But where others might throw in the towel, the tourist office is busy plotting ways of turning ash into cash. The problem is, few people even realise the “Caribbean Pompeii” is open for business. That’s all about to change, however. According to the recently published Montserrat Tourism Strategy 2019-2022 document, plans are afoot to “explore and exploit the volcano value chain”. There’s talk of changing the name of the island’s most famous attraction to the Montserrat Volcano and dedicating a national holiday to it.

Another cataclysmic eruption is just one of many hazards that come with living in what’s left of paradise. Hurricanes visit infrequently but can be lethal when they do. Signs warn Montserratians what to do in the event of an earthquake and subsequent tsunami, and village shops display dog-eared dengue fever notices in windows, although the island is currently free of the mosquito-borne disease.

A mere 9,000 tourist arrivals were recorded in 2017 – one of the lowest figures for any country. Montserrat is the kind of place where you bump into veteran travellers who have been almost everywhere else. “I’ve only got Somalia, Nauru and Eritrea left after this,” a New Zealander tells me.

The pear-shaped Leeward Island is a 15-minute flight or a two-hour ferry ride from Antigua – a more traditional Caribbean destination, complete with all-inclusive hotels, steel bands and limbo-dancing shows. Services are rarely full, except when things become backed up after bad weather or during the week-long party that takes place around March 17. Montserrat is the only place, apart from Ireland, where St Patrick’s Day is a national holiday and the festival is celebrated with gusto.

Nicknamed the Emerald Isle of the Caribbean on account of the soothing green landscapes and the Irish ancestry of many residents, Montserrat is proud of its Celtic links. Visitors receive a shamrock-shaped entry stamp in their passport on arrival and the national flag features an Irish goddess holding a cross and a golden harp.

It’s almost compulsory to begin any sightseeing itinerary at the Montserrat Volcano Observatory. Visitors get to watch video clips and undergo a crash course in pyroclastic flows, fumaroles and lava dome collapses. There are spectacular views of the smouldering volcano from the terrace but I’d like to get closer.

Unfortunately, my attempts to organise a taxi tour fail on two counts. Firstly, the cabby wants US$200 to take me into the exclusion zone, claiming most of the money goes to the government, police “and stuff”. And on hearing I’d also like to visit the aban­doned Air Recording Studios, he quotes an even higher price. “That’s because it’s guarded by a crazy guy with a gun,” he says, as if this is an everyday occurrence on Montserrat. A different approach is clearly needed.

Through word of mouth I’m introduced to Margaret, who runs Olveston House, a plantation-style hotel owned by the family of late Beatles producer George Martin. Adorning the walls are several photos of Paul McCartney and John Lennon taken by Paul’s wife, Linda. They’re a reminder that tiny Montserrat was once at the epicentre of the international music scene. Margaret makes one phone call, the mysterious gunman (an overprotective neighbour) is stood down and I’m free to see the sacred studio without a chaperone.

While on holiday in the 1970s, Martin fell in love with Montserrat and decided to buy a property and build the hi-tech Air Studios. His reputation, and a lack of distractions, led to the recording of almost 80 albums by a who’s who of rock royalty, including Elton John, Stevie Wonder, Dire Straits, McCartney, Michael Jackson and Duran Duran, to name but a few.

The Police were also regulars. The video for Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic (1981) was filmed on the island, although the song wasn’t recorded at the studio. Neither was Hot-Hot-Hot (1984) by Arrow – a humungous home-grown hit and an appro­priate anthem for Montserrat, even if it predated the Big Bang by a decade or so.

In September 1989, a few months after the Rolling Stones put the finishing touches to their Steel Wheels album, Hurricane Hugo roared ashore, devastating almost everything in its path, including Air Studios. And any plans the legendary producer may have had to rebuild were scuppered six years later, when the volcano started bubbling and boiling.

The “fifth Beatle” could have spent time and money restoring his beloved place in the sun but it would have been a never-ending task. Clouds of ash continue to coat buildings in southern Montserrat and electricity no longer serves the area around the exclusion zone. So, even if former residents wanted to move back, they would have to do so without power.

Ducking under “no trespassing” signs, I beat a path through thick vegetation to a green-brown swimming pool filled with frogs. Part of the “no gunman” deal involves me agreeing not to venture inside, as the rotting property is on the brink of collapse. I’m happy to oblige. Just standing on a diving board that Mick Jagger, Eric Clapton and Lou Reed (probably) leapt from, in between laying down tracks, is good enough for me.

I continue on foot to Richmond Hill, which is situated at the edge of the exclusion zone, overlooking Plymouth – or what’s left of it. Tropical Montserrat’s verdant interior abruptly fades to grey. Ash grey. As I stroll past my second “no trespassing” sign of the day, I’m stopped at a checkpoint by a police officer in a patrol car, who warns that all tourists should be in a vehicle in case the volcano suddenly erupts.

At that moment, three minibuses filled with cruise-ship passengers pull up. Passport numbers are recorded, names and addresses noted. The group are counted in and will later be counted back out of the exclusion zone. The vehicles disappear in a cloud of dust, leaving the pair of us to discuss the likelihood of an eruption within the next quarter of an hour. Eventually, she gives in. “Go on then – you’ve got 10 minutes. But don’t blame me if Madame Soufrière blows her top.”

With one ear cocked to listen for distant gurgles and rumbles, I wade through thick layers of ash and try to imagine the volcano in full fury. Richmond Hill was a suburb of Plymouth and while many buildings are derelict, some are much as they were on the day in 1997 when the city was abandoned for good. Houses, shops and churches have been reclaimed by vegetation but front doors are open and entering is an experi­ence that is both eerie and poignant.

Mid-90s Caribbean fashions fill bedroom wardrobes and living room furniture stands intact, if a little dusty. Kitchen cupboards are still filled with jars of sauces and condiments that might have been opened that evening and used for dinner, if someone hadn’t knocked on the door and told the inhabitants to run and get as far away as possible.

Plenty did just that. After their homes and much of the island went up in smoke, people accepted plane tickets to London and were granted full British residency rights. More than half the population left and many of those who chose to stay found themselves in accommodation reminiscent of a refugee camp. Some have since returned from Britain, joined by residents of other Caribbean nations drawn by the low crime rate, availability of work and the opportunity to rebuild a nation.

Brushing flakes of ash from my clothes, I head to Uncle’s Bar, a popular watering hole in the village of Salem, five minutes from where I’m staying. Dinner is available on request but requires three hours’ notice. I miss the deadline each evening and end up buying eye-wateringly expensive noodles, tinned sardines and biscuits from a nearby mini-market (I’ve never seen so many morbidly obese people in a country where grocery prices are so high). Regulars, most of them Montserratian returnees, crowd around the bar and reminisce about the affordability of supermarket produce in Britain.

“Food might not be cheap here but at least you can pick fruit from the trees for free,” a retired car-factory worker tells me. Placing a sheet on the ground and shaking the branches is a no-no but taking enough for personal use is fine. “It’s a pity you’re not here in the mango season,” he adds, smiling blissfully at the memory. “Cars squish fruit all over the road – the smell is divine.”

Well, it’s got to be better than the sul­ph­ur­­­­ous stench of a volcano about to erupt.