My husband has an old friend from university who sells reggae records for a living. Reggae Matt spends a sizeable portion of the year in Jamaica, sourcing new tunes and finding old recordings. He drops in on us when he is in London, to see the kids and to fill up on English food. When he comes he brings Rob a couple of ‘biscuits’ to listen to. As a result, my children’s decidedly X Factor, pop culture soundtracks are interspersed with whatever is playing on the back streets of Kingston.

Most lunches with Matt end with him sitting on our sofa, full of chat about cricket, white beaches, warm evenings: “So when are you coming to Jamaica, then?” “One day, definitely one day” is the stock response. It is one of those ‘one days’ that I don’t think we ever really thought would come. However, Jamaica has a sense of reality to us that the other Caribbean islands don’t. Thus it was, earlier this year, that we found ourselves on a Virgin Atlantic flight to Montego Bay.

Jamaica is the largest English-speaking island in the Caribbean and has two entry points for international travel. Kingston, the capital, is in the South East of the island. Montego Bay, or Mo Bay, is in the North West and is the tourist capital. It takes about four hours to drive between the two but the chances are if you go to Mo Bay you stay up in the North West. This is package holiday land; lots of big beachside hotels with an international clientele. It is the sort of ‘unimaginative’ travel that is easy to scorn and I have tended to avoid. As we took our mini bus along the busy dual carriageway from Sangster International on our, worryingly short, transfer to the Half Moon Resort, I was nervous. We turned off into a gated compound, down a wide palm tree lined avenue to a big open sided lobby complete with framed photographs of the Queen and Prince Philip staying in the hotel circa 1977. We were presented with garish pink/orange cocktails that might well have had umbrellas in. We were shown out the other side of the lobby to the lovely crescent shaped beach that gives the hotel its name. A row of whitewashed houses fringed the sand under the palm trees. This was where the resort began, back in 1954. The 17 original properties form part of the hotel but operate on a timeshare basis and each has its own distinctive style, giving the heart of the resort a decidedly low key, un-corporate feel. Our own cottage, slightly set back from the beach but with a view of the sea from the terrace, had a similar colonial bungalow look, complete with manicured lawn, bouganvilla and its own private plunge pool.

We unpacked and wandered back to the beach. At one end there is a pretty beachfront bar, not unlike the one where Tom Cruise meets his girl in Cocktail. (Incidentally, for Cocktail fans, ‘that’ waterfall is at Reach Falls, towards Kingston.) The rum cocktails were delicious, freshly blended juice with a kick. I was starting to relax. This was going to be OK. The children set off to explore.

20 minutes later they were back  “mummy mummy mummy you have got to see this!” The swim up bar in the kids’ pool had been discovered.

The resort has expanded beyond the original half moon beach and now covers 400 acres, including two further beaches and a golf course. There is a real sense of space. We borrowed bikes, lovely rickety old fashioned ones, and we all pedalled everywhere. There are glorious riding stables adjoining the resort that feel part of a different age. Well-kept ex-polo ponies are available to ride out in the arena or surrounding land. My daughters cycled up to the stables a couple of times every day. They also arrange pre-breakfast rides along the beach that end up with a swim in the ocean on your horse. The feeling of being carried through the water on a swimming horse is extraordinary.

Another highlight for the children was the hotel’s dolphin lagoon. This is more of an ‘attraction’, complete with enthusiastic American commentary and I felt lacked the natural spontaneity of the riding. The little ones, however, will not forget petting the dolphins and the bigger two did some fairly impressive (though short!) waterskiing stints behind them.

On one day we hired a car and went up the coast to Negril to visit Matt. Away from the urban sprawl of Mo Bay the country is crushingly poor. While the land is rich in produce – bananas were everywhere, and the mangos were just coming into season – corrugated iron shacks line the roads. Rows of kids in impossibly white shirts and smart maroon uniforms were on their way to school. The names of the towns and villages are all British – we were in the county of Cornwall – adding to the sense you are in a 1950s timewarp, all in tropical technicolor. Christianity is big business here. Jamaica has more churches per capita mile than anywhere in the world and on every street corner there is a facia proclaiming the Word as spread by a particular denomination.

Negril itself is a paradisical stretch of white sand that goes on for miles. We had a memorable lunch in a small beachfront café and the kids had the ubiquitous beads braided into their hair. The reggae bands hit the beach and the heady smell of ganja got stronger. I can see why Matt loves it. “It is not a genteel place. You step outside and it is a disorganised rough and tumble. Jamaica is not for the weak-hearted,­ but that’s what people like about it.”

This gutsy, bright, larger than life vibe shines through – in the music, in the jerk chicken bbqs, in the direct eyes and strong hand shakes of those we meet. It is not an island of beige and cream but of the red, gold and green of the Rasta flag. But its colonial past is ever-present too. The planter chairs, the sea facing verandas, the ghosts of Noel Coward’s elegant party guests. The Half Moon belongs to this colonial Jamaica, to a world that does not exist any more. It does it with style and heart that is captivating.

Emily Turner and family travelled with Scott Dunn. A week for 2 adults and two children (aged 2-12) costs from £5095 inc flights/trfers.

Tel 8682 5420