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9 MAY 2022 THE TRAVEL GUIDE — AN ADVERTISEMENT FEATURE IN


STLUCIA VIEW ACROSS SOUFRIÈRE AND THE TWO PITON MOUNTAINS/AWL IMAGES


Land of plenty


To the uninitiated, St Lucia is as tranquil as it appears on postcards: all palms, platinum sands and luxury boltholes. But, taking its cue from the volcanic forces that formed it, this is a country that serves up plenty of high drama — from oozing mud baths to storied sailboat trips and mountain trails. Words: Adrian Phillips


Have you ever heard a frog’s whistle? It’s made up of two notes, the second slightly longer and higher than the first. I’d describe it as a chirpy ‘ger-leep’. And when thousands upon


thousands of whistling frogs start ger-leeping from damp hiding places in the early evening — making great bubblegum blows with their throat pouches in a chorus that seems to swell by the minute — they sound like a mass rally of penny- whistle players. It’s fabulous. And, now the sun


has set, the weather is ratcheting up the atmosphere further. Rain drums mercilessly on the iron-clad roof and dashes itself into a fine mist on the wooden railings of the veranda. Lightning jags across the night sky, and in that neon-lit fraction of a second, I see rain draping a grey shawl over the bay and across the silhouette of the mountains. Ten darkness rushes back and thunder rolls like the deep, long growl of some celestial guard dog behind the sky, deeper and longer than any thunder I’ve ever heard before. It’s particularly fabulous because my room, high on a ridge at the


Ladera Resort, has no windows. Or, indeed, a front wall. Tis is ‘open concept’ accommodation, the sleeping area running seamlessly into the veranda and out to the natural world beyond. Tere are plenty of luxuries — bespoke furniture has been carved by the resort’s team of carpenters, there’s a private plunge pool and even a mobile phone to reach a personal butler should I need him — but they aren’t a cocoon. Lying beneath the mosquito net of my four-poster bed, I watch and listen and drift off to sleep. Te frogs keep calling, like pipers on a battlefield. It’s a dramatic first night, but


then volcanic St Lucia was born out of nature at its most frenetic, heaved from the bowels of the Earth. Tere’s a reminder of that genesis just a few minutes away. “You’re about to smell something


strange,” Jarvis Leonce tells me the next morning, which isn’t what you want to hear from a large man driving a small taxi with its windows closed. Fortunately, though, he’s talking about the smell of Soufrière, a settlement whose French name translates as ‘sulphur


in the air’ in reference to the eggy scent that hangs over it. Tis is a town built at the heart of a volcano. “Te lava is only a mile below the


surface,” says Yarmi Alexander, a guide who meets me at the entrance of Sulphur Springs St Lucia, a geothermal theme park of sorts. “Te volcano could erupt at any time. People here call it ‘living on the edge’.” Tey must be a hardy lot, I think. But the truth is, the risk is low. “Te last eruption was in 1766, and it wasn’t violent,” Yarmi tells me. “Volcanoes don’t just blow without warning. We have instruments to monitor activity, and nature offers signs — animals start to leave and the


plants die.” However, there’s a persistent


danger here for those who fail to respect the volcano. We walk a short path past lush ferns and a series of little waterfalls to a place that seems the very counterpoint to life itself. Te greenery abruptly gives way to a barren swathe of ash-white rocks and pools of dull mud that bubble violently like witches’ cauldrons. Steam billows and the odour of sulphur stings my nostrils. Tree jet-black birds flit about like


bad omens. It could be a stage set for the devil. “When the volcano erupted 30,000


years ago, the cone collapsed and this is what was left,” explains Yarmi. Te temperature of the springs, thick with mud, is 100C, and in the past, visitors would walk out across the baked, crusty surface to boil potatoes in the pools. But an accident changed all that: a tourist guide named Gabriel suffered second-degree burns after falling through. “He was jumping up and down to prove to his group that the surface would support his weight,” Yarmi says, shaking her head. She points to where it happened. “We call it Gabriel’s Hole,” she confides, which must have been the cherry on top of the embarrassment suffered by poor old Gabriel. But, treated with care, the sulphur


springs work wonders. Nearby are mud baths, a joyous wallowing spot where locals and tourists alike gather to splash and laugh in three chocolate-hued pools. Jarvis has returned to take me through the experience because — like someone following a cherished family recipe — he believes there’s a proper way of doing things.


First, I must be soaked. I ease


myself into a hot pool, the mud at the bottom soft between my toes, and lie back making angel wings on the surface. Once warmed through, I’m removed from the pool to be basted all over in sloppy grey mud from a bucket. Next, I’m left to dry for a few minutes, the mud hardening on my skin. And then the finishing touches. Jarvis works from another bucket of darker mud, applying dabs here and there to my chest and legs, with the care of a pastry chef piping icing. He spends most of his time on my back, though, and seems to write a message of some sort; soon, I begin to worry I might be the victim of a practical joke and that other bathers will take it in turns to kick me. But when his work is complete, Jarvis shows me a photo on his phone, and I see he’s painted an impressive profile of the Piton Mountains and the words ‘St Lucia’ across my shoulders.


First published in the May 2022 issue of National Geographic Traveller (UK). Read the feature in full online at nationalgeographic.co.uk/travel


BUBBLING MUD AT SULPHUR SPRINGS/ CHRISTINA HOLMES


BATHING IN VOLCANIC MUD AT SULPHUR SPRINGS IN SOUFRIÈRE/CHRISTINA HOLMES


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