The next day, I passed through an archway of ferns and the sun disappeared.

"Welcome to Jurassic Park," said my guide to the St. Kitts rain forest, Oliver Spencer. The atmosphere thickened as we plunged into the jungle. There were ginger flowers and cabbage palms; pink orchids grew high overhead. In all my life, I had never seen so many different shades of green.

As a black moth the size of a dove floated crazily through the air, Spencer put his arm on my shoulder and pointed up toward the canopy. "Look, Jenny," he said. "The flower of the sweet pea." The wind blew through a cluster of bamboo, and as the trunks swayed in the breeze they made a sound like the groaning of old ships at sea.

And then we arrived at a small waterfall in the heart of the forest. The water poured down from the mountain into a pool so clear I could see all the way to the bed, where there were bright stones and snails. And then, to my amazement, Spencer began to recite poetry. It was Wordsworth's "Intimations of Immortality."

Thanks to the human heart by which we live,
Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears,
To me the meanest flower that blows can give
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.

Spencer bent down, picked a philodendron root, and gave it to me to taste. The old man smiled as I bit into it. "I tell you this, Jenny," he said, "you will come here again."

Twenty-four hours later, on the ferry to Nevis, I wondered how the smaller island would differ in spirit from its larger sibling. While the rain forest had been bucolic, I was still left with the feeling that St. Kitts is a busy place, and getting busier; the unpleasant atmosphere at the ferry terminal, populated by hustlers and panhandlers, reinforced the impression.

As I stepped off the boat into the streets of Charlestown, Nevis's only major settlement, the contrast was clear. A few Nevisians sat on a long stone breakwater, contemplating the ocean. A pelican stood on a deadhead. A little while later, a taxi deposited me at the most beautiful place I've ever stayed: the Montpelier Plantation Inn, whose guests over the years have included Lord Nelson (who was married here in 1787) and Princess Diana and her young sons (who visited in 1993). In front of the ancient stone great house was a ficus tree eight feet around. My first thought was that the whole thing looked like Rivendell from the Lord of the Rings movies, only with coconuts.

Dinner was prosciutto and pineapple, followed by filet mignon. I had a glass of champagne, then some Châteauneuf-du-Pape. The other diners were mostly couples, two of whom were on their honeymoon and one of whom was staying at the inn for the third time this year.

As I lay down in the bed that night, I heard cows lowing, the far-off crash of waves, and then—suddenly—the shocking bray of a donkey. The jarring, hilarious noise, which might have been annoying elsewhere, here only served to remind me of something Somerset Maugham, another Montpelier guest, once said: "Perfection has one grave defect. It is apt to be dull."