For a textbook slice of Caribbean paradise, the southwest of St Lucia has a surprisingly wild edge. The lush coastline is dominated by the Pitons, a titanic pair of jungle-covered spires, half a mile high, that rise in sheer walls from the sparkling sea. They are the sort of exotic landmarks King Kong might want to climb.
The interior is thick with dripping rainforests, the shoreline encrusted with coral reefs. And then there is the French connection: in its raffish decrepitude, the tropical town of Soufrière still exudes seductive vibes from the days when Creole aristocrats — including, according to local legend, the young Josephine Bonaparte — cavorted in the moss-covered courtyards of the Louis XVI mineral baths.
In short, romance is thick in the air — and nowhere more so than at Anse Chastanet, St Lucia’s most picturesque beach. Lying at the end of a rough mile-long track, it is an arc of volcanic sand at the very base of the Pitons, where the breeze from the surrounding rainforest brings scents of mango and frangipani.
The famous Anse Chastanet resort nestles into the steep green hillside, its individually designed suites decorated with dreamily erotic paintings. It’s a jaw-dropping scene: in fact, the beauty is so profligate that most new arrivals seem mildly stunned. Most just roll onto the volcanic sands, where they remain, immobile as statues, fanned by passing butterflies. Many allow whole days to pass without even the merest quiver of activity. A sleek Swedish Amazon may hitch up her thong before gliding into the gently lapping water.
A buffed fiancé stands guard over his betrothed as she dozes on a hammock, gently rocking her to and fro. Meanwhile, the most energetic guests stagger into the resort’s spa for his-and-hers Swedish-massage lessons. (“Our clients get their exercise” — one of the masseuses smirks — “back in their rooms.”) It’s only after a couple of days that you cast an eye up from your beach mat, remember all that wildness, and realise the potential for outdoor fun and games. Just 10 yards offshore — straight out from the airy beach bar, in fact — begins St Lucia’s thriving marine park, where snorkellers pursue teams of squid as they speed in military formation through clumps of giant brain coral.
Scuba-divers cruise a wall of mixed coral that plunges down to 150ft, or take the daily boat to sites such as Pinnacles, where spires pierce the waves like the tips of Neptune’s trident. There’s also deep-sea fishing, sailing, kayaking and excellent windsurfing in the enclosed bay.
But there is no need to be imprisoned by the water. A network of hiking trails runs through the rainforest from Fond St Jacques, only two miles away, and you can hike across the island’s mountainous spine in a single day. And when it comes to climbing, don’t ignore the obvious: the two Pitons are ready and waiting. Scaling the Gros Piton is a straightforward day-hike, while the Petit Piton, which is steeper and more difficult, can be tackled with a local Rastafarian guide.
WITH A repertoire of activities like that, you might think the folks at Anse Chastanet would rest on their laurels — but they’ve recently opened a new frontier: “jungle- biking”. Any form of cycling on St Lucia has long been a daredevil sport, thanks to the island’s vertiginous hairpin roads and its maniacal drivers. (The epic poem Omeros, by St Lucia’s Nobel prize-winning poet Derek Walcott, has the Achilles-like hero, a taxi driver, plunging to his doom from a precipice.) Meanwhile, the trackways in official forest reserves are off limits to mountain-bikers.
Recently, though, a company called Bike St Lucia came up with plans for a new web of bike trails, on the ruins of a French sugar plantation from the 18th century, swathed in buzzing rainforest. It sounded so exotic that I just had to give it a try.
I hired a kayak and paddled around the headland, skimming across turquoise canyons of coral, then catching a low wave into the beach of Anse Mamin. It was empty except for a lone Rastafarian child peddling shell necklaces. At the end of a colonial carriage path lay a state-of-the-art bike centre.
As I was setting off to explore the five miles of tracks, a feisty Parisian couple arrived, oozing Gallic hauteur: “We will do Tinker’s Trail,” they announced. The attendants tried to talk them out of it, but they sniffed: “We are sportif.”
They were referring to the premier Anse Mamin trail, designed by the American biker-hero Tinker Juarez, four times US national champion and two-time Olympian. Tinker’s Trail rises more than a thousand feet in about a mile. So far, nobody but Tinker himself has actually made it to the top on a bike, although a handful have ridden down it.
As for me, I wanted to work myself up slowly, tackling a few of the intermediate trails first. I felt like the Count of Monte Cristo on wheels as I passed the remains of the French sugar mill from the 1780s, with its original metal vats overgrown with vines. On a hill above lay the ruins of the third estate house, a gothic mansion of rotting wood inhabited only by bats, which dangled from the ceilings like the coconuts on the trees outside. Deeper into the plantation, an aqueduct rose above a crystal mountain pool, perfect for a reviving dip.
