Story and photography by Shilo Urban
Coconut macaroons, crustless finger sandwiches, creamy Earl Grey in a fine china cup:
It’s a proper British afternoon tea, but I’m a long way from London. I’m at the beach in Barbados, listening to the lapping waves at Cobbler’s Cove resort.
There are countless beautiful islands in the Caribbean, but Barbados has a magical allure, a musical lilt to its sobriquet and spirit. More than a luxurious yacht hub with luminous white sand beaches, it’s a captivating cocktail of tropical island culture and deep-rooted English heritage. Barefoot children play cricket under palm trees, and Anglican hymns mingle with Barbadian rhythms. Fish and chips finds its soulmate in rum punch. And nestled along the seashore, between the bougainvillea blossoms and frangipani, is the utterly unique Cobbler’s Cove.
If my inner child dreamed up a hotel, this would be it: a little pink castle with white frosting trim, sweet-smelling flowers everywhere, and a gemstone pool with shimmering blue-green tiles. Monkeys lounge in the trees by the beach, a soft strip of sand where you can wade into warm, clear waters and snorkel. Old-school sun loungers laze under fringed umbrellas with pink-and-white stripes.
Informal yet impeccable, the resort is somehow equally sophisticated and laid-back — just like its British owners, Hugh Godsal and Sam de Teran. Hugh grew up at Cobbler’s Cove, and Sam is impossibly glamorous, tall and lithe. She’s just taken up tango. She also designed everything about the property’s recent transformation, from the dinnerware’s delicate floral pattern to the paradise-print upholstery in every suite. Sam’s signature pinks and greens pop up in my bedroom between tasteful white wicker and rattan. Seersucker robes hang in my dressing room, one pink and one green. I slip on the pink one and nibble on shortbread cookies, delivered every day. From my sitting room I see purple, periwinkle, peach, crimson, fuchsia, and green, so much green.
It’s the hotel’s lavish tropical garden, a rainbow abundance lovingly tended by the gardener, Kennedy. He shows us flowers with whimsical names, like powder puffs and chandelier hibiscus. One violet-lavender bloom is called yesterday, today, and tomorrow. Their fragrance is enchanting by day and intoxicating by night, dancing on the sea breeze with the melodic chirps of tree frogs and the low roll of the waves.
Flowers also thrive at Hunte’s Garden, a short drive into the hills. Once an overgrown gully, it’s now a botanic wonderland where vegetation tumbles down terraces in cascades of color. Surprises wait around every corner: a musing statue, a bowl of succulents, a secret pathway. We wander up, down, and around in the rain, tucked under pink umbrellas from the hotel. I’m traveling during peak rain season (November), but the gentle wash just makes the garden feel even more alive — and me too.
Back at Cobbler’s Cove, the staff is abustle as they move a garden wedding to the library’s veranda, out of the rain. We worry about the bride. Is she okay? But she’s the happiest bride I’ve ever seen, embracing the drips and drops with an island-inspired insouciance. When some of the wedding party jump into the pool, she does too, in her dress.
The next day dawns in immaculate fashion, without a cloud in the sky. We travel to Ngozi Farm, a Rastafarian community helmed by Ireka, a healer, horticulturalist, and businesswoman extraordinaire who weaves all the baskets at Cobbler’s Cove. Three lanky dogs trail behind her as she walks us around the farm, pointing out her papayas and pomegranates. Monkeys have been stealing her fruit, and the dogs are supposed to scare them off — but they’ve befriended them instead, much to Ireka’s chagrin. Yet her calm presence never wavers. She brews us peppery bush tea with lemongrass and ginger, and we sip it in the open-air sanctuary.
By sundowner o’clock, I’m at the hotel bar with a gin and tonic, in easy conversation (again) with the handsome bartender Matthew. My friends show up, and we head to Little Bristol beach bar to listen to an island band and chill out over cocktails. But when we get there, the party is ON. Expats, tourists, and locals of all ages are going full-tilt on the dance floor, twisting and bouncing in every dance style imaginable.
The band is on fire, and everybody sings along: “I-I-I-I-I-I-I wanna dance with somebody! I wanna feel the HEAT of somebody!”
Waves splash against the deck, spraying the crowd, as waitresses push through with beers. I dance so much that I’m starving by the time we return for dinner at the hotel, diving into grilled fresh rock lobster and Grand Mariner soufflé.
Yet soon we’re dancing again. There’s a singer in the bar who can out-Celine Celine, and we twirl around with fellow guests, the owners, the pink-panted staff — not something that you would ever experience in a chain resort. Cobbler’s Cove, with its evocative sense of place, feels more like visiting the genteel estate of wealthy, world-wise friends. It could only exist right here in Barbados, on this beach, with these people.
For that is the island’s true treasure: its people, easygoing and affable souls who treat you truly like a friend. Even more than the sun-dappled beach and the steaming cups of Earl Grey, the warmth of their welcome will linger in my heart forever.