Barbuda, Caribbean beach paradise

As arrivals go, it was pretty spectacular. The eight-seater plane flew low over water so clear we could easily make out the sandy seabed. Fifteen minutes later we touched down next to the "airport", a mint green shed with a partition dividing arrivals and departures. We crossed the village by jeep before boarding a motor boat that whisked us across the wide expanse of a lagoon, then headed into the shallows of a mangrove swamp, disturbing flocks of frigate birds. From the mangroves we emerged onto the open sea, rounded a headland and there it was: a mile-long stretch of gorgeous, empty white beach.

North Beach. A simple name for a simple resort in an extraordinarily beautiful location on the tip of the little-visited island of Barbuda. Apart from five bungalows we could see nothing but sand, sea, sky and palm trees.

Relative remoteness (it's 30 miles north of Antigua, the larger of two islands which make up this country), a tiny population, and rules forbidding foreign ownership of land mean Barbuda is a rare thing indeed: gobsmackingly picturesque yet utterly unspoilt. Apart from two exclusive hotels which are so expensive they are not promoted by mainstream tour operators, there's just a handful of privately-owned cottages, mostly in Codrington, the only town on the island. There's little money to be made from just a few hundred tourists, so unlike almost every other island in the Caribbean, Barbuda is free of discos, water sports centres, markets selling tat, and day-trip operators. The only business I spotted, a bike hire place, was closed, and lack of passing trade means bars and restaurants tend to open only if you phone ahead. This all adds up to a friendly, sleepy, uncommercial island, where life seems pretty close to the cheesy local slogan – "too blessed to be stressed".

No one exemplifies the pace of life here better than Reuben James, the Barbudan owner of North Beach, who in 28 years has built just five bungalows. James has had offers from several foreign companies to buy and develop the resort but has no intention of selling this little patch of paradise.

In addition to the bungalows, there is a dining room – though that's too grand a word for the simple, concrete-floored hut where all meals are served – and that is it. There is no pool, bar or spa; there's no activity centre, no shop, no internet. Beyond the bath-like calm of the turquoise shallows, waves break on the reef, sending up plumes of white spray, their distant roar providing the only soundtrack.

Once you jump off the boat at North Beach you are marooned – in the best possible way. Being a neurotic city-dweller I'd worried that I'd be bored by the end of day one. But the laid-back vibe infected me almost immediately; it seeped into my bones, and slowed my mind. The trainers I packed, thinking I'd go for runs along the beach, remained in my suitcase unused. I tried doing yoga but gave up after a few feeble stretches. Attempting any kind of exercise here seemed faintly ridiculous. North Beach doesn't so much scream "relax!" as whisper it repeatedly in your ear until you're hypnotised into doing nothing, forced into a catatonic state of relaxation.

My boyfriend, our two-year old son and I spent hours lost in very simple pleasures: collecting the conch shells that litter the sand, swimming, and inspecting animal prints in the sand. Thirty metres or so out to sea, rays, lobsters and hundreds of little tropical fish were waiting to be discovered along the reef. Barbuda is almost entirely surrounded by reefs, providing swimmable shallows in shades of blue I thought only existed in brochures, and, in the past, treacherous territory for passing ships. According to a map at North Beach, 120 vessels were wrecked on the island between 1813 and 1927.

No such danger lay in wait for us as we kayaked close to the shore, admiring the view of our stilted white bungalow from the water. More adventurous guests can kayak to the nearby bird sanctuary but we hitched a ride in Reuben's launch instead. Barbuda may not attract many tourists but it's a major destination in the avian world: the island's bird sanctuary is one of the most important breeding sites in the world for the magnificent frigate bird. An estimated 5,000 come every year, their two-metre wingspans and forked tails forming slightly sinister silhouettes against the brilliant blue sky. We were there during the mating season, when males puff up their red throats like balloons to attract a mate. Reuben cut the engine and we drifted past the mangroves, so close I could see the black flecks on the inflated throats and the fluff of the babies' heads poking out of nests.

Even outside the sanctuary, wildlife was a constant presence. At night I lay awake listening to the screechy chatter of bats and the tip-tapping of geckos on the roof of our bungalow. At sunrise the cool sand was crisscrossed with tracks of birds, hermit crabs and the small deer that roam the island. One morning there were new tracks in the sand. A batch of turtles had hatched and been drawn to the light of the kitchen rather than the water's edge. We found others – one hidden in a conch shell, another that had to be prised from between two planks of wood with tweezers. The turtle season runs from June-October, so we were particularly lucky to see these late-hatchers in January. We transferred them to a trough of sea water before releasing them into the sea, where the waves swept them back on to the sand until they found the strength to power themselves out into the ocean.

Aside from the obvious natural attractions, there are a few places of interest in North Beach, so Reuben took us on a tour of the island. From Codrington we headed north on one of the island's two paved roads, passing more donkeys and goats than houses. The first stop was Highland House which is thought to have been occupied in the mid 1700s by one William Byam, who leased Barbuda from William Codrington, one of the Caribbean's wealthiest sugar plantation owners.

There is barely anything left of the original five dwellings and no word on the significance of the place or the undoubtedly grim stories behind it. Barbuda was used to provide supplies – including slaves – to plantations on Antigua. It's not so much that this dark chapter in the history of the island has been glossed over, more that it's disappearing altogether. "We are losing our history," said Reuben.

We headed back to Codrington, stopping at the only street stall in town to buy jerk chicken and rice, which we ate at the island's Martello tower, a former lookout post on the opposite coast which, unlike Highland House, is still intact. We clambered around the tower but as with everywhere else on the island the beach is a constant and distracting backdrop. I was lured away from the tower by a wooden sign pointing to yet another stretch of unspoilt sand and the (sadly closed) Pink Sand Beach Bar.

Back in Codrington I popped into the depot in Madison Square which could hardly be more different from its Manhattan namesake, and got chatting to the owner, Kelcina Burton-George, whose dad owns Uncle Roddy's restaurant, a perfect Caribbean beach bar and restaurant just along the coast from the now-derelict K-Club, the hotel that put Barbuda on the map by hosting Princess Diana.

Apart from the depot, Codrington has one or two sparsely stocked shops. Barbuda once grew and even exported melons and peanuts, as well as sugar, cotton and ginger. These days the only exports are lobster and sand; all other provisions are imported on the twice-weekly cargo boat, which explains the high cost of everything, and why at North Beach food is, if not scarce, not exactly plentiful. The only other guests staying there complained about the lack of choice at dinner, the lack of fresh fruit, the paper towel "napkins", and the fact that their room wasn't cleaned daily. Reuben promised to address their concerns. In the meantime, a stay here is not for those who expect any frills.

The luxury of North Beach is its location. We had the beach to ourselves for days – along with every other beach we visited, from the famous eight miles of pink sand to the more rugged, driftwood strewn one at Two Foot Bay. The other luxury is lobster, lots of it. We ate it five times – barbecued, in salads, grilled … washed down with Wadadli beers, or gin and tonics that were only slightly less potent than Reuben's "special, not-for-the-fainthearted" rum punch with lime, grenadine, angostura bitters and a sprinkling of nutmeg.

We spent our last day of the holiday on Antigua, eating a late breakfast close to a huge Sandals resort. Jet skis zoomed across the bay, a line of buoys preventing people from swimming out and being decapitated. There was also a bizarre, cartoon-like contraption which shot riders up into the air on water jets so they hovered in mid-air. It made me pine for the simplicity and beauty of North Beach, and brought home all the more vividly exactly what an extraordinary place it is.