Strawberry Hill

­­It was fate that led me up Strawberry Hill, a spa resort in the Blue Mountains outside of Kingston. I was on my way to visit Mr. Twyman’s coffee estate in Irish Town, but because I spent more time than planned hiking in the first half of the day, there was little time left in the afternoon for any meaningful tour. And since the mountain roads (“tracks” to the locals) were very difficult to drive on, I thought it would be best to spend the night in the mountains instead of going back to the city.

It was five in the afternoon when I arrived, more hungry than tired, and in need of a shower. I was immediately seduced by the beauty and serenity of the place. This being summer, the slow season, and a weekday, the place was less than half full. The front desk gave me the “local” rate of $300, a bargain.

Strawberry Hill sits squat on top of a lone hill amidst lush canopies of guavas and papayas. Although it is merely 15 miles by road from wicked Kingston, it felt like a whole world away. At 3,000 feet up, the air was cool and fresh, and tranquility reigned the day. I stood over an outlook and inhaled the sweeping panorama of the sun setting over Kingston. And stopping to catch a breath, I heard only leaves fluttering in the breeze.

Dinner in the dining room did not start until six, so I strolled around the grounds after my shower. For an upscale resort, Strawberry Hill is a casual yet sophisticated place. No ties, no gowns, no attitudes. There are also no rooms. Instead, there are 13 cottages built on the hill, their sizes ranging from studio suites to three-bedroom homes. My cottage was called “59 Steps,” a studio suite, so-named because there were 59 steps down the staircase to reach it. Like the other structures in the resort, it was built in the Georgian style, with high ceilings and shuttered windows that retrace Jamaica’s 18th century colonial roots. Inside, the cottage was tastefully appointed with simple mahogany furniture, a four-post bed, a fully equipped kitchenette, and a balcony that opened out to an amazing view of the city.

After dinner, I went back to my cottage and sat back on the balcony with a cup of hot coffee. The sun had gone down, and the serenity of the day was replaced by a stereophonic symphony of birds and bugs in the night. In the distance, city lights flickered in the hot and humid air below. Further out I saw the airport, its flashing strobe lights lining the runway, and also marking the harbor’s edge. Closer in, fireflies flitted about the bushes, blinking here and there, like the heartbeat of the jungle.

Through the evening I watched a thunderstorm approach the city from the south. At first, lightning appeared far over the horizon, but within half an hour it was ripping over the harbor. I sensed a downpour heading our way soon, but before it arrived I was lulled to sleep by the soft, ticklish breeze.