British Virgin Islands

The British Virgin Islands are awkward to reach, but worth the journey When, after landing, a fellow passenger yells 'Yes! Yes! Yes!', then encourages everyone else on board to give three cheers, one of two things could have happened.First: The aircraft on which

you were flying has just limped home on one spluttering engine with a stewardess at the controls. Second: It has swooped on to a sun-drenched Caribbean island, having left wet and wintry England far, far behind.
The latter, happily, was our experience. We reached Antigua in the company of at least one very enthusiastic and homesick local. But it was not our final destination.
Some 200 miles to the north west, the British Virgin Islands archipelago awaited. The BVI positively celebrates the fact that it has no direct air service from the UK or North American mainland. This makes it more untouched, exclusive and desirable - but we had to rely on a notoriously unpunctual local airline for the propeller-driven final hop.

The aircrew were lovely, but the languid connection service saw my two young daughters sound asleep on the stone floor of the BVI's Tortola immigration hall, the best part of a day after we had taken off from England.
Matters did change rather quickly and for the better. The most excruciatingly meticulous passport-stamper charmed us with her welcome; our luggage was first off the carousel; we were whisked to a nearby jetty and on to a large motor catamaran; chilled fruit punch awaited.
A rumble of nautical engines, and we were gliding across a night-time Sir Francis Drake Channel, the passage of water, which separates the main island from its southern sisters in the BVI archipelago.
'This is amazing,' breathed my six-year-old daughter Asya, now revived.
Fifteen minutes' fast cruise saw us approach the isle of Virgin Gorda. Around Pull and Be Damn' Point, through a reef and under hillsides alive with twinkling lights, we nosed; a small cove, hidden until the last moment, beckoned.
We'd arrived in Little Dix Bay to an exquisite cottage and a midnight sandwich feast. A few hours later, the sunrise surged over a wooded bluff that reminded me of Devon, only with more trees. The family - and several hundred roosters - crowed their approval.
A sharper focus revealed a far more exotic landscape than the West Country. Between us and the half-mile white crescent of the beach below were plentiful palms, seagrape, wild hibiscus and frangipan. Dotted among these were calabash tree with massive fruits. Wonderful.
These days it is hard to visit the Caribbean without encountering some reference to its pirate past, thanks to Johnny Depp and his wildl y successful film franchise. Robbery on the high seas has never been more fashionable.
Little Dix Bay is no exception. The excellent children's club is a study in Jolly Roger-chic. To stretch the nautical theme a little farther, the resort itself is more a sweet-sailing frigate than the triple decker ship-of the-line that is its larger Antiguan sister, Jumby Bay.
Laurance S. Rockefeller, the American millionaire philanthropist and environmentalist, launched Little Dix as one of the world's first eco-tourist destinations in 1964, though this is no backpacker destination.

A silver-framed photograph in the reception area is a formal study of HM the Queen and the Duke of Edinburgh, presented to Mr Rockefeller 'on the occasion of their visit' in 1966.
All around one finds red Edwardian-era pillar boxes - BVI is still a British Overseas Territory. What is the practical connection now? I asked a local . 'We look to you for advice,' he smiled. I remembered summer riots, street protests and other fixtures of life in the Old Country and wondered why.
On the BVI, and Virgin Gorda in particular, you are encouraged to defer to nature rather than exploit it in the way of the Cornish miners, who came here in the early 19th century to dig for copper.
Along the reef-sheltered beach and around the jetty I introduced Asya to snorkelling. Shoals of silver fish delighted her. So did a lurking barracuda. A hawksbill turtle poked its head above the surface only yards away. We saw our lobster supper being brought ashore.
One afternoon there was a sudden, warm, rainstorm, in which the girls danced and shrieked. One of them observed that it looked like the sea 'had chicken pox'. On other days we took water taxis out to the myriad islets with evocative, old-fashioned names such as Fallen Jerusalem, West Dog, Great Dog and George Dog. We clambered, paddled and swam around The Baths, where huge boulders had made a natural marine reserve-cum-obstacle course.
And then there was the annual humiliation, otherwise known as water-skiing. The previous year I had failed in Mauritius. 'You were bad then, but now you're older, maybe you will be better,' Rosie, aged four, remarked, sagely.
I was not. Ian, the ski instructor, took us out into a deserted Savannah Bay and for an hour I tried, really tried. My arms felt as though they were dropping off, and my hips were a well-used turkey wishbone.
But I could not stay up. Small thumbs turned down over the speedboat's gunwales. There were reedy cries of 'rubbish'. I slunk back to port and a game of lawn tennis.
Later, we lounged at the Beach Grill as a schooner nosed slowly around the dock, trailing a jolly boat. I have it still filmed on my phone. It might just see me through the English winter.
Yes, yes, yes and three cheers.