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.

Sail away: The British Virgin Islands are the Caribbean at its most idyllic

The end, 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 preside over 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 sleeping 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 salutation; 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 nighttime-time Sir Francis Drake Channel, the passage of water, which separates the main island from its southern sisters in the BVI archipelago.
‘This is incredible,’ breathed my six-year-ancient daughter Asya, now revived.
Fifteen minutes’ quick 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 tiny cove, hidden until the last moment, beckoned.

A right hideaway: Small Dix Bay is a small slice of paradise

We’d arrived in Small Dix Bay to an excruciating 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 plants. The family – and several hundred roosters – crowed their praise.
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 contract. Robbery on the high seas has never been more fashionable.
Small Dix Bay is no exception. The brilliant children’s club is a examine in Jolly Roger-chic. To stretch the nautical theme a small 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 Small Dix as one of the world’s first eco-tourist destinations in 1964, even if this is no backpacker destination.
A silver-framed photograph in the reception area is a formal examine of HM the sovereign and the Duke of Edinburgh, presented to Mr Rockefeller ‘on the reason 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 questioned a local . ‘We look to you for advice,’ he smiled. I remembered summer riots, street protests and other fixtures of life in the Ancient 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 ahead of schedule 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.

Far from home: The British Virgin Islands are awkward to reach, but worth the journey

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, ancient-fashioned names such as Fallen Jerusalem, West Dog, Fantastic 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 terrible 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 even if they were dropping off, and my hips were a well-used turkey wishbone.
But I could not stay up. Tiny thumbs turned down over the motor boat’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 at a snail’s pace 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.

Travel Facts

Seasons (01244 202 077, www.seasons.co.uk) offers seven nights at Rosewood Small Dix Bay from £1,915 pp. Includes accommodation in a garden view room, flights and transfers.