“Could you pull over, please?” came a voice from the front passenger seat, stirring the rest of us from our queasy daze. The driver took one look at the face next to him and abruptly swerved into a convenient lay-by. The passenger, sweaty and frantic, leapt out of the van and quickly disappeared into the forest, his face almost as green as the trees around us.

We’d been on the road for over an hour, on what can only be described as a tropical mountain roller coaster. Our driver, Jonny – a stoic born and bred St Lucian – was at home on the meandering mountain roads that weaved like loose black ribbons tossed across the island. His cargo: three Brits, four Americans and a Canadian, were not. 

With still another hour to go, we set off again following the road up, down and over luscious mountains, through dense rainforest and alongside endless banana plantations. Jonny made light work of the hairpin turns as we glimpsed the calm Caribbean Sea on the left, only to round another bend to catch sight of the choppy Atlantic on the right. The view from every window was spectacular — if you managed to wrench your head out from between your legs for long enough.

Soon enough our destination appeared suddenly and rather dramatically on the horizon. Two immense emerald-green peaks rising side-by-side from the Caribbean Sea: the Pitons. Formed almost a million years ago by volcanic activity, the impressive twin peaks – Gros Piton and Petit Piton – are among St Lucia’s most memorable landmarks and can be seen for miles across the island. That day, we were to hike 2,619 ft. to the peak of Gros Piton, the largest of the mountain pair.

With popping ears and sweaty palms, we finally emerged wide-eyed into the fishing village of Anse La Raye. Its pretty pastel buildings complemented by a Caribbean backdrop; light oranges, yellows and dusty pinks against a deep, dark blue. It was early on a hot and humid Friday morning, but already people were jostling for space on the narrow road. Kids were weaving in and out of traffic laughing and racing to school, a handful of fishermen were loading nets onto rusty pick-up trucks, and women dressed in every colour of the rainbow cheerfully gossiping in doorways. We made our way through the village, pleased to be off the mountain roads, and followed the increasingly pungent smell of sulphur towards Soufriere, where the Pitons call home. 

The road to Soufriere led us through thick, dark foliage; huge palms flopped over the road, tall evergreens mingled behind, and creeping vines filled any gaps, all blocking our view of the looming Pitons. Only when we were dispatched at the base of Gros Piton and introduced to our guides could we really appreciate the sheer beauty rising above us in all her glory.

And so, we began our ascent.