Rodney Bay, Saint Lucia

Friday; for once a day of rest. We're meant to be shooting the cover feature and doing the interview today, but the magazine's schedule has changed and all that is to come tomorrow, so today is effectively a day off.

Stupidly I'd forgotten to switch my phone to silent and thus been woken by a text in the night from the UK, so lacking the unbroken joys of yesterday I rise relatively early and climb the ever-replenishing email mountain, as of course there's still a day's work to be done in the UK, before grabbing a bite to eat for the day ahead.

Having been told about the change in photography schedule last night, I've arranged for a driver to be available to show us the island. And thank the Lord I have - outside the villa the skies are heavy with cloud and any second now, rain is going to fall. It's not a day to be sat on the beach.

Tony, our driver, waits patiently for us to be ready and then drives us the 400 yards to the concierge. I have absolutely no local currency so change my last $70 into 175 Eastern Caribbean dollars. Amusingly, the notes feature the Queen's head but not as she is on UK pound notes. This queen is unchanged from the late '60s and she regally smiles away, reminding us of a time when she was quite the foxy monarch, before she was the stern-looking grandmother of today

As we leave the grounds of the resort there is a warning on the radio about hurricane season and advice to keep mobiles charged. The last major one to hit St Lucia was just over 30 years ago but Tony tells us that a storm is building out in the Atlantic and of course, until it starts moving, no-one can predict which direction it'll go.

After the hurricane warnings there's a fierce political debate over the Minister of Tourism awarding hotel grants to his cronies. "Ah, politicians," says Tony wearily. "All the same. So much corruption!" He switches the radio off and pumps up his CD collection, a non-stop diet of reggae and dancehall, with delightful tunes like 'Fatty Bum Bum' and 'Let's Have Sex'.

We drive through Rodney Bay and up to a lookout point where we can see the bay before us and Martinique in the distance. Further on we pass the old sugar plantations, in disuse now with rusting equipment let to rot. Sugar became too expensive to produce, so now the main source of income for the island - which comprises 160,000 residents - is tourism which at times more than doubles the population. Closely followed by bananas which are grown everywhere, with the fruits wrapped in blue plastic bags on the trees to delay the ripening process and prevent them rotting on the branches.

The other big industry is drugs with not only marijuana playing a big part in island life, but the cocaine trade flooding the island as it's moved from South America to Europe and the US. Many tourists get busted trying to score and apparently two were caught at the airport last week trying to smuggle a whole lot home. They're currently languishing at Her (youthful) Majesty's Pleasure.

We make a stop near the little airport in the capital Castries, which connects the island with others in the near vicinity. St Lucia is one of the Windward Islands along with Barbados, Grenada, Dominica, Martinique and St Vincent, with the Leeward Islands including Antigua, St Kitts, Montserrat and Guadeloupe to the north.

Behind the airport lies the remains of the old barracks, and Tony takes us to where the wives of the English officers lived, near the huge gun lookouts which defended the island. St Lucia changed hands seven times between the French and the English before it ultimately became part of what is now known as the Commonwealth, and a little further on he takes us to the Inniskilling monument, erected by the Irish, who fought alongside the Brits in the final battles.

By this point it's midday and the temperature in the car reads a very sticky 32 degrees. We can see big rain clouds drenching parts of the island but we're sweating in the thick, unbroken air. To refresh ourselves we pull over by a truck, from the back of which a grizzled old guy is selling coconuts. Machete in hand he slices them open and hands them over, straw inserted, for us to quench our thirst. Once drained, they're sliced apart and the soft flesh scooped out to eat - so different to the dried coconut back home.

We venture further into Castries and drive past several churches - there's Baptist, Evangelical, Jehovah's Witnesses, Seventh Day Adventists and, predominantly, Roman Catholic places of worship. The largest, the Cathedral of Immaculate Conception, on Bourbon Square, still bears the scars of fire damage from its attempted immolation by Rastafarians ten years ago. When I ask Tony why they tried to burn it down, he shrugs and says, "God told them to". Too much of the herbal sacrament methinks...

We leave Castries and climb the hills above the town, stopping off outside the Governor General's mansion for a view of the island capital. Trinket sellers attempt to part us with our money so I hand over a bunch of dollars in return for a spliff-tokin' Rastafari fridge magnet. I'm pretty weighed-down by refrigerator place-names by now, but one more won't hurt.

A few hundred feet further up the mountain we pull over at the entrance to the Barre De L'Isle Rainforest Trail. Corinne and I are about as dressed for hiking as we are for deep sea diving, her in ballet pumps and me in flip flops, so we assure the guide that we're not up for anything strenuous and just to give us a map and we'll potter for ten minutes and that'll be it.

Of course, once amongst the trees we lose all sense of time and wander along the trail, sheltering from the odd shower and discovering new plants and wildlife as we go, including black-winged butterflies and a startled land crab who stands stock still until my flash goes off at which point he scuttles sideways like a turbo-charged missile.

Ninety minutes later we emerge with muddy legs, ruined shoes and, in my case, so drenched in sweat that I'll need to handwash my shirt in shampoo when we return to the villa just to save it from calcification.

Tony awaits us with languid patience, but informs us the local cafes have now closed. With lunch unavailable we stop at a petrol station for Doritos, chocolate, diet coke and water. A healthy lunch! We continue south, hugging the Caribbean coast with its steep slopes and hairpin bends as we go, travelling through the town of Canaries before reaching Soufriere.

Here two mountains, the Pitons, rise in triangular glory to the sky, creating a stunning backdrop to the seaside town. To the east lies a 'dormant' volcano which still puffs steam from its crater, but time is against us and we can't visit it so we head first to a waterfall where Tony assures us we can have a cooling dip.

Of course, this is a relative term and the ice-cold freshwater pool that we step into is about as inviting as swimming in a glacier, so full of faint praise we swerve that suggestion whilst warming our frozen legs with meagre towels. Tony then takes us to the nearby Diamond Falls Botanical Gardens which have another waterfall, some amazing plants and hot springs from the geothermal volcanic activity.

We're let in, despite it being almost the allotted closing hour of 5pm (amazing what a few notes can do) and make our way to the mineral-rich, thermal baths which we're assured date back to the French colonisation of the 18th Century. But after handing over the dollars we're shown into a prison-like cell with two small plunge pools sporting brown 1970s tiles. Not quite what was expected. Nonetheless we clamber in, relieved to finally have a hot bath after three days. And sure enough 20 minutes later we clamber out rejuvenated and soft as a baby's bottom.

A quick look at the falls and a wander through the gardens - paying particular attention to the wonderful 'Flamboyant' tree which has beautiful red flowers and a large dried chilli like fruit which locals use as a maraca-style instrument - and soon we have to leave. We drive out of Soufriere as the light fades into the sunset.

Creole bars and restaurants - some tin-shacks and others more permanent affairs - line the streets and as the sun starts its golden descent the locals are all milling around, beers in hand, cranking up the soundsystems.

We return up the Caribbean coast and eventually, well after dark, make it back to the hotel. Dinner is suggested down at the Beach Bar and soon a table of ten, including a member of Coronation Street and her boyfriend, are seated for a civilized dinner. We perch at the end, enjoying ourselves, and hearing tales of the mosquito-blighted shoot the actress has suffered.

A bite-free shoot is wished for us tomorrow. All fingers crossed...