressing, or snapper sushi laced in caviar on celery perfumed with aniseed, all created by the two-Michelin-starred chef Michael Rostang. And boys, let me tell you this. The way to a woman’s heart is definitely through her stomach. And this is not aiming too high.
Kathy Lette went to Anguilla to spend the royalties from her latest bestseller, How To Kill Your Husband and Other Handy Household Hints,
which is published by Simon and Schuster.
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