Things don’t get much more Ernest Hemingway than this. I’m standing in the back of a fishing boat, chugging around the island of Alphonse in the Seychelles.
I have just heard the reel on my fishing rod click round one notch. I clip the rod into my holster and start psyching up for the man-versus-fish struggle ahead.
It is a mighty beast. Our fishing guide, Josh, reckons it is a wahoo weighing up to 30lb, and my first thought is: ‘I wish I hadn’t seen Jaws.’
We have no intention of keeping the great fish — but we have to reel it in, in order to release it.
After ten minutes of intense effort — during which I feel like The Old Mant battling against The Sea — I am sent flying on to my back as the fish snaps my line and makes a dash for it. Defeat snatched from the jaws of victory and all that.
Alphonse has long been a haven for fishermen, but now its only hotel, known simply as Alphonse Island, caters just as well for families. After a huge refurbishment it has 21 freshly redecorated beach bungalows and five beach suites.
It is a sparsely populated island; the census in 2014 recorded a population of just 82, most of whom work at the hotel.
There are no shops — everything revolves around Alphonse Island, which offers a wealth of activities.
You can snorkel across a coral reef with a Finding Nemo-esque array of fish, kayak in a glass-bottomed boat, scuba-dive, whale-watch, enjoy a variety of nature walks and take a ‘Flats Lunch’, served to you ankle-deep in warm water on a deserted sand-bar.
James stayed at the only hotel, Alphonese Island (pictured), which has undergone a huge refurbishment and now has 21 freshly redecorated beach bungalows and five beach suites
You can’t help coming nose to snout with nature. Fifty giant tortoises wander freely. Only one, called Grumpy Ivan, is aggressive.
I am disturbed one night by a strange beating sound. I rush down to the beach, where I am met by a giant hawksbill turtle striking her fins against the sand as she gives birth to around 150 eggs on the beach outside my bungalow. If she looks shocked, I look awed.
On another day, we take a walk around the uninhabited neighbouring island of St Francois and learn that after mating, the female palm spider habitually eats the male.
We travel there on Air Seychelles from London via Paris, landing first in the Seychelles capital of Victoria, where we overnight in the Eden Bleu, an airy new hotel overlooking a marina full of gleaming super-yachts. Then we fly in a 14-seat propeller plane for an hour to Alphonse.
There are no cars on the island — circumference just 3.42 miles. Guests are given a bike for pootling around the palm-tree-fringed orbital pathway.
Every evening, the bar at the Alphonse Island is crammed with fisherfolk, arms open wide to indicate the size of the ones that got away.
I am one of them. Lacking a mobile signal, Alphonse is ideal for a digital detox. It would suit anyone from rugged anglers to romantic honeymooners.
