Holidaying in Cartagena: Sun, Salt and the Sweet Slow Life

Through the eighties and nineties, saying you were off to Colombia for a beach holiday drew worried looks and a torrent of concern. Cartagena floated above the worst of it, yet the chill reached the city too, and tourists stayed away in their droves. The old walls held, along with the city's dignity and its astonishing good looks. Once the peace process took hold and the country opened back up in the 2000s, travellers came trickling in, then flooding: well over a million visitors a year now, direct flights from all over the Americas and Europe, and a pirate fortress on the Caribbean coast that has become one of the most talked about holiday spots on the continent. It deserves every bit of the hype. The opening stretch of wall by the Puerta del Reloj, where the stone curves toward the clock tower, is the first thing I'd tell anyone to go and stand on.

Step out of the airport and the heat hits you. Not a gentle warmth, more a thick, wraparound Caribbean humidity that makes your shirt stick to your back within about ninety seconds. You learn to love it.
Then there's the colour. The Ciudad Amurallada, the old walled city, looks like someone went mad with a paintbox and never apologised. Bougainvillea spills over wooden balconies in violent pinks and purples, and many walls are mango yellow, coral, or a blue so deep it looks edible. Everywhere you turn there's a door knocker shaped like a lizard or a sea horse that you absolutely must photograph. Cobbles underfoot, uneven, and completely gorgeous. Wear sensible shoes, or don't, and just accept a wobbly ankle as part of the experience. Calle del Curato, a narrow lane in the San Diego quarter, has a stretch of wall in exactly that mango yellow that stops people mid-step.

Now, the beaches, because that's what you're really here for. The city beaches won't blow your mind, but Bocagrande, the skinny peninsula south of the old town, is Cartagena's answer to Miami. High-rise hotels, a long strip of grey-ish sand lined with loungers, and persistent vendors selling oysters, sunglasses, and massages you didn't ask for. It's lively, it's convenient, and it's perfectly fine for an afternoon with a cold beer and a ceviche.

For the postcard you need a boat. The Islas del Rosario sit about an hour offshore, and the crossing alone is worth the ticket: spray in your face, music thumping from the speakers, the skyline shrinking behind you. Then the water changes. Murky green gives way to a ridiculous, luminous turquoise, the kind of colour that makes you suspect your eyes are lying. Playa Blanca on Isla Barú is the famous one, and yes, it's beautiful, with powdery white sand, warm shallow water, coconut palms leaning at lazy angles. It's also busy, so go early or stay overnight, because once the day-trippers leave at three o'clock the whole place exhales and becomes something close to paradise. If you want quieter, look at Isla Grande or the little eco-resorts strung along the archipelago, where you can kayak through mangroves in the morning and swim in bioluminescent plankton at night, the water glittering around your arms. Genuinely one of the most magical things I've ever done, and I've done a few.

Closer to home, there's La Boquilla, a fishing village just north of the city where the beach is wilder and the crowds thinner, and Tierra Bomba, a ten minute boat hop away, where beach clubs with day beds and DJs have sprouted up facing the skyline. Watching the sun drop behind the city from a day bed with a rum cocktail in hand is, I'm told, a personality type now. Fair enough.

Sleep shapes the whole trip, and Cartagena does accommodation brilliantly at every price point. The dream, if the budget stretches, is one of the boutique hotels inside the old walls. Picture a colonial mansion built around a courtyard, a tiny plunge pool ringed with tropical plants, ceiling fans turning slowly over four-poster beds, and breakfast of fresh mango and strong coffee served while hummingbirds bicker in the frangipani. Places like these often have rooftop terraces too, and sunset up there, church domes glowing gold, swifts shrieking overhead, is a moment you'll bore people about for years. Some of the grander ones have small spas and rooftop plunge pools, which feels gloriously decadent when the afternoon heat peaks. Casa San Agustín, a restored mansion on the plaza of the same name, keeps a courtyard so shaded and still that the thermometer seems to drop two degrees as you walk in.

Bocagrande is where you'll find the big international hotels: proper swimming pools, breakfast buffets the size of football pitches, gyms, kids' clubs, sea views from floor-to-ceiling windows. It lacks romance but gains air conditioning that could refrigerate meat, and after a day in the Caribbean sun, that's no small thing. Families and anyone who likes predictable comfort will be happy here.

Travelling lighter? Getsemaní, the neighbourhood just outside the walls, is your spot. It used to be the rough part of town, now it's the beating heart of the backpacker scene, all street art and hostels with hammocks and rooftop bars. A decent private room costs about what a takeaway does back home, and the nightlife spills onto Plaza de la Trinidad every evening, locals and travellers mixing over cheap beers while dancers and drummers do their thing. It's scruffy, loud, and utterly alive.

Out on the islands, accommodation runs from barefoot-basic hammocks under a palm roof to stylish little eco-lodges with solar power and outdoor showers. Don't count on hot water everywhere. Do count on falling asleep to the sound of waves and waking up wondering why you ever answer emails.

The lifestyle is the real souvenir. Cartagena keeps Caribbean time, which is to say, slowly, and fighting it is pointless. Mornings are for wandering before the heat builds, maybe a coffee from a street vendor, thick and sweet, or a fresh juice from one of the fruit ladies in their rainbow dresses, the palenqueras, balancing bowls of pineapple and papaya on their heads like it's nothing. Lunch is the main event, and you should eat fish. Fried whole snapper with coconut rice and patacones, twice-fried plantain discs that crunch then go soft, is the local religion. Ceviche here is punchy with lime and coriander, sold everywhere from beach shacks to smart restaurants, and the street arepas, stuffed with egg or oozing cheese, cost pennies and taste like more.

Afternoons, the city naps. You should too, or find a shaded courtyard, or float in the sea, because between noon and three the sun is genuinely trying to hurt you. Then, as the light softens, everyone drifts towards the old city wall. Locals, tourists, kids, couples, all perched on the ancient stone with drinks in hand while the sun melts into the Caribbean. The wall went up centuries ago to keep pirates out. These days it's the best bar seat in South America, and the open-air café up there serves cocktails at prices that would embarrass London.

Nights belong to music. Salsa pours out of doorways, champeta, the local Afro-Colombian sound, rattles from sound systems, and everyone can dance except you. Take a class if you're brave, or let some smiling local spin you around a dancefloor until your feet forgive you. The rum flows, Aguardiente, the anise-flavoured national firewater, appears at exactly the wrong moment, and the night runs longer than you planned. It always does.

A few practical notes, because every dream needs a footnote. December to April is the driest, breeziest stretch. It's hot year round, so pack light linen and serious sunscreen. The old town is walkable and safe by day and night in the busy areas, though normal city smarts apply. Taxis are cheap, agree the fare first, and haggling with beach vendors is expected, so don't pay the first price unless you enjoy being a cautionary tale. Learn a few words of Spanish, and even terrible Spanish gets you warmer smiles and better treatment.

Somewhere between the first sunset on the wall and the last lazy morning swim, the place gets under your skin. The city came through its hard years with its beauty intact, and now it celebrates, every single day, as if it knows how lucky it is. Go. Swim in water that glows at night. Eat fish with your hands. Dance badly. You'll come home brown, tired, and already plotting your return, with a shell or two still rattling around the bottom of your bag.