The tiny, wild Caribbean island you’ve probably never heard of

“Erm, where on Earth is that?”, had become quite the common refrain – and I must admit, I was enjoying it. These days, it is a rare pleasure to find a nation so little-known, so mysterious, as to provoke such puzzlement when revealing your next holiday destination. But, to my glee, even my most widely-travelled friends had raised a brow: Curaçao was already proving fun, and I hadn’t even visited yet. 

On Caribbean holidays past, I’ve spent many a happy afternoon boozing on Blue Curaçao liqueur, not twigging – to my shame – that it was named after an entire country. You may have done the same: this syrupy, Smurf-coloured concoction is impossible to miss on the bar, yet its island origin remains somewhat incognito. 

Just 40km from the coast of Venezuela, Curaçao is far removed from the Caribbean island chains so beloved of British holidaymakers – much closer to Latin America than it is to St Lucia, Jamaica, et al. Size-wise, it is just a sniff bigger than the Isle of Wight. It was a Dutch colony for 139 years, and part of the Netherlands Antilles until 2010; my pre-trip Googling revealed visions of soft sandy beaches, Listerine-blue shallows, and coral reefs teeming with turtles and rays.

All very tempting – but now, there is a new multi million-dollar reason to add Curaçao to your winter sun wishlist: the opening of Sandals Royal Curaçao, a name synonymous with the Caribbean’s most-sought after hotels. Sandals’ all-inclusive offering isn’t just gold-standard for the region, but for the rest of the world too, a fly-and-flop getaway of the highest order. A prospect so alluring, I barely flinched at the prospect of an indirect flight via Amsterdam. 

We arrived just as the sun was setting, turning the sky into a swirl of sorbet underscored by a silvery sea – and for a moment, it felt like the entire resort had paused to gaze westwards too. Up on the lobby terrace, the elevated view revealed the hotel’s star attraction: a vast two-tier infinity pool, whose upper pool cascades into the lower section, where guests toasted the sunset with daiquiris and margaritas from the swim-up bar. A warm breeze ruffled the fronds of lofty coconut palms, and a waiter pressed a frosty glass of bubbly into my hand. Paradise found. 

“It hasn’t always been quite so idyllic,” admitted Kevin Clarke, the hotel’s general manager, over coffee the following morning. “Just a few months ago, we were all painting, cleaning, polishing, planting – you name it. Before Sandals took over, everything was painted a horrendous yellow, and was very unloved, but now…”, he gestured to the glittering new swimming pools, the sea-view cabanas, the immaculate butlers nipping between sun loungers with silver trays aloft. “Now, I think we’re getting there.”

But perfection doesn’t come easy: to create this tropical idyll, a remarkable 100,000 new shrubs, trees and grasses were required – many of which were imported from the US, loaded in 500 shipping containers. Outside the resort, the scenery is arid and untamed: giant cacti poke through the treetops like tall spiky twiglets, and stumpy sandstone hills stretch into the distance. But inside, the plants are lush and abundant. “The original intention was just to soften the original terrain,” Clarke explained, “but the wildlife loves it too – so everyone benefits.”

Indeed, I tallied some incredible bird sightings while floating on my lilo: tiny green hummingbirds darting between hibiscus blooms, squawking parrots perched atop palm trees, and crested caracaras – a tufty-haired island raptor – circling in lazy pirouettes overhead. At our beachfront bungalow, the private pool was often strewn with pink bougainvillaea petals, and the peachy scent of frangipani danced in the air. At breakfast one morning, we watched an iguana sunning itself on the freshly clipped grass; while swimming, we were serenaded by a beady-eyed troupial, its yellow underbelly bright amid the greenery. 

The hotel sits on the island’s southern coast, its shore-hugging linear layout allowing for a huge variety of rooms, suites and bungalows. For those seeking a livelier vibe, the accommodation in the central complex is close to the pool parties and entertainment in the Coconut Grove, while those craving solitude can retreat to quieter options on the beachfront or gardens. 

Refreshingly for an all-inclusive, the resort gently encourages its guests to explore their surroundings. As well as complimentary push-bikes for touring its 44 acres, and all-inclusive scuba trips for PADI-certified divers, it has a fleet of gleaming MINI Coopers which can be rented free-of-charge by residents of certain suites or bungalows. It also grants ‘Island Inclusive’ dining vouchers worth $250 (£215) per couple, to be used in several local restaurants. One balmy evening, I ventured out to Mosa/Caña, a lively joint in Willemstad – the capital – renowned for its work-of-art cocktails and tasty sharing plates. I scooped up creamy burrata and fresh figs with toasted ciabatta, and savoured the zesty, smoky union of pulled-pork and pineapple salsa. Given the voucher’s generous value, I ate and tipped with abandon, ordering the menu’s priciest dishes, drinks and desserts – and still had 60USD to spare. 

Imagine a version of Amsterdam painted in Smarties-bright colours, and bathed in year-round sunshine: that’s Willemstad. Emboldened by our dinner out in the capital, we booked a walking tour with local guide Maja Adalita, and discovered a vibrant Unesco-listed metropolis. Its old waterfront, Handelskade, is lined with tall terraced buildings – just like the statuesque canal houses you see in the Dutch capital, albeit in hues of mint, marigold and canary yellow, and garnished with crisp white window shutters. Many date back to the 1700s, and behind them lies a warren of ivy-strewn plazas, tiny cafés and art galleries, with entire streets covered in hand-painted murals. Local tamba songs spill from restaurant speakers, their swaggering rhythms and tooting trumpets reminiscent of merengue – a musical match for the island’s language, Papiamento, which mixes Dutch, Spanish, Portuguese and West African dialects, the legacy of its many occupiers. 

“The Spanish explorers said the island was a waste of space,” laughed Adalita, rolling her eyes to the cloudless heavens. “‘La Isla Inútil’, they called it: the ‘Useless Isle’. They were hoping for gold, but Curaçao had none – and when the Dutch invaded in 1634, they surrendered.” The Spanish had already enslaved most of the island’s original Caiquetio inhabitants, but an even bloodier chapter followed. Curaçao became the Dutch West India Company’s biggest slave port, receiving an estimated 50 per cent of all slaves destined for the Caribbean. This troubling past is confronted by Willemstad’s excellent – and very hard-hitting – Kura Hulanda Museum, which is well worth visiting on a day trip. 

So, too, is Curaçao’s wild side: the flamingo-dotted salt flats of Jan Kok, the turquoise shallows of Grote Knip Beach, the roiling waves of Shete Boka National Park on the wind-whipped north coast. Happily, tour company Island Routes offers an exclusive excursion for Sandals guests, which encompasses the above on one action-packed day. We stopped for a lunch of galiña stobá, a spicy island stew of slow-cooked chicken, lime and paprika, and swigged Blue Curaçao at its official distillery, the 126-year-old Senior & Co – before rolling back to the resort, just in time for a fabulous surf-and-turf supper on the beach. 

It was then that I realised: Curaçao is no fly-and-flop island. Its little-known riches had hoodwinked us into a proper adventure, a trip more active, more enlightening, than any all-inclusive break has right to be. “Useless Isle”, my hat – if anything, Curaçao has too many ways to lure you from your sunlounger. 

Clearly, we needed to be more vigilant; carry on like this, and our Champagne ice bucket would be gathering dust. We’d never nap on the beach in a palm-thatched cabana, never tick off all of the resort’s eight à la carte restaurants, never sink our toes into that pristine white sand. It had been a heady, fascinating few days, but now it was time to clear the schedule and do this holiday lark properly. And so, the next morning, I ordered a Blue Curaçao cocktail – at breakfast, why not? – and eased into the quieter side of island life, an existence just as sweet as its namesake nectar.