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If you're driving from Vieux Fort, the famed resort is just an hour up the coast. Electing to stop a few miles out in the small, seaside town of Soufrière, you'll have the added pleasures of Creole-style fried fish, unbridled views of the twin Piton Mountains and a visit to the world's only drive-in volcano at Sulphur Springs (mud baths encouraged). Flying in by chopper to Jade Mountain's private helipad is a bit more involved, though you'll quickly realize why St. Lucia is known as "Helen of the West Indies," as in Helen of Troy. As you soar above coves and forests, which were for centuries, places of refuge for indigenous tribes and Western settlers alike, it doesn't seem too farfetched that France and Great Britain fought over the island's spellbinding beauty as much as its strategic position to the Americas. Whether by road or sky, you will no doubt get a sense of St. Lucia's character. Passing the brightly-colored colonial storefronts beside the bay, you may feel as though you've slipped into another century—an explorer perhaps, seeking asylum in the warm embrace of some verdant shore. But beyond the lush corridor of road from Soufrière, when the car's engine turns off (or the chopper blades conclude their rotations), that's when you truly begin to feel the island's magic. You hear nothing but the stillness in the air and the distant songs of birds calling from across the canopy—you've arrived at the foot of Jade Mountain. e drive through the tightly-quartered road can be unassuming, but upon arrival you're immediately greeted by the resort's majordomos—all of whom have been trained by the British Guild of Butlers. Here, you will also meet your personal majordomo, your newly acquired "firefly" device (contact for service) and e Bentley, Jade Mountain's signature cocktail. In a matter of moments, it feels as though you've le the real world behind you, a feeling that can only be trumped when, seconds later, you're escorted to your accommodations—or what the staff refers to as "your sanctuary." Once you've crossed over your own personal bridgeway— labyrinthed above and below a host of others—and pushed open the heavy, solid wood door, the staff 's words become abundantly clear. Your room is in fact just that, a sanctuary. Your eye is instantly drawn to the absence of the fourth wall, preceded by a private infinity pool harmonized with the sparkling blue of the Caribbean. Below you, a plush carpet of tree tops and in the not-so-far distance, the awe-inspiring majesty of St. Lucia's twin Piton Mountains—Gros and Petit Piton—each standing some 2,500 feet in height. Without even a second to think, you're instantly mesmerized by the planetary splendor—a metaphorical daydream the likes of which only Derek Walcott could delineate. V U E N J . C O M 113

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