WINDIES DIARY 2013 PART SIX

DAY 9 MARVELLOUS MAYREAU

We are aboard another ferry. This time, defying all previous writings, a fast, twin hulled job. It arrived at the port in Bequia at speed and us passengers only had a ten minute window to disembark and embark. It's almost as if the sleepy time timeline of our island has been violently disrupted by the arrival of the beast, after which, everything once again returns to somnambulant ways.

As Bequia quickly recedes into the foamy distance we settle down for the hour and ten minute crossing to Mayreau. When I say settle down I really mean 'get ready'. For this is a violent journey. The ferry soon picks up speed and tosses from side to side with plenty of pitching thrown in for good measure. I hadn't anticipated such a ride and although Trish has taken her pill I fear that it might have been taken a little too late. (I am right it turns out). Merlin and I, like most of the passengers, suffer the bucking behemoth with resilience combined with boredom, as it is impossible to read or write and the film they have playing is for me at least, a bussman's holiday. It's about a headmaster, (Morgan Freeman) trying to tame a school of delinquent, mostly black, teenagers in an 'Eastside' area, of some down at the heel, drug infested suburb of an American city. It comes complete with clichéd transformation of bad guy, no respect given, into........ good guy, high fiving with one time  school drug pusher students, now reformed, complete with eighties mullets. Yes it spews out at you at pace throughout the movie. It's crap. Also, because of the fear of being washed overboard, we are not allowed outside. So no escape. We have to be satisfied with staring into near space. Just staring and thinking. I think we be Liming again, in a peculiar way.

Eventually our journey is over and we have arrived on the island of Mayreau. No port here, no harbour, just a concrete jetty where a battered old pickup is waiting for us. The charm of this type of holiday is the sheer anticipation of what comes next, not for us the all inclusive security gated resort, rather the battered pick up, smelling of old rancid oil and diesel, misfiring monstrously as it climbs the hill away from the ferry now speeding to its next destination.

We arrive at Dennis's Hideaway, a much recommended guest 'house'. It is slap bang in the middle of the only habitation on an island so small, numbering some 250 inhabitants, that it doesn't even have a name. We are just 'In Mayreau'. Lining the narrow Tarmac road that rises up to the highest point of the island are shacks and villas alike, some grand some not so. But most splendid of all is a garish Rastafarian bar, dark on the inside and multicoloured out. We are greeted with enthusiasm with dismembered voices from the inside as we stroll past on our first excursion away from the beautiful sanctuary of our abode. Dare we venture in? No, not until I have had a few rum punches at least! 'Ok see you later man.'

Most residents are busy liming outside on terraces of various quality. Some houses are ornately built with perhaps a bar, restaurant or even a small shop but most are small corrugated roof shacks. We are either greeted or stared at. If the latter we always give a greeting ourselves, sometimes returned sometimes not. We climb to the highest point of the island, perhaps stupidly in the midday sun, searching for a view, and come across a white guy up to his wrists in engine oil. He has a house off to the right on the crest of the hill, standing in an open space. A couple of containers are in his yard and a tumbledown shed. He sees us and we wave a greeting. He comes over. American. Young. Probably mid twenties. We chat and it turns out that he's a missionary. A real, live modern day missionary. He's built this house and works in the community giving the youth the chance to develop their life skills and spreads The Word at the same time. He's also got a great view form his terrace. Click click. We invite him for a beer later.

We come across a small church. Roman Catholic, ancient, but its in good order. It's incongruous, standing here at the top of the village. It has a large bell which has crashed from its original, rusted, mounting. It's now tied much lower, to a beam, so low in fact the clapper can be rung by hand to summon the faithful. Inside there are interesting historical items, stories detailing the lives of those gone before. Fading newspaper articles from long ago. It's amazingly quiet here. It feels as if it is a crime to speak too loudly. Round the back a goat is tied to a tree and there is a open area with seating and a breathtaking view over the Tobago Cays. Union Island towers in the distance across a silver ripple of water. It's jagged line graph silhouette towering above the yachts and boats that scud the bays. A light but welcome breeze dries the sweat on our faces and ripples our shirts. There is atmosphere here. One that has endured for centuries.

We make our way back down the hill, past the rickety unattended barrows selling conch shells, others bread and vegetables, past small shacks with 'bar' painted colourfully on the wall with enough room for two guests at the most, past dark doorways with the sounds of reggae or other such music oozing out. The 250 inhabitants go about their daily routine and we watch them do it.