Bermuda, When Summer Softens

There is a particular blue that belongs to Bermuda. From the air it begins far beyond the shore, where the deep Atlantic breaks over the reef, then lightens as the water crosses coral and sand. Near the island it turns clear enough to see the bottom. The white roofs come next, then the houses in pale pink, yellow and blue, set among cedars, palms and oleander.

In September the colour is the same, but the light has changed. It no longer falls straight down and flashes from every roof and window. It comes at an angle, resting on the old stone walls and reaching farther beneath the trees. The warmth remains on the skin after a swim, though the breeze finds its way through an open shirt and moves the leaves above a shaded terrace. Summer is still here. It has simply stopped insisting upon itself.

The sea remains warm along the South Shore and the sand still holds the day’s heat into the evening. Hamilton Harbour is busy, as it nearly always is, but beyond it the island has begun to loosen. There is more room on the beaches and less reason to hurry along the narrow roads. Boats pass inside the reef, their wakes arriving at the shore after they have disappeared behind the headlands.

Bermuda is often spoken of as though it were part of the Caribbean, but it sits by itself in the North Atlantic, far from any neighbouring island. That isolation has always mattered. It can be seen in the architecture, in the rainwater roofs and walled lanes, and tasted in a cuisine shaped by the sea and by the British, Portuguese, African, Caribbean and Native American traditions that reached these shores over centuries.

September adds something of its own. On the first day of the month, spiny lobster returns to the table.

It has been absent since spring, long enough for absence to do what abundance rarely can: make it matter. Fishermen return to the reef, kitchens wait to see what comes in, and people who know the season order it when it appears. There is no need to make a ceremony of its return. The pleasure is in knowing that it has.

The Bermuda spiny lobster has none of the heavy claws of its northern cousin. It is long-antennaed and armoured, with its sweet meat held mostly in the tail. Split and set over heat, the shell deepens in colour as butter gathers inside it and citrus brightens what the sea has already done. The first taste is unmistakably of lobster, but also of timing: this water, this island and this brief part of the year. There are more elaborate ways to serve it, though elaboration is not always an improvement.

Lobster is only one part of an island table built around what comes from the water. Wahoo, rockfish, snapper, tuna and mahi-mahi appear according to the catch, grilled or pan-roasted with citrus and herbs. Bermuda fish chowder is darker and more serious, rich with tomato and finished at the table with black rum and sherry peppers. The rum gives it depth and the peppers leave a heat that stays after the spoon has gone back to the bowl. It is not delicate food. It has survived because it is good.

Late afternoon calls for something smaller. Fish cakes arrive hot, crisp at the edges and soft inside, with enough onion, herbs and pepper to stand beside a cold drink. Wahoo can be fried in small pieces and eaten with lime, while lobster meat needs only a little citrus and something sharp alongside it. These are not ceremonial dishes. They are the sort of food that disappears while the first drink is still cold.

The Rum Swizzle is not a contemplative drink. It is generous, fruit-led and stronger than its colour suggests. A Dark ’n Stormy is leaner: black rum, ginger beer, ice and lime, with the sweetness held in check by spice. Either belongs to the hour when the sun has moved lower, the table is still warm and the question of dinner can be left until later.

The pleasure of these flavours is that they do not depend upon the view. Prepared with restraint, they can recover it. Butter and lime recall the lobster; sherry pepper brings back the warmth of the chowder; dark rum, ginger and citrus carry the ease of late afternoon. They are not souvenirs from Bermuda. They are a way of finding it again through taste.

That return need not wait for another visit. It may happen at a table far from the island, in another season, or on a journey leading somewhere else entirely. A flavour arrives first and the atmosphere gathers around it: warm water, pale roofs, salt on the breeze and September light resting beneath the trees. For a moment, distance becomes less exact.

Bermuda need not disappear simply because it is no longer on the itinerary. For travellers who wish to carry some of the island’s indulgence with them, Velair Privé creates bespoke inflight menus shaped by place, season and memory.