Virgin sands: Peter Island

It’s the late 1960s. You have a lot of money. What do you buy? An island in the Caribbean, of course (and maybe some natty, tight swimming shorts and a loud Hawaiian shirt to go with it). Then, musing on the countless other places you’ve encountered in your life of globe-hopping, you create a dream resort.

What will you put in it? Spacious rooms opening on to the beach, with rainfall showers and monster towels. Charming staff who remember your name and how you like your coffee — and heck, who occasionally circulate with chocolate cookies, improved with local spices. In short, a welcoming, relaxing haven bursting with flowers and birdsong. Then, just when it’s perfect, 1989’s tour de force Hurricane Hugo will knock it all down, and you’ll build it all over again — even better. Welcome to Peter Island.

One of the halcyon British Virgin Islands, Peter is set in the middle of the Caribbean chain that stretches from Florida to Venezuela. The eponymous resort takes up the island’s entire 1,800 acres — a long spit whose crescent arms create private bays with sunset views from the hilly interior and strips of sand around the edge. No longer owned by its founder, Norwegian sardine-packing magnate Torolf Smedwig, the hotel nevertheless remains true to his ambitions. While the whole place was hired out by Rio Ferdinand for his 2009 wedding, and Robert De Niro has stopped by, rather than being a resort where Botoxed trophies gather to parade their tasselled Pucci, Peter Island is an escape; a place to lie in a hammock and savour Caribbean clichés — the suck and push of a shiny blue sea, the burst of cold sweetness as you drink your (unironic) rum punch.

As we stepped from the boat on arrival — a nine-hour flight from London to Antigua, a hop to the neighbouring Beef Island airport and then a transfer by motorlaunch — a smiling concierge in a sunshine-coloured Aertex shirt sat us down with a map and a brushstroke history: Christopher Columbus and Sir Francis Drake are said to have stopped on the island. Our rooms fronted on to Deadman’s Beach, a wide strip of sand that was named, according to legend, after Blackbeard abandoned his crew on the opposite shore. With nothing but rum to sustain them, they eventually died and their bodies washed up on the spot that is now the watersports centre. A little beyond that you reach the spa, one of those dream spaces where you have your massage on a terrace looking out over lawns, dotted with palms, to the sea.

There are four further beaches, including Honeymoon Beach, which you can reserve exclusively, and an array of sundowner cocktail spots and mountain bike loops, diving centres and tennis courts. It is a compelling whole, equal to the demands of the most energetic sportsman or the laziest sunseeker.

To decide how best to make the most of the island, that first day we swam out in the warm sea, then walked to the Tradewinds restaurant in an equally warm dusk. The moon hung low, the wine list was inviting: we paired a cool, fresh Fumé Blanc from Napa with deliciously blackened mahi-mahi.

In England, it had seemed clear we would use this break as a kind of adventure health riff, an opportunity to rediscover dormant muscles. As it was, our stretch of Deadman’s proved magnetic. Part of the reason to visit Peter Island is the calm. There is so much space that you can play at being a billionaire, with your own slice of sun-drenched domain, and no one to bother you, beyond the occasional waiter bearing ice. The days wheel out. We made it as far as White Bay Beach, and ate Pinterest-perfect

Asian-inspired bento boxes, scuba-dived around coral and played with spotted clown fish. It was perfect. But then, so was our hammock.

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ITC Classics is offering seven nights full-board, return economy-class flights, inter-island flights and private transfers from £2,565pp, based on two adults sharing (01244 355 550; itcclassics.co.uk)