🇩🇴 Why I Keep Returning to the Dominican Republic 🇩🇴

 Some places invite you to slow down, feel, and reckon with history. 

The Dominican Republic is one of them.

Why I Keep Returning to the Dominican Republic

I have visited the Dominican Republic more times than I can honestly count, and yet it remains a destination that reveals itself slowly—layer by layer, stay by stay. I have experienced the island beyond the resorts, and I continue to return not because it is familiar, but because it is always asking to be understood more deeply.

Each visit has shown me a different rhythm of the country. From resort stays in Punta Cana, to quieter time spent in Puerto Plata and Luperón, to wandering through La Romana, and most recently slowing down in Santo Domingo, my relationship with the Dominican Republic has been shaped across separate trips, different provinces, and changing perspectives. It is an island best understood through return, not a single stay.

My most recent journey to Santo Domingo taught me something I hadn’t fully grasped before: the Dominican Republic is not meant to be rushed. It is meant to be walked, observed, and felt—like a song that lingers long after the music fades.

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A Different Kind of Caribbean Stay

Travelling to the Caribbean via cruise offers a very different kind of experience. It is fast-paced by nature, but it can also serve as a gateway rather than a limitation. For travellers like myself—those who love returning to places—a cruise paired with a longer stay allows for both introduction and immersion.

Stepping off the ship in the Dominican Republic has never felt like ticking off a destination. Instead, it has often felt like reopening a conversation. One that deepens each time I come back.

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Santo Domingo: Where History Refuses to Be Simple

Santo Domingo does not announce itself loudly. It pulls you in quietly, almost cautiously, as though it knows the weight it carries. Walking its historic streets feels less like sightseeing and more like moving through layers of unresolved history—beauty and brutality existing side by side.

This city sits at the heart of the Dominican Republic’s origin story. It is the oldest continuously inhabited European-founded city in the Americas, and the former capital of Spanish colonial power in the region. It is often admired for its architecture and charm, yet it is inseparable from the colonial systems that shaped it.

It is said that Christopher Columbus spoke highly of this island, then known as Hispaniola. In some ways, it is easy to understand why. The land is fertile, the coastline dramatic, the climate generous. But admiration, in this context, came at an immense human cost. Santo Domingo became the epicentre of Spain’s colonial expansion, and with it came enslavement, violence, and the suppression of indigenous lives.

To walk here is to confront that contradiction: a city that is undeniably beautiful, yet built upon a history that cannot—and should not—be romanticised.

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Living With a Legacy That Cannot Be Erased

Christopher Columbus’s presence in Santo Domingo is unavoidable. Streets, monuments, and cathedrals still bear his name, not necessarily because he is revered, but because the Dominican Republic was forced into becoming the administrative centre of Spain’s colonial ambitions.

Columbus claimed the island for Spain, naming it La Isla Española, and his son Diego later governed Santo Domingo as the capital of all Spanish colonies in the Americas. From here, colonial systems expanded outward—systems rooted in exploitation and control.

I cannot say that I respect or admire Columbus. Historical accounts describe him as a cruel ruler who mistreated native populations and enslaved those under his authority. Yet his legacy remains physically embedded in the city. The Dominican Republic did not choose this history, but it lives with it—visibly, permanently, and honestly.

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Where History Becomes Physical

On a separate trip to the island, my understanding of this legacy became visceral during a visit to Fortaleza San Felipe, also known as El Morro, in Puerto Plata. Built in the 16th century to defend against pirates and foreign invaders, the fort now serves as a museum, offering panoramic views over the Atlantic Ocean.

The views are undeniably beautiful. But beauty here is complicated.

As I moved through the stone corridors, I felt the weight of what the structure represented—captivity, punishment, and control. The experience was unexpectedly overwhelming. I became light-headed and nauseated, struck by a deep physical response to the suffering embedded in the site.

It was a reminder that history is not abstract. It lives in walls, in silence, and in the air itself. And while the ocean stretches endlessly beyond the fort, it does not erase what happened within it.

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A Walk Through the Colonial Zone

Santo Domingo’s Colonial Zone is best explored on foot, without an agenda. From Plaza España, with its wide open square framed by historic buildings, it’s easy to slip into the city’s slower rhythm.

Nearby, Plaza Patriótica offers a quieter counterpoint. Its statues honour Dominican independence and resilience, marking a shift from colonial ambition to national identity. Walking between these spaces feels like tracing the country’s story through stone and sculpture.

Parque Colón sits at the centre of it all. Here, musicians gather beneath the trees, violinists play, and the city seems to pause. It was in this square that Santo Domingo felt most alive to me—not as a museum of the past, but as a place where daily life continues around history rather than beneath it.

We stopped nearby at La Merchanta restaurant, enjoying seafood paella and sangria—simple pleasures that felt perfectly placed in the flow of the day.

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Music, Expression, and the Soul of the Island

While sitting outside the Escuela Nacional de Artes Visuales, a historic institution in its own right, a band appeared without warning. They began to play—drums, maracas, voices rising together—and the space transformed instantly.

This spontaneity is part of what makes the Dominican Republic resonate so deeply with me. Music, dance, and expression are not performances here; they are woven into daily life. There is an openness, an uninhibited joy in how people express themselves, and it gives the country a pulse that is impossible to ignore.

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Warmth That Feels Like Belonging

I would happily stay in the Dominican Republic, not just visit, and I know I will return again. The warmth of the people has been consistent across every trip. From waiters in Luperón who invited us into their modest homes for dinner, to locals waving and smiling as we passed on the chu chu train in La Romana, generosity here feels natural rather than performative.

Each experience has reinforced the same truth: this is a country that welcomes you in, if you are willing to meet it with respect and curiosity.

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Larimar: A Stone That Carries the Island

I left Santo Domingo with only a few purchases—larimar jewellery, an anklet and a necklace—but they felt symbolic. Larimar is unique to the Dominican Republic, formed through a rare geological process that gives the stone its distinctive blue hues, ranging from pale sky to deep turquoise.

Found only in the Barahona Province, larimar is more than a gemstone. It is a symbol of Dominican identity, creativity, and rarity—much like the country itself.

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Closing

As I left Santo Domingo, I carried more than just Larimar jewellery in my bag — I carried a feeling that stays with you long after the plane lands. The city’s quiet pull, the historic streets, the music drifting unexpectedly through the air, and the warmth of the people all made it clear why this island continues to call me back.

The Dominican Republic is more than a stop on a cruise itinerary or a resort destination; it’s a place that invites you to slow down, to observe, to listen, and to return. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned through my travels here, it’s that the island reveals itself best when you stay, not just visit.

So, whether it’s in the heart of Santo Domingo’s colonial streets, along the coast of La Romana, in Puerto Plata, or within a quiet villa where the days move at a gentler pace, I know I will return. And when I do, I hope it’s with a new story to tell — one that captures the island’s depth, its people, and the moments that make it feel like home.

If you’re a villa, hotel, or cultural destination in the Dominican Republic looking for a writer who can bring your space to life through narrative, I’d love to collaborate — to stay, to experience, and to share the story that only your place can tell.

About the Writer

I am a travel writer and cultural storyteller drawn to places that reveal themselves through history, atmosphere, and return. My work focuses on slow travel, lived experience, and narrative-led destination storytelling — capturing the moments that shape how a place feels, not just how it looks. Through reflective essays and editorial-style writing, I collaborate with villas, hotels, and cultural destinations to tell stories that invite travellers to stay longer, explore deeper, and connect more meaningfully with the world around them.

🇰🇳Personal Essay: St Kitts and the Weight of Coming Back

 St Kitts & Nevis 🇰🇳 

21 December 2025

I did not travel to St Kitts looking for new experiences. I travelled there to return something precious….to return my Granny back home.

My grandmother Mavis Cynthia Liburd had died months earlier (September), and grief had settled into my life quietly — not as a single moment, but as a constant presence. There had been the funeral, the formal goodbyes, the words spoken when language felt insufficient. And yet, something remained unfinished.

Taking my grandmother back to the island where she began — where she was raised, shaped, and formed — felt profound in a way I hadn’t anticipated. It was not a journey I took lightly, and it was not one I rushed. It was her final journey, and it was an honour to carry it out.

Each phase of accepting her absence has been heartbreaking. There was the funeral — the most beautiful, honorary farewell we could give her. There was the eulogy, spoken through tears. And then there was the dismantling of a life: packing up forty years in a house I had known all my life, sorting through memories, holding objects that suddenly felt heavier because they no longer belonged to the present.

What lingered most, though, was incompletion.

Taking her back home — returning to St Kitts and making that her final journey — was profound in a way I don’t think I fully understood until I was standing there. The island where my grandmother began, the place that raised her, became the place where I honoured her ending. 

It was an honour I will carry with me for the rest of my life.

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The Absence

I have been noticeably absent from social interactions, social media and from writing for months. I stopped blogging entirely in August 2025, when we were confronted with the reality that the time had come to say goodbye to our family matriarch.

I fell quiet as life narrowed to something far more intimate and difficult. 

Mid-July, our family matriarch, had been diagnosed with terminal colon cancer.

 By August, she was sent home on palliative care. In September, she died. In October we buried her. In November her ashes were given. By December I was tasked with returning her home.

It’s difficult to accept I am never going to see or even be around my Granny ever again. 

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Why St Kitts: The Act of Coming Home

My grandmother was an extraordinary storyteller. Anyone who knows my Granny knows She carried St Kitts with her everywhere she went, retelling her childhood with such vivid detail — a place she never truly let go of.

Returning to St Kitts was not about travel in the traditional sense. It wasn’t about seeing the island. It was about honouring her.

This visit was separate from my first time cruising to St Kitts, when I had explored Basseterre and arrived via the cruise port on a different journey altogether. 

This time, the stop felt heavier, more intentional.

Thankfully, Family still live on the island. Relatives I had never met before welcomed me back again as if I had always belonged. 

There is something deeply grounding about familiarity without having lived somewhere yourself — a sense that connection doesn’t always require proximity, only lineage.

Walking the streets she spoke of, standing where her memories were formed, made her stories feel suddenly tangible.

Though she left St Kitts physically, it lived on through her stories — through us.

She spoke often of Springfield Cemetery, Of growing up in the houses adjacent to it. Of being five years old, crawling between the feet of adults at her grandmother’s funeral. Of waking at night and looking out of the window toward the cemetery grounds. 

Her childhood unfolded in that landscape, Her primary school stood across the road. Everything stitched tightly to memory and all in one place. Returning her ashes there did not feel like travel. It felt like responsibility.

When I arrived, I spent hours in the cemetery. Time moved differently. I was shown the graves of her siblings, friends, aunts, uncles, cousins — people whose names I had heard my entire life, now etched into stone. I listened. I remembered.

Near the entrance, facing the houses she grew up in and visible from the school she once attended, I found a palm tree. 

It was perfect. Grounded. Living. A marker without needing to be a monument.

As if the island already knew, yellow flowers were her favourite colour, they were growing throughout the cemetery grounds. 

I gathered them easily, laying them down gently, instinctively. Nothing about the moment felt forced. Gathering them felt instinctive, almost guided. Everything about the moment felt aligned.

The act itself — releasing her ashes — is difficult to explain. It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t loud. It was quiet, steady, and deeply grounding. 

I felt proud — proud that I could do this for her, proud that I could honour her life, her memory, her existence in a way that felt right. I stayed for a long time. And when I finally left, I felt something I hadn’t felt since she died: ease.

There was an ease that followed. A peace. 

A sense of alignment I hadn’t felt since she passed. My grandmother was cremated. There is no grave to visit in England. But now, there is a place. A palm tree near an entrance,  in a cemetery she spoke of often, on an island she never truly left. 

Bringing her home was the right thing to do.

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Connection

Afterward, that peace extended into connection as we visited relatives — her nieces and nephews, people who had visited her in England and now welcomed me as the English relative returning to them. Family resemblance was everywhere. So was affection. I met family members I had never met before, yet somehow recognised. The resemblance was uncanny. Her nieces and nephews spoke of her with fondness and love. They remembered visits to England, remembered her stories, remembered her laughter. Now, as the English relative, I visited them. The exchange felt complete, circular. 

Family, once separated by geography, reconnected through memory.

St Kitts held me gently in those moments. The island felt familiar without being mine, personal without requiring explanation. Taking photographs, exchanging numbers, promising to stay in touch — it all felt meaningful, grounding, real.

This is what legacy looks like when it’s lived, not just remembered.

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Leaving

Leaving St Kitts meant returning to the ship, but not immediately. Life was unfolding around me in ways that felt quietly reassuring.

From my aunt’s balcony, set high on a hill overlooking Port Zante, I watched my ship resting in the bay. The view was beautiful, but more than that, it felt symbolic: arrival and departure sharing the same horizon. 

I hadn’t come for excursions or beaches on this cruise stop, and I didn’t need to. The purpose of the visit had already been fulfilled.

Returning to the ship I wandered through the port area slowly. Port Zante in Basseterre is an impressive, well-designed port, created to welcome visitors with care, and the island should be proud of it. Whilst exploring the shops a small drumming parade passed through. Movement, colour, and sound filled the space— music carried through the air as part of a seasonal music festival. It felt important to witness joy alongside grief. To stand there holding something heavy while the island carried on being vibrant, expressive, alive. St Kitts does that effortlessly — it holds memory and momentum in the same breath.

When I finally left the island, something had shifted.

Not happiness — but peace.

St Kitts is no longer just a destination I visit. It is a place of return, of honour, and of deep personal meaning. And every time I step onto the island now, I do so knowing that part of her is there — exactly where she belongs.

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Some journeys aren’t about seeing a place — they’re about honouring where we come from, and understanding what it means to return.

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