I was born in Jamaica. My father was sent out to shore up a failing construction firm by the Danish company that owned it. I was not that old when we returned to England, but have vivid memories of one or two very special places on the island. This is one of them.

My sister, Julia on the left, me sitting on my mother’s knee and an elderly aunt, Connie…

My parents had some wonderful friends who lived on Strawberry Hill.These days it is home to Chris Blackwell and a stunning spa hotel… Back in the 60s (Lord that ages me..!) it was home to Daphne and Maurice Lister. Daphne grew carnations. The climate was perfect for their cultivation up there in the mountains. Daphne was famed for her flowers…they sold as far afield as hotels in Florida…

Going to see the Listers in those days was a major undertaking but huge fun. It was always eagerly anticipated. They lived in a small piece of heaven from which you got a 360 degree view of the island. The mountains in one direction and the urban sprawl of Kingston beneath you. But their home, an old plantation house, did not have a road to it, only a fairly rough track. This meant for my and my sister Julia’s  small legs, it was simply too tough a hill to climb.

The Lister’s response to this was to send the donkey man to meet us. He came leading a tall donkey with a dark face and a tan patch round his left eye. He had stripy legs, as if he was wearing jazzy socks, and a rather shaggy coat. Instead of a saddle, he had two large baskets strapped to his back and my sister and I were lifted into them. We travelled like that, small papooses, sometimes facing away from each other, so we could look at the view, sometimes facing one other, so that we could chat. The donkey, known as Moses, took us all the way to the house – about half a mile. The rest of the party had to fend for themselves!

The house sat on a plateau with views up and down the island. It was small and humble, it looked organic…as if it had kind of grown itself in that particular spot.. A verandah wrapped round it on three sides. It was wood. Faded. Familiar. Fabulous. It was our idea of paradise, particularly if we were allowed to stay the night.

Staying over always involved having a bath before bed and we did so in the one that was originally made for the house. And that was the big adventure. It was a tree trunk, hollowed out, with old brass taps emptying water into it in the middle of one long side. If you have never bathed in a wooden bath, I urge you to do so! Ensure that, like this one it is suitably aged, or you will pick up splinters in unmentionable places. It is an astonishing feeling. It is warm to the touch, so the water does not cool so fast,  and you feel very close to nature.

So many generations had used this particular bath, that the wood was smooth as marble, and dark, dark, from being constantly drenched. And it was big enough to accommodate two adults, so for two shrimp-like children, it was a veritable swimming pool! Normally a bath was a quick affair… in, out, read a book. But in this bath we could spend enthusiastic hours, if allowed, wallowing. Here it was a luxury. …it really was! It isn’t often you look forward to seeing your parents’ friends,but the Listers were an exception!