Wild Jamaica

Back then things were wilder, and probably more fun. Hotels opened, run by a bevy of Jamaican-British posh boys educated at Eton and Harrow (plantation money) or by American WASPs. Jamaica Inn, run by the Morrows, a smart East Coast family, and still going strong, opened in the Fifties; Marilyn Monroe and Arthur Miller came for their honeymoon. And Round Hill, in Montego Bay, was opened by the late John Pringle, whose mother ran Sunset Lodge, a favourite of Princess Margaret's. Round Hill was a storming success. Princess Margaret also loved it there, as did Grace Kelly, Clark Gable and Noël Coward. Cole Porter famously sang in the bar. Richard Rodgers and Oscar Hammerstein wrote The Sound of Music here. John and Jackie Kennedy honeymooned in Villa 10; the 2nd Viscount Rothermere owned Cottage 16. Rex Harrison was thrown out on his honeymoon.

It was a scene, run with vim by Pringle, who loved to tell rude stories. A favourite apparently started with 'My dear, have I told you about the time Errol Flynn and I burned down a whorehouse in Trinidad?'

Everyone came to misbehave, but also because the northern coast of Jamaica is so insanely beautiful. Blackwell has arranged 
for his driver, the garrulous MacGuiver, to ferry me around this verdant stretch of coast, winding away from the built-up resorts
of Montego Bay and Ocho Rios (where the cruise ships stop) to the quieter reaches of the north-east, where the best villas are. It is tropical and lush, in a way that you always hope the Caribbean will be but rarely is. Enormous, Jurassic Park leaves. Misty waterfalls. Flowers the size of trumpets. Waxy creepers creeping over everything, and the cloud-brushed Blue Mountains towering behind it all. It's the kind of tropical that you imagine locals must wrestle with on a daily basis just to stop it smothering everything. Beaches are golden-hued, palm trees are plentiful and little wooden stalls by the roadside sell coconuts, jackfruit and mangoes. This corner feels ridiculously idyllic - secret, almost.