If Goldeneye is Chris Blackwell’s roman à clef—his friends and himself superimposed on Fleming’s swinging estate—then Pantrepant is his memoir. It may be his most personal project to date. Here is Chris’s life in Jamaica, almost exactly as he lives it. And here is what it looks like: Orange groves. Thickly wooded hills. Roaming white Brahman cattle. Galloping horses. Coconuts, a variety that hasn’t grown widely on the island in centuries. That majestic Georgian farmhouse. Unpainted wooden fences and low stone walls. It looks like Jamaica.
Blackwell has been hosting friends and family at Pantrepant since he bought the property, all 800 acres of it, in 1990. But until very recently, no part of it has ever been available for strangers to book. Now, in the lush Jamaican mountains, guests can experience the island at its finest—the freshest food, the most picturesque vistas, the tallest trees and clearest water. Blackwell’s mission is to lead people beyond the resorts, and Pantrepant is the pièce de résistance: a place where the resorts seem to not even exist, seem to never have existed at all.