¡Happy Birthday Guadeloupe!

Another day, another island—although, unusually for this trip, one still firmly tethered to Europe. Unlike many British Overseas Territories, which enjoy a comfortable distance from Westminster and significant autonomy, Guadeloupe is an official department of France, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Paris, Rhône, and Hauts-de-Seine. It spends euros, participates enthusiastically in French parliamentary elections, and even enjoys the European Union’s free movement of people—an oddity when sipping rum cocktails in the Caribbean sunshine. Unsurprisingly, the locals carry themselves with an unmistakably Parisian hauteur as well as maintaining a cheerfully unapologetic disdain for the English. Naturally, this provided an immediate point of bonding.

In stark contrast to yesterday’s rugged adventure—where just a handful of youthful (ish), overly optimistic travellers tackled Saint Lucia’s punishing Gros Piton hike—today’s excursion had the distinct aroma of Werther’s Originals and comfortable shoes. Indeed, we found ourselves among an army of senior citizens numbering in the hundreds, united by an unwavering devotion to the BBC favourite, Death in Paradise. Filmed on Guadeloupe since 2011, the show draws legions of devoted fans to the island’s sunny shores, all eager to trace the footsteps of DI Humphrey Goodman, Commissioner Selwyn Patterson, and Officer Dwayne Myers. Admittedly, the likelihood of murder among this peaceful pensioner posse was slim—but there remained a glimmer of hope that one might conveniently keel over in suspicious circumstances, requiring the immediate intervention of an incredibly talented armchair detective.

Our tour commenced at perhaps the show’s most cherished and iconic spot: the detective’s ramshackle beach shack, home to countless lightbulb moments and questionable deductions. There was, however, one minor inconvenience: it doesn’t actually exist—at least, not most of the time. The charmingly rustic wooden structure is painstakingly constructed anew each spring, ready for filming, and then swiftly dismantled once production wraps up, leaving just a solitary tree (which grows defiantly through its imaginary living room) and, admittedly, a stunning view across the Caribbean Sea. Even more inconveniently, this phantom shack isn’t even located near the show’s main set, which is instead a thirty-minute drive along Guadeloupe’s winding western coastal road, nestled within the colourful streets of Deshaies, our next stop.

The instant we were released from our bus, we hurriedly scaled the steep streets of the town towards the famed police station, determined to beat the slowly advancing battalion of beige trousers closing in behind us. Thankfully, being among the few tourists still blessed with fully functioning original hips, our athleticism paid off. First in line, we secured exclusive access to all the station’s cherished highlights—the illustrious crime-solving whiteboard, the less-than-secure adjoining cells, and, most prized of all, the detective’s well-worn desk chair. After shamelessly acting out various investigative poses, we ambled next door to explore the town’s picturesque church—an idyllic little chapel that, thanks to the show, has witnessed more brutal murders than Midsomer and a fête in Miss Marple’s village combined.

Descending from the church, we made our way down winding streets towards the waterfront, eager to locate the establishment I’d anticipated most keenly: Catherine’s Bar. At first glance, however, this looked challenging as we were presented with a bewildering maze of nearly identical-looking Caribbean bars, each one seemingly boasting the same cheerful facade, obligatory reggae music, and strategically placed palm trees. Fortunately, harnessing my finely tuned detective instincts, I quickly deduced that our best chance of success was to tail the palest, slowest-moving cluster of Brits within sight. My powers of deduction proved flawless: within minutes, the shuffling convoy guided us directly to the promised land. Darting past them at the final moment in a display of youthful suppleness, we secured our cold, surprisingly affordable beers and found a sandy perch just beside the legendary sunset terrace.

Later, venturing beyond the film-set fanfare, the town soon revealed its quieter, delightfully less glamorous side. The streets were peaceful, offering a chance to appreciate the faded charm of shuttered cottages painted every imaginable shade of pastel and with bougainvillea pouring over crumbling walls. Bars elsewhere were smaller, less polished, and refreshingly cheaper, serving rum punches strong enough to qualify as paint stripper and beers cold enough to briefly numb the tropical humidity. Each establishment was thoughtfully guarded by at least one local hound, usually sprawled indifferently across the doorway, accepting belly-rubs as mandatory admission fees (which we dutifully paid at every opportunity). While, undoubtedly, there is far more to Guadeloupe than just its set—dense jungles, hidden waterfalls, and even a volcano or two—I was thoroughly content with our choice to spend our limited time drinking lazily, scratching sleepy dogs, and appreciating a peaceful paradise at its unassuming best. Shame there wasn’t a murder, though.

J