‘Rockhouse: The Book’ Captures 50 Years of Jamaican Hospitality

Prior to officially opening to the public as one of the first hotels on Negril, Jamaica’s West End, in 1974, the Rockhouse property was already a silver screen staple. Papillon, 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea, and the once-lost-to-time No Place Like Home each featured its jagged coast and watery caves. Paul Salmon and his partners would purchase and set about expanding the lodging in 1994. Since then Rockhouse has grown to include a foundation—started in 2004, based on its commitment to active community engagement—that has partnered with six schools in the area and the Negril Community Library. Here, Peter Jon Lindberg, previously executive editor of Condé Nast Traveler and editor-at-large of Saveur, captures the guest experience of the hotel in his own firsthand account.

Rockhouse: The Book is now available.

The first time I saw that view I laughed out loud. It was, in a word, ridiculous – like stepping into someone’s absurdly oversaturated screensaver. Pristine Cove glittered before us in the midday sun, framed by the most perfectly formed limestone cliffs, with siren-red ladders descending into sparkling blue green water. Vincent’s glass-bottom boat bobbed just offshore, circled by a trio of snorkelers. Nilou and I stood there for a full minute, grinning at the crazy of it all. All we could think was: Are you %$#@ing kidding me?

Our first visit was in 2002, over Valentine’s Day. Our friend Ellen had recommended — no, urged us to go. “It’s my favorite place,” she said. “Trust me: you’ll love it.” She was right. From our first laughable glimpse of Pristine Cove, Nilou and I were all in. We’d booked just six nights at Rockhouse, but by checkout we were so deeply relaxed it felt like a full month had passed.

I had an ulterior motive on that first trip: after two years of dating, I planned to propose to Nilou. I’d hidden my grandmother’s ring at the bottom of my dopp kit, among the bug spray and SPF, and was determined to pick not just the right moment, but also just the right spot.

On Day 2, in the quiet calm after another mesmeric West End sunset, I finally got up the nerve. Conditions were perfect. Frigatebirds circled a sky streaked with gold. The pool bar had mostly emptied out, save for a dozen hangers-on, and we were alone at the cliff’s edge, gazing out at the sea. I was about to pop the question when we heard a hair-raising shriek. “OHMYGODOHMYGODOHMYGOD!!!”

At the far end of the pool, a woman was flailing in the water, squealing and splashing frantically as her boyfriend looked on. For a second we thought she was drowning, until we saw her left hand, waving triumphantly in the air, sporting an enormous diamond ring. “WE JUST GOT ENGAGED!!!!” she shouted to everyone within earshot. A cheer rose from the pool bar; rounds of cocktails were ordered. And for the second time that week, I thought to myself: Are you %$#@ing kidding me??

Needless to say, I wasn’t going second. After being unceremoniously scooped I mostly wanted to go to bed. I ultimately gave up on my Jamaican proposal and waited until we were back in New York. (Nilou said yes, by the way.)

And anywhere else, it might’ve ruined my whole trip. But Rockhouse doesn’t let a thwarted marriage proposal stand in the way of a perfectly good holiday. And despite my inclination to sulk and scowl at our newly betrothed neighbors, we ended up having a blissful week.

How could we not? That was the week we sat three stools over from Lee Scratch Perry at the Rockhouse bar, quietly freaking out while he held forth on God knows what. The week we saw porpoises – porpoises! – leaping in the surf just yards from our chaises. The week we swooned to the mellifluous harmonies of a mento band, straight out of 1950s Kingston, singing nightly at the bar. We discovered the revelation of a proper Jamaican breakfast complete with ackee, saltfish, festival, bammy, buttery callaloo, and velvety Blue Mountain coffee. We rented snorkel masks and fins and learned that the only thing better than the view across Pristine Cove was the view underneath Pristine Cove: a parallel universe where we spent most of our mornings, wondering if maybe breakfast had been spiked with hallucinogens.

As much as we adored the place that first visit in 2002, we never imagined Rockhouse would become “our” place, the one we’d return to every year. Hell, we weren’t sure we even wanted that. Who goes back to the same resort over and over and over again? There was so much more to see and do, so many other somewheres! Nilou and I were in our early 30s then, and both working at Travel + Leisure – going to new places was literally our job. Travel, we told ourselves, was about the unfamiliar, the untrammeled, the passport full of stamps.

What we didn’t account for was the possibility of falling head over heels for this curious little outpost by the sea – in a house, on a rock, in a bay, on a reef, on an island, in Jamaica. Returning? After our second visit, less than a year later, it was no longer a question. It was settled: Rockhouse was our spot. We were together for the foreseeable future. Now it’s 22 years later, and we’ve been coming here long enough to remember when Pushcart was still Pirate’s Cave.

When the organic garden across the road was just a barren field. We were here before the Ocean View Suites, before the Premium Villas, before the gym, even before the spa.