I've never been to an island island before; well, at least not the excessively sandy, palm-tree'd kind where somnambulant locals slurp rum and listen to steel drums while filing great slabs of toenail with chunks of white coral. As a defiantly pale, vaguely Northern European person such environments make me feel rather like a frozen chicken trapped inside a red-hot rotisserie. I'm a winter person, infinitely preferring snow country to sun-soaked paradise, wearing duffle coats to swimming trunks and traveling via dog-sled rather than on a surf board. Nevertheless, we went to Bermuda for a week because my wife enjoys the beach and Jet Blue was offering deals.
"The isle is full of noises" exclaims Caliban in Shakespeare's The Tempest, a play many scholars believe to be partly inspired by contemporary descriptions of Bermuda, and popular sections are still somewhat rackety at times; although the cries of shipwrecked sailors have been replaced by the tinny whine of tourist mopeds and the obnoxious bellowing of cruise ship klaxons. I was surprised by a sort of high-pitched hiccuping noise emanating from the abundant greenery each evening. At first I thought it might be a motorcade of malfunctioning car alarms, but it merely turned out to be the island's infamous whistling frogs.
Fortunately, as with most prominent vacation destinations, traveling slightly off-season in early September will ensure that the clamoring crowds are sparse while the weather and the water are still warm. Indeed, it's quite possible that you can take possession of your own picturesque cove and wade into the breathtakingly turquoise sea, only to be suddenly submerged by a deceptively powerful wave like I was. That'll teach me to scorn the beauty of island islands.