Barbados

Barbados hit differently from the moment I landed. The air is thick and warm in a way that feels almost physical, and the light here has this particular quality — sharp whites and deep turquoise that I kept trying and failing to capture properly on my phone. Bridgetown is smaller than I expected but the colonial architecture packs it in tight: the Parliament clock tower, century-old wooden-balconied buildings painted red and grey, all squeezed between a modern glass tower and a rum bar. It felt like three different eras sharing the same block without minding each other at all.

The beach at Carlisle Bay in the evening was something else. Sailboats sat anchored out in the calm water, and the sky turned that deep orange-pink that only happens when the horizon is flat and there's nothing between you and it. A yellow-painted pier building on stilts caught the last light over the bay. I stood there longer than I planned to.

The snorkelling off the west coast gave me a sea turtle that just glided past like I wasn't even there — about a metre away, totally unbothered. The whole island has that quality actually: unhurried. Mount Gay rum has been distilled here since 1703, and the Bajan way of being in no rush to go anywhere makes a lot of sense once you've had a few sips of it on the beach.