Tomorrow we leave Jamaica. As I write I am sitting at Strawberry Hill (another one of Kate Moss’s hang-outs, does the woman do anything but travel to Jamaica?). I am on a terrace overlooking mountains that are slowly being covered in evening mist. I have never seen such a lush landscape; the green is intense and the flowers bright yellow, pink, purple and red. My favourite ones were delicate small white ones that had blown off trees and floated in the sea at Goldeneye. It was like swimming surrounded by tiny origami swans.

From the valley below there is reggae music. Extremely loud reggae music. In France you have barking dogs wherever you go; in Jamaica you have Bob Marley. I was never really into Bob Marley, even as a young wild thing. In fact I was never really a young wild thing. As my husband pointed out when I told him I hated smoking pot as a teenager; “For someone who is so obsessed with ageing, you seem to have been middle aged for a very long time.” Perhaps I am going to go through adolescence when most women go through the menopause?

I think Jamaica is lovely but a little too groovy and laid-back for me. We met the manager of the hotel today who laughingly said “there’s no point in going 100 miles an hour, because everyone else is going at fifty”. She is over 40 and looks about 25 so obviously the stress-free attitude is a good one, but that would just really annoy me. How does anyone get anything DONE around here? Well, most of them don’t. Here is a classic example. One of the waitresses here told us her name today.

“That’s an unusual name,” said my husband, “what does it mean?”

“I don’t know,” said the waitress, who is probably in her mid-twenties. “I must find out.”

But even if I wouldn’t like to live here, I like it. The people are friendly, the rum punches good, the food delicious and the countryside stunning. Maybe by the time I’m 50 I’ll be groovy enough to really get into the swing of things.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007

I have landed in Paradise.

“Welcome to Goldeneye,” says a charming black woman dressed in white. “Here is the house cocktail, it’s just a little rum, fresh apple and lime. You’ll be staying in the Ian Fleming Villa. There is a private beach, pool, several bedrooms each with their own outside bath and shower, any laundry you have just put it in the basket over there and housekeeping will collect it, the mini bar is over there, just help yourself, should you have too many Goldeneye’s and collapse there is an emergency medical button you can push for help, your masseur will be here at six. Nico, our personal trainer (Italian, very muscular) is on-hand to take you jet-skiing, running, canoeing, whatever you like. Can I do anything else for you?”

I am writing this at the desk Ian Fleming tapped out all the Bond novels on a gold-plated Royal typewriter. There was something impressively vulgar about the man’s taste, but not his house; it’s a masterpiece of minimalism. The room I am in is as big as the whole first floor of Sainte Cecile, the window stretches across almost the whole wall. Outside I can hear the sea lapping on my private raked beach, a chicken who has decided to visit, crickets, tree-frogs and various other Caribbean creatures.

Patrick Leigh Fermor describes the house brilliantly in his book The Traveller’s Tree: “Here, on the headland, Ian Fleming has built a house called Goldeneye that might serve as a model for new houses in the tropics. Trees surround it on all sides except the sea, which it almost overhangs. Great windows capture every breeze, to cool, even on the hottest day, the large white rooms. The windows that look towards the sea are glassless but equipped with outside shutters against rain: enormous quadrilaterals surrounded by dark wooden frames which enclose a prospect of sea and cloud and sky, and tame the elements, as it were, into an overhanging fresco of which one could never tire.”

Let me try to describe my bathroom. It is outside, in a sort of secret, bamboo walled garden, filled with exotic plants. In the evening over-sized candles light your way to a free-standing Victorian bath amid palm trees on a wood-panelled stage. To the left is a large shower and next to the bedroom door a rectangular marble slab with a brass sink on top of it. A large mirror hangs above it, its frame made up of tiny shells. In this mirror you can see a full-length view of yourself in the one behind which stands against a trellis at the other end of the garden-bathroom. This may not please all the guests but I guess Scarlett Johanssen, Kate Moss and Naomi Campbell, all of whom come here regularly, enjoy the view.

The ground between the two mirrors is covered with pale, old stone. It is lovely to think that Ian Fleming must have padded about here barefoot as he prepared to take his pre-cocktail bath underneath the stars, plotting Bond’s next move. The ground in the rest of the ‘room’ is a mixture of flagstones and tiny stones, candles are dotted about as well as plants; some vibrant green, some bright red and pink, no other decoration is needed. Half of the area is protected by a wooden awning, but if it is raining and you want a bath you will have to have a shower as well.

Last night we had dinner on the beach. The stairs was lit by large candles. A table was laid and we sat under the stars, listening to the sound of the waves, and ate prawns, fish and steak. This was washed down with a couple of glasses of Sauvignon Blanc. In the distance, you could make out the sound of a Bob Marley song. There is always a snake in paradise.

I will more or less follow Ian Fleming’s pattern of life while I’m here. Get up early (as I write it is 5.30am), go for a swim (I’ll do some sun salutes of course too), have breakfast, write until lunchtime, lunch, afternoon nap, more writing, cocktails, dinner. What’s not to like? Though I’m not sure where I’ll be able to fit in the Italian personal trainer. Unless I can distract my husband…

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007