P&O Cruises’ Arvia review: The Caribbean cruise that’s gloriously camp and proves size always matters

There’s something gloriously camp about a cruise. Maybe it’s the endless buffets, maybe it’s the nightly entertainment that feels one cocktail away from full panto, or maybe it’s the sheer audacity of stuffing 5,200 passengers onto a floating city and sending it off to find paradise. Either way, P&O Cruises’ Arvia — the largest ship in the P&O fleet and one of the newer darlings of the British cruise scene — is a ship that demands your attention. Even if, much like Madonna at the Met Gala, there are times you’d rather look away… 

Our adventure begins with a rum punch, of course it does, because where else do you start a Caribbean cruise but Barbados? This sun-kissed island is where Arvia boards her eager passengers. Think families from Hampshire, honeymooners from Huddersfield and a gaggle of gays from Hoxton ready to werk a kaftan at the Sailaway party. 

Barbados, fleetingly, is a dream. Before boarding, there’s time for a cheeky dip in the warm waters, where the sand is so soft it feels like God has moisturised it. After an hour roasting in (or in my case hiding from) the Bajan sun — SPF 50, always — we join the Arvia queue with a grin and a glow.

First impressions: big, bold and slightly bonkers

The Arvia is vast. Titanic-who levels of vast. At 345 metres long and 16 decks high, it’s less boat and more Westfield on the water. The décor is all light woods, brushed golds and neutral tones, clearly designed for broad appeal — sort of like a John Lewis showroom with a sea travel theme. It’s modern, airy, and just tasteful enough that you don’t feel like you’re trapped in a floating Vegas.

Our cabin is a Promenade Suite: roomy, bright, and with a bathroom just large enough to avoid bruised elbows. There’s a minibar that you can ask to be stocked with your poison of choice, a cute conservatory, and off that a terrace with a sea view — albeit one that’s set beyond dozens of sun loungers and a passing passenger cast that can, and occasionally does, look directly into your room. On that basis, I’d pick a higher floor and forgo the conservatory next time.

The crew? Impeccably friendly. Every “Good morning!” comes with a smile that suggests they haven’t slept in 36 hours but are happy to see you nonetheless. As the ship glides out of Bridgetown, the pool deck becomes a dance floor of Aperol spritzes and TikToks-in-progress. I sip a piña colada and try not to burn through all my “fun” outfits on day one.

Stop one: Martinique — the Paris of the Tropics (but sweatier)

Our first port is Martinique — the French Caribbean island where baguettes meet beaches and rum is taken very seriously. I hop on a shore excursion (Beaches and Botanical Gardens or somesuch), which sounds wholesome and turns out to be… surprisingly gay? There’s something about wandering through a tropical garden, dodging hummingbirds and flamboyant bougainvillea blooms that screams queer joy.

We end the tour at a rum distillery where I sample six types of agricole rum and momentarily forget my name. I buy a bottle and make a mental note to wrap it in socks before packing.

Martinique is lush, sophisticated and a little aloof — much like that Parisian twink who ghosted me in 2004. It’s beautiful, but you get the sense it doesn’t need your attention. Still, worth a day trip — especially if you’re fluent in both French and beach-lounging.

We have lunch ashore in the company of X Factor alumnus Matt Terry, the ship’s star turn for the duration of this cruise and the next. Not only is he as charming and funny as he is delicious, but I feel a pang of regret that we’ve been allowed to forget his astonishing vocal range and ability. His cover of Sam Smith’s James Bond smash ‘Writing’s on the Wall’ during the previous evening’s cabaret has been at the top of my YouTube playlist for months since.

I’m delighted he’s still adored and recognised, and out there doing what he loves, now free to do so as an openly gay man since coming out 18 months ago, but not for the first time, I despair at the music industry’s use and abuse of such blatant talent.

Stop two: St Kitts — monkeys, mountains and a beach called Cockleshell

Next up is St Kitts, where the Arvia docks early and we disembark into steamy sunshine. Here, there’s a rail and sail excursion — first riding a narrow-gauge train around the island’s old sugar plantations (think Sound of Music meets British colonialism), then hopping on a catamaran for a boozy sea adventure. There are steel drums, rum punches and at least three sunburnt Brits wearing Union Jack swimming trunks.

St Kitts is rugged and green, with volcanic peaks and random monkeys that pop out like NPCs in a tropical video game. But it’s Cockleshell Bay that seals it — a wide beach with soft sand, a killer view of Nevis, and a beach bar called Reggae Beach that makes a mean frozen daiquiri.

A local tells me it’s “where the boys go,” and sure enough, there are a few Speedo-clad lads flexing casually by the water’s edge. My gaydar pings. I sip, I sunbathe, I wink. The daiquiri helps.

This is an excerpt from a feature appearing in Attitude’s January/February 2026 issue.