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Thousands of lights twinkling on the hillside, dancing around the bay, how could I bear to draw the curtains? Lulled by the ocean breeze, I sat up in bed and fell asleep looking at the view. I woke to see the morning star and the first rays of the sun glowing on the white meandering sands of Magazine Beach.

Tucked in the Eastern Caribbean at the southern end of the Windward Islands, Grenada was keeping her promise, blue sea, pristine beaches, emerald hills and the scent of tropical blooms and spices lingering in the air. Our first hide-away was named ‘Paw Paw’, one of just seven luxurious Maca Bana villas perched on a cliff top, drinking in the views in every direction. It felt almost like a tree house, with the addition of four poster bed, five star kitchen and hot tub teetering on the edge of paradise. You could venture out into the hills to sketch with Rebecca, owner and artist, relax in the infinity pool, dine in the romantic Aquarium restaurant, cook your own Creole meal with the chef or laze all day on virgin sands, in the gorgeous shade of the sea grape trees.

Sheer indulgence but across the bay, St George’s beckoned, the prettiest capital in the Caribbean, they say, all pastel-coloured roofs tumbling down to the harbour framed by the lush cones of volcanic hills. It’s small enough to explore on foot and guarded by an 18th century fort on a rocky headland. Up there the wind howls on the battlements and you soon forget the climb as you gaze at the southern cliffs, the new cruise terminal, the lagoon speckled with sails and the lovely horseshoe of the inner harbour, the Carenage, and its freshly converted warehouses and waterside restaurants. Now and then, Rhum Runner, the party boat, prepares to sail to the stirring beat of a steel band, while in the Bay Gardens, nature lovers marvel at Royal Palms and 15 varieties of heliconia which helped win five gold awards at the Chelsea Flower Show.

In this most exotic island, independent since 1974, you feel at home. Traffic drives on the left, most of the time, EC dollars bear the Queen’s head, everyone speaks English and red phone booths stand on the quay but don’t be fooled. Walk through the breezy Sendall tunnel and the market soon sweeps you off your feet with mysterious vegetables and fruit, spices galore, cinnamon soap, nutmeg syrup, batik and printed shirts, palm leaf hats and much more. Beyond the parasols and sweetcorn barbecues, steep lanes and steps climb up the slopes where dainty colonial dwellings and churches scarred by hurricane Ivan doze under garlands of flags.

Bordered by three harbours at the foot of the hills, St George’s has no room for a beach but in next to no time, water taxis whiz you across to Grand Anse and its two mile crescent of powdery white sand. Set in the tourist area in the South West, Grand Anse is the main resort yet has no high rise or seething crowds. We found more shade trees than parasols, a few small boats bobbing at anchor and one beach restaurant, its wooden shutters and walls cheerfully painted yellow and green, serving delicious callaloo soup, conch and mahi-mahi fish. It was all a tropical paradise should be and beyond the dazzling bougainvillaea, even the spice and craft market was kept out of sight. I hopped aboard the Sun Lover, the only glass bottom boat, to look down on a coral reef awash with sea urchins, zebra fish and giant ferns, walked to Quarantine Point for amazing views once enjoyed only by lepers and on the secluded Morne Rouge beach, recovered with a local drink of mauby, made from the bark of a tree.

All over the island, French names survived the British takeover and our next home from home was no exception. Lance aux Epines (prickly bay) Cottages is ideal for families and anyone looking for a quiet spot close to the main resort and amenities. It’s a mere handful of flower-draped apartments and bungalows scattered on shaded lawns, right on the edge of the beach where you can watch sailing yachts glinting in the light and golden sunsets over the bay. If the children ever want a change from the beach, there is a games and TV room. We loved the windows in our spacious living area, wrought iron grills and mosquito nets but no glass, pure heaven as the ocean breeze freely swept through. You could hire a cook and take her to market though restaurants and small stores are just down the road, with more shopping in Grand Anse, a five-minute drive away.

Taxis can be expensive, minibuses charge only a few dollars, tooting for custom as they pass. If you rent a car, you’ll need a sense of adventure to negotiate the many bends, sleeping policemen and potholes and the lack of road signs, though on an island just 21 miles by 12, you’re unlikely to get lost.

We opted for the easy option, joining an Island Tour winding up the sheltered Caribbean shore where goats grazed at the roadside and toy-like villages splashed colour among the trees. Gouyave, the ‘place that never sleeps’, was all balconies and fishing boats with a nutmeg processing plant pouring its aroma into the streets. Nutmeg is big business on Grenada, grown in small mixed plantations wherever the mountainous terrain allows. Yet flavour for flavour, who gets the top prize? The local men have no doubt, River Antoine, of course, the distillery in the East. There, on the wind-battered Atlantic coast, the rum reaches 75° or more, taste it, buy it but be warned, you can’t export it.

Rum aside, we did have some memorable moments on our Island Tour, lungfuls of fresh air in Sauteurs looking out to the Grenadine Islands, time to remember the natives who jumped to their death rather than surrender at the Caribs’ Leap, a taste of tangy soursop ice cream in an old plantation house on a mountain top, a peep at Mount St Catherine, the highest point at 2750 feet, a brief encounter with Mona monkeys in the Grand Etang National Park, above a vast crater lake draped in swirling mist. A sixth of the island is protected areas and mountains rolled as far as we could see, wave after wave of rainforest sprouting afresh after Ivan.

Then wherever you are, you hear the waterfalls, modest or spectacular, accessible by road or only on foot. ‘How about the Seven Sisters?’ suggested the guide, ’it’s only an hour’s trek and really beautiful.’ Good enough for us, we agreed.

We set off next morning, mud and walking stick provided. This was the jungle after all and our chance to identify the reddish blossom of an immortelle, a patch of razor grass, a pink ginger lily or a clump of mimosa fern curling up as we brushed past. Great tangles of vines clung to the trees as we edged our way down the steep trail, soon swallowed up into the greenery. The falls rumbled far below, invisible until we reached the valley floor and crossed the stream ever so carefully on a wobbly tree trunk. The first two ‘Sisters’ were gushing out gallons of water over the rock face when a voice called out ‘My name is Superbutterfly, I jump, you take my photo?’

So he did, a village boy making a living, leaping, diving, flying, from the top of the fall. We were scared, he glowed with pride. We declined having a turn or clambering over the gigantic boulders in search of the other ‘sisters’. The long haul back to the road would do just as well.

It was a wonderful steamy morning and the time had come to test our last villa of the week. We found Coral Cove at the end of the road, hugging the southernmost tip of the island, the perfect place to unwind, cut off by rocky outcrops, away from it all.

We arrived to a brief shower of ‘liquid sunshine’, rainbow weather, said our host, and she was right. It came right over the bay and among hibiscus and oleander, the villas gleamed like new, sprinkled red and white on the grassy slopes which led down to the oval pool, shaded beach and jetty where you would snorkel and explore the reef.

Here too, there was plenty of space and privacy, plus a tennis court and views to take your breath away as the coast meandered around fjord-like inlets, full of sailing boats sheltering in the cusp of the hills. The water was crystal clear and the breeze rustled the coconut palms day and night.

But what was that scent outside the window? I opened the curtains. Flowers and spice and all things nice, Grenada was working its magic.

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