Thoughts On Remote Island Living: London via Alphonse

The life of a London journalist is notoriously glamorous. I splash through potholes of poisonous rainwater, duty-bound to attend some avant-garde performance. It’s ‘consciousness-expanding’, the press release says. 

Under the damp ceiling that passes for our sky, I find solace in a few glasses of free wine at an art opening. I call that stuff paint stripper. And when you’ve been drinking it for a decade, you start to wish the potholes were portals.

Portals to other places, where you can wake up, jump on the bike outside your beachside bungalow, and ride around dense coconut groves, sticking one arm out to feel the baking sun. Sometimes the life of a scribbler does pay off – it brought me to Alphonse Island, and that was consciousness-expanding. The bike and the bungalow were just the beginning. 

Alphonse Island and two smaller, uninhabited sisters make up the Alphonse Group of Islands

Alphonse Island and two smaller, uninhabited sisters make up the Alphonse Group of Islands in the Outer Islands of the Seychelles. An archipelago of 115 islands in the Indian Ocean, off the East African coast, the Seychelles is the continent’s smallest, least populated country. Often compared to the Maldives as a beach destination, it benefits from better conservation policies, meaning it has so far avoided becoming overcrowded and overbuilt.

Once a coconut plantation, Alphonse was abandoned in the 20th century. With no easy means of access, the island seemed destined for a lonely fate. Until, that is, a group of enterprising hoteliers realised they could simultaneously create a travel destination and support the environment; an early example of what we now call eco-tourism. Rented by Blue Safari Seychelles, Alphonse Island is divided roughly into two halves: part luxury lodge, and part conservation centre run by the Island Conservation Society (ICS) which monitors, supports, and works to preserve and increase the flora and fauna that makes this place so Edenic. The two sides are split neatly by the airplane runway that allows chartered visitors to arrive from Mahé, the main island. 

You can go surfing, diving, blue water fishing; there’s snorkelling with sailfish or out on the coral reef, or with manta rays.

Sealife and wildlife are in dizzying abundance on Alphonse Island. And although I’d expected that social media would’ve desensitised me to images of idyllic beaches, when I am heading for a snorkel on a boat with other guests, I am struck near-breathless by the water’s vast, glassy expanse. It seems to flow to the corners of the world and blur with the perfect blue mirror above. All is stillness, emptiness, wonder. It’s like being at the beginning of the world, like a blank page unmarked by human hands.

Just then, spinner dolphins begin shooting up all around us. ‘What makes them dive under our boat?’ I ask the guide. She smiles, ‘They enjoy the rush of movement from the propeller – I think it’s kind of like surfing for them.’ 

The first time I cycle past a huge grey boulder and see a pair of clever eyes twinkling, I think I’ve hallucinated. That’s a boulder… and I’ve got sunstroke. But no, this is a fully grown Aldabra tortoise, roaming casually around the island. The Aldabra is one of two giant tortoise species left on Earth, the other being the Galapagos. The ICS have got impressive numbers to share: the Aldabra tortoise disappeared from Alphonse, but was reintroduced in 1999, and now there are just under 200, a significant population for an island that’s only 0.66 square miles. ‘We’re nearly at capacity,’ one of the ICS team jokes. 

The Aldabra is one of two giant tortoise species left on Earth

Part of ICS’s work is to protect young hatchlings in the tortoise nursery, ensuring they have plenty of space to grow and explore, whilst being safe from predators. Once they are big enough, they’re allowed out for the rest of their lives – which can last well over a hundred years (George, reportedly the oldest tortoise on the island, is suspected to be 130). 

All is stillness, emptiness, wonder. It’s like being at the beginning of the world, like a blank page unmarked by human hands.

There have been other major breakthroughs. By tackling colonies of rats who fed on the chicks of native seabirds, the ICS has seen a return of endemic species, such as the elusive Wedge-tailed Shearwaters. For the keen ornithologist, there’s also a rich assembly of migratory birds to watch. 

Alphonse produces over 27 tonnes of vegetables, fruit, and herbs annually

Given the focus on responsible consumption, it’s no surprise that Alphonse Island has the Seychelles’ second largest solar farm, which provides 90% of their power. It also produces over 27 tonnes of vegetables, fruit, and herbs annually, with this vibrantly fresh fare – from lemongrass to gourds – brought to our tables daily. There’s even a compost heap and beehives… oh, and the fish they serve are caught by the staff. It’s about as self-sufficient and low-impact as you can imagine. 

Guest accommodation is tastefully separated, offering the kind of privacy some of the more high-profile visitors are undoubtedly looking for. But we’re invited to interact at dinners, which happen out on the shore and are decidedly convivial. There’s a ceremony celebrating the best achievements of that day, from catch and release fly fishing (another huge draw) to beach clean-ups, and cocktails circulate. 

Most vacationers gravitate towards each other, swapping stories of what they’ve seen (I’m green with envy when one guest tells me she witnessed hundreds of sea turtles hatch during dinner, a few nights before I arrived). Under the radiantly pink sunsets, you can’t help but make friends.

We’re invited to interact at dinners, which happen out on the shore and are decidedly convivial

‘We don’t really attract the “fly and flop” crowd’, says Elle Brighton, the conservation and sustainability manager. ‘The swimming pool is basically empty during the day; everyone is out doing stuff.’

The options are plentiful. You can go surfing, diving, blue water fishing; there’s snorkelling with sailfish (thought to be the fastest fish in the sea) or out on the coral reef, or with manta rays. Elle, who is a trained marine biologist, leads part of the activity programme, as well as delivering talks several times a week. These are short but fascinating snapshots of the conservation work happening on the island, whether it’s surveying manta rays or lemon sharks.

Another stroke of genius are the beach cleans. Although staff lead the effort, collecting broken flip-flops and empty energy drinks bottles that wash up on the islands, guests are gently encouraged to go along. The visceral experience of seeing pristine sand clotted with rubbish is just as much of a wake-up call for me as it would be for any young children visiting.

Educating guests about local ecosystems, and employing expert conservationists, tells you something intrinsic about what Blue Safari Seychelles stands for. It is on a mission to bring every visitor face-to-face with Mother Earth – a rare experience for city-dwellers like me. Nature is often too far away when all you breathe is taxi fumes and the only green you see is that succulent your work wife gave you as a novelty gift. 

Above me, like a handful of sequins thrown upward, the stars glitter. We lose our sense of awe in London. 

‘Have you noticed the red and green lights outside your bungalow?’ Elle asks on a cycle tour (cars are banned). ‘Those colours, unlike yellow or white lights, don’t disturb nesting sea turtles,’ she tells us, ‘it’s not for you, it’s for them’. I realise how good this makes me feel when I ride the 5-minute route back to my bungalow that evening. I take a midnight rinse in the turtle-friendly red glow of the outside shower. Above me, like a handful of sequins thrown upward, the stars glitter. We lose our sense of awe in London. 

Educating guests about local ecosystems, and employing expert conservationists, tells you something intrinsic about what Blue Safari Seychelles stands for.

‘What’s it like living here, all year round?’ I ask one of the waitresses. 'It’s remote island living. It’s beautiful – all the time – but I never get bored.’ Shooting the breeze with one of the fishing guides later, he tells me, ‘I was going to come for one year. I’ve been here about five. I just can’t leave – the friendships you end up making are amazing. We’re bonded.’ He’s one of some 100+ people who work here, from tailors, to chefs, boatsmen, and farmers. There are even a doctor and nurse on site.

You know what they don’t have? Too much internet. While it's available in rooms and communal spaces, you can’t spend your time making TikToks on the beach. I also love that the rooms don’t have TVs. With this invisible barrier dissolved, people come together. The staff, I notice, are big on playing card games in their time off, or just hanging out on their porches, talking.

‘It’s remote island living. It’s beautiful – all the time – but I never get bored.’

The camaraderie between the employees fuels the five-star service all guests receive. The whole place just flows. Of course, Alphonse Island offers classic barefoot luxury, with some truly once-in-a-lifetime add-ons, like hiring Alphonse’s deserted neighbouring islet, Bijoutier, for a private dining experience (ten-year anniversary? Unforgettable proposal?). Spa, yoga, and catering are all there at your disposal, but the beating heart of this place is something simpler. Let’s call it connection. Connection to the surroundings, connection between people. 

Gazing out on the horizon, I wonder if Alphonse Island could serve as a kind of model village… could it provide a blueprint for a more populous and unhappy place? The UK too, is an isolated island, yet everything is a thumbs down here lately. Everyone I meet sneers and rolls their eyes and raises a cynical eyebrow. We elbow each other out of the way and toss Fanta bottles over hedges. We could really use some version of a communal beach clean to come together in common purpose. 

Another stroke of genius are the beach cleans. Although staff lead the effort, guests are gently encouraged to go along.

Alphonse Island is a far-flung place that has flourished because of committed stakeholders.

Granted, Britain isn’t blessed with sunshine or sailfish. But even amidst the rain, we have architecture, parks, and playgrounds, all of which deserve our respect and care. Propagating the good things, fanning them from a tiny spark into a flame, like Alphonse Island has with its disappearing species, is something that can be done anywhere. Before I get stoned to death, I know I know, we’re all just so busy. We don’t have time to look after London. Or… could we do with a little less screen time? A tiny bit less TV, like in my tropical inspo? 

Alphonse Island is a far-flung place that has flourished because of committed stakeholders. Their love, time, and strategic planning means that when I wake up at sunrise on my last day, and step straight onto the coastline with my coffee, I am surprised by a sea turtle, pushing her way back towards the ocean after laying her eggs. She passes less than a metre away from me, showering me with sand as she whirls her flippers. I stand still, unable to believe my eyes. You see now why I’m trying out some tentative optimism – these are life-affirming, forever-in-my-heart moments. 

Of course, there’s an easy way to get your own full dose of this philosophy. Just visit Alphonse Island yourself – I promise you’ll come back feeling a little different about London too. 

To find out more about Alphonse Island and Blue Safari Seychelles, please visit their website. 

All images courtesy of Blue Safari Seychelles.