Here are the available villas for rental in Grenada.

Sunshine and seasoning

From the Daily Mail

Ssshh, I'll let you into a secret, straight from television chef Gary Rhodes's Caribbean hideaway - his wife can't bear to cook for him.
'Whatever I make, whether it's pasta or scrambled eggs, he'll take a bite and say I should have used more of this or less of that,' she says.
'So I tell him to shut up and eat.'
Jenny, a jolly, extrovert lady and also a trained chef, is certainly not afraid to bring her husband back down to earth.
She's not averse to taking a break from one of his inspirational cooking demonstrations and barracking him with cries of 'Rubbish! Rubbish!' on her way out to the powder room.
And she was more than happy to take one look at Rhodes and I in similarly voluminous white cotton shirts and exclaim: 'What do they think they look like!'
Perhaps their infectious informality was brought out by our hotel in Grenada, with its great beach view.
The Rhodes family - including sons Sam and George, and Gary's mother Jean - pride themselves on their informality.
Gary still lives near Orpington, Kent, and eats out at his local Indian.
He was a man of the people long before the idea occurred to Tony Blair.
The family does not always have much time for holidays en masse, yet when they escape together they have as much fun as if they were on the front at Southend, even if Rhodes dabbles in a bit of holiday work at the same time. ... more

Packing a real Caribbean punch

Anywhere calling itself the Spice Island is bound to strike terror in British stomachs. The name conjures images of dodgy curries with grisly after-effects.
I feared the worst and arrived in Grenada with a suitcase full of pills.
I need not have bothered. Instead of fiery foreign condiments, my stomach was assailed by nothing more sinister than nutmeg, saffron and cinnamon.
Grenadians are gentle souls: they do not try to blow the roof off your mouth.
It is an enchanting island and a good part of its enchantment comes from its food.
On the harbourside at St George's, the capital and one of the prettiest towns in the Caribbean, brightly coloured stalls sell everything from cloves to plantains, guava to goatmeat and coconuts to lambi, a local name for conch.
'How you doin', my friend?' asked a man with dirty dreadlocks at the end of the quay. He was cooking some kind of fish soup on a small primer stove.
The smell wafted gently across the harbour: past the Grenada Co-Operative Bank; past the Baptist church; past the garage; past the shop selling T-shirts.
There was a policeman in a red cap watching the proceedings from across the street, nodding his approval as salt was added to the soup, followed by rice. He was flanked by two schoolgirls in white blouses, who were similarly absorbed.
Grenadians, I realised, take their food seriously.
That impression persisted as I drove into the lush, mountainous interior. ... more

How to spot a killer

'This really is a long way to come to watch something blow its nose,' snorted one of my fellow passengers dismissively, as our guide pointed to yet another spray of water in the middle distance.
For the first hour of our whale-watching trip, four miles off the North-Western coast of Grenada, I couldn't help agreeing with him.
We had been told we were '97 per cent certain' to see one of these magnificent mammals close up by Mosden Cumberbach, a fisherman-turned-entrepreneur who scours the waters around this Caribbean island in his 44ft catamaran every day of the week.
But other than those far-off plumes (which, to the untrained eye, are impossible to distinguish from the surf), we had little confidence in his powers of prediction.
To add to the growing feelings of mutiny, some of us were having difficulty finding our sea legs.
'At this time of year, the sea is normally as flat as a millpond,' commented one of the crew gamely, as we held on to our stomachs amid a 5ft swell.
Then, suddenly, just as we were giving up hope of seeing anything, Mosden jumped up from his lookout post and shouted down: 'There's a large one to the left and a baby one straight ahead. We'll have to sneak up on them from behind or they will move further out'.
Instantly forgetting our seasickness, all eight of us tourists on board scampered over to the starboard side.
Even then, we couldn't quite believe him until we saw a huge grey back - with a smaller one by its side - emerge from the water about 30ft from the boat.
A scramble for cameras ensued while the whales played submarines with us, vanishing into the turquoise depths to emerge a minute or so later.
Not having seen a whale in the wild before, I glanced down at the laminated chart we had been given to try to identify our new friends. ... more

Crystal-clear sea

My holiday to Grenada last September was fantastic.
I would definitely advise a tour of the island to get a small taste of the history of this wonderful place.
Gran Anse beach is a vital destination, where the sea is crystal clear and St Georges is good for shopping.
No real problems here, just be careful as with any other country.

Making a debut dive

From the Daily Mail

Slipping slowly beneath the clear blue waters of the Caribbean, I started raining curses on the head of Jacques Cousteau.
As a child, I was mesmerised by those images of life on the ocean floor, overlaid with the Gallic accent of the venerable French diver who dominated Seventies wildlife TV. All my life I'd harboured a desire to follow in the master's watery footsteps to the mysterious depths where sharks lurked, fish swam and jellyfish did whatever jellyfish do.
That morning, I had strapped a scuba tank to my back for the first time and learned the basics of diving in a pool at a beachfront hotel. It had all seemed so simple then, so unthreatening and easy. Now, though, with 40ft of seawater beneath me, I was gripped by fear. Then male ego came to the rescue.
Linda, a fellow traveller who had gone through training with me, was gliding across the seabed like someone closely related to a dolphin. This was a situation not to be tolerated. I took a deep breath, forced my heart out of my throat and took a long look around. It was all right.
I hate to admit it, but every cliche ever told about diving is true: it really is out of this world. And a little cove off the white sands of Grand Anse beach on the island of Grenada must be the best place in the world to boldly go where no man - at least in my family - had ever gone before.
Within seconds I was entranced, engulfed in clouds of glittering multicoloured fish, darting between forests of coral. I apologised silently to Jacques and tried to remember to gawp and breathe at the same time. Thirty minutes later, I surfaced and had that light-headed feeling that comes from having accomplished something slightly daring. Or perhaps it was just oxygen starvation.
Grenada is like that. It creeps up, hitting you with an uncomfortable notion - for once, the holiday brochure's hyperbole was justified.
Take Grand Anse beach. The sand was white enough to make a purist cry, the sea was as clear as bath water, palm trees whispered in a breeze and the scene was overhung with beautiful blue sky. Behind it was our hotel, the Spice Island Beach Resort. Its Royal suites comprise a private cottage with a personal plunge pool, mini-gym and sauna. ... more