Paradise revisited in Antigua

We were huddled nervously in a swimming pool-sized patch of gin-clear water on a sandbar in the middle of the ocean. Suddenly, several large dark shapes slashed through the shallows towards us at unnerving speed. 'They're coming!' someone shrieked. And indeed they were: a shoal of

As I have a paralysing Jaws phobia (which has left me, at times, nervous in large baths) our trip to Stingray City wasn't the most relaxing experience. Some of the rays were 5ft wide and seemed to take a cynical pleasure in sneaking up behind me and my equally cowardly four-year-old daughter Rosie and knocking us off our feet. But Asya, six, took it in her stride. Within minutes, her arms were full of Pebbles, one of the clan's senior matriarchs, who seemed to enjoy being gently tickled on her pearly muscular wings as she slurped down her calamari lunch.

But then, Asya is accustomed to island life. It was to Antigua that we came when she was still a baby, fleeing domestic nappy-clogged drudgery in an attempt to reconnect with the carefree delights of our life BC (that's Before Children). While she dipped her pudgy toes into the warm waves for the first time, and boggled at the pelicans flying past, we chugged Martinis as if making up for lost time (which we were, of course). It was a blissful break - so blissful, in fact, that I was reluctant to return, in case my memories were adulterated.

We were staying, as before, at Jumby Bay, a Rosewood Resort that occupies a 300-acre private island, a seven-minute boat ride from Antigua, and about a further four minutes from the dockside to the international airport. This irresistible combination of privacy and convenience has ensured Jumby a constant procession of rich and famous guests. Paul McCartney often spends New Year here with his family; Lord Sainsbury and Ken Follett own homes on the island (and consequently are shareholders in the hotel) and Liam Neeson and Claudia Schiffer have also been guests. All the same, the place has a pleasantly egalitarian feel, thanks to its all-inclusive rate policy (which includes all the house champagne you can drink) and the fact that all residents are offered identical bicycles to zoom about the island.

Jumby Bay has changed a good deal since our last visit. The resort has had a $28 million facelift and was relaunched just over a year ago with upgraded rooms, an infinity pool, a third restaurant and a Sense spa. Our Pool Suite, a glamorous colonial-style affair with a giant carved four-poster bed, had a view over the lawns and palm trees to the picture-perfect beach. It came with its own plunge pool, waterfall and life-size rubber crocodile, plus showers both inside and outside. At the back, in our private courtyard, stood the ultimate in relaxed decadence: an outdoor roll-top bath, where I retired nightly with a chilled glass to gaze through bubbles at the stars.

It would be perfectly possible to spend weeks at Jumby without ever bothering to cross to the mainland. Although it's small, there's plenty to do: three miles of hiking trails around the island, for a start. Nature-lovers should visit between April and November, when you can spot the protected hawksbill turtles that lay their eggs on the resort's Pasture Bay Beach and even see the babies take their first tottering steps towards the waves. Sporty types can water-ski, windsurf, or mess around in boats; there's a gym and tennis courts, while just around the jetty scarlet starfish and stripey sergeant majors cluster obligingly for the benefit of snorkellers.

The children took off daily to the kids' club, where they made and flew kites, painted T-shirts, baked muffins and were allowed to co-pilot the staff golf carts. Meanwhile, my husband desperately attempted to improve his nonexistent water-skiing skills and I was happy lying on my sun lounger, being plied with sorbets by the cheerful staff and sharing fruit with the yellow-breasted bananaquits. In the evenings, we pedalled off on our bikes to one of the three restaurants, where we feasted on giant steaks, fragrant fish, even truffle ice cream (available at the posh Estate House, if you have a yen for it).

But although I wanted to stay in paradise, Asya had other ideas. As well as feeding stingrays, she hankered after the pelicans she'd met in her infancy, diving for their dinner into Nelson's Dockyard. It was an idea that also appealed to my history-mad husband, and together they lugged me, protesting, off my lounger and on to the boat.

Although life outside Jumby feels strangely rough around the edges, the trip was worth it. Nelson's Dockyard is where the Navy had its Leeward Islands HQ during its glory days in the late-18th century, and it's a picturesque spot; the grace of the Georgian weatherboarded buildings contrasting piquantly with the sleek lines of the multimillion-pound superyachts that line the dock. As we gazed at the floating palaces, a flock of pelicans, looking like they'd escaped from Jurassic Park, flapped laboriously past. 'There they are!' cried Asya, accusingly. 'I'd almost forgotten them. We should have come back sooner!' Children can be so wise.