SCALEYRADIO 47 On Air. The 'Dumb All Over' Show

SCALEYRADIO 47 'On Air' The 'Dumb All Over' Show by John Scales on Mixcloud

DAYS 30-31.....The Return Of Lock Yourself Out

At last, Antigua. We were up hideously early this very morning to begin the journey home. This involved the descent as previously detailed down to Kingstown and St.Vincent airport, Tropical Storm Erika was still in the area yesterday, giving Dominica a fearful pounding. Such a shame for that is a beautiful island with equally nice people. At about midday yesterday we were told that today's flight to Antigua was cancelled. Never has the Bush Telegraph been so wrong. Luckily Fred's Internet Cafe, two dwellings up in Rosehall had provided us, whilst sheltering in his porch, with the information that Friday's flight was NOT cancelled, although all flights North of ANTIGUA and in and out of Dominica were.

And so we were soon winging our way to Antigua via St. Lucia which looked really splendid as we landed there to take on passengers. We arrived at the spanking new Antigua terminal, opened two days ago, air conditioned and spacious. We were soon at our hotel, minutes from the airport with an excellent view of the end of the runway that any plane spotter would be in awe of. Little did we know that later on that evening we would have an extended opportunity to view to comings and goings at Antigua airport from the comfort of our balcony.

Wind Chimes Inn has runway facing rooms. And very comfortable they are too. All rooms have a balcony and no better fun can be had late at night after a few drinks, than sitting on the balcony watching the planes. Brilliant! And so we decided to do this very night except.........Trish, my wife who, if you remember, gave me 'the look' when I locked us out of our room on Bequia, locked all four of us out on the balcony. To this day, the day after, we can't figure out how it happened, but happen it did. Cue much deliberation. Merlin was sure that a descent via the structure of the first and second floor balconies could be achieved......if we were in our twenties. Thanks for that. I was in favour of waiting for the neighbours to come home and let us in, for our room door was open. A good idea, except that they eventually came home at 4 a.m.

Nothing else for it but to shout for help, which eventually worked. Like castaways on a remote atoll, we decided that anyone who came within earshot would be hailed and it eventually worked, a kind lady from the house behind the hotel came to our aid and called the night porter, who let us back in. I couldn't help thinking that the policy of hailing a passer by was full of danger. A passing Biily Burglar for example, enjoying a spot of r and r on his walk home would have been presented with quite an opportunity as we were the only items out on the balcony, no phones did we have, no laptops, no IPads, no wallets or credit cards. You get the idea. They were in the room. Still, we were back in, and to my credit, not once did I give my wife 'the look'.

Next stop was, at last Antigua airport, our flight home. We got here in plenty of time, the air conditioning in the new terminal almost too good. However if we thought as we sat in departures supping a few beers, that from now on the journey would be incident free, we were wrong although compared to the incidents of the last week, the latest and last was a breeze.......for one of us.

Now for those of you who are frequent fliers, especially on long haul or transatlantic flights, you will know that when you enter the aircraft you are always directed to the right. This means you have Economy seats or Fourth Class. For this flight we had been given an upgrade. To World Traveller Class, which is third class really. As we found out, you still turn right as you enter the plane but are given better seats and grub.

Imagine our surprise when only three of us were directed rightward with the rest of the scum and semi scum. The fourth, Merlin, was directed to the left. He had mysteriously been upgraded at the gate where I saw them rip up his boarding  card. For one minute I thought he was getting his wish to stay in The Windies and spend the rest of his days liming. But no. He turned left.....and kept walking to the front of the aircraft where he was greeted by The Captain himself. Merlin was in row zero. First Class. Champagne, flat bed, menu, free booze, thick blanket and waited on hand and foot class. He even came back to us in measly third class waving his menu around proclaiming his beloved cheesecake to be a dessert choice. His free booze, no damn good to him, even included Jim's beloved Bailey's, not available in Premium Economy. Surely he would bring some back for Jim. Not a bit of it. That was the last we saw of the git until Gatwick. When I tried to go up to see him, I was refused entry. "You are not allowed in there sir" the stewardess informed me. Meanwhile Merlin, doing his impersonation of Emperor Nero reclined on his seat while they tipped fruit punch down his gullet. Punch? Good idea. But at least we were all on our way home, apart from Jim, who had another day of travelling ahead of him to get back to OZ. But on our way home we all were, a week late, a week poorer but with memories that will be with us for a long time to come,

I hope you enjoyed the blog readers, especially those who stuck with it all the way through and didn't just read the Hotel Bastardos entry. That was the most read of them all. I also hope that you have been able to feel a little bit of the atmosphere of the truly weird and wonderful islands that make up The Windies. If you have, then the blog has done its job. Thanks for reading.

DAYS 26-31.....Communication Windies Stylie

We have been hanging out in the village for a week now. Every day at some time we go for a stroll. It's usually when the sun is thinking about dusting itself down, patting itself on the back and going to torment others on the other side of the world. Dusk is short here but if you get off your liming arse and take to the narrow uneven road up into the centre, there is much to experience. Most of the folks who have spent their day hanging about are still there, mixing with others recently back from various locations and sometimes work. Consequently there is much to discuss. At volume. At distance. At anytime of day. Here a street conversation can take place at the drop of a multicoloured hat and the air is sometimes thick with all three types.

The one that is the most perplexing to us from the East is the conversation that starts face to face and ends up at a distance of anything up to 50 to 100 metres. This is a classic. As the two, three or sometimes more, participants move away from each other having had a normal but usually loud conversation, instead of wishing each other goodnight, good day or whatever, the conversation continues, getting louder with each step taken until, at maximum volume they are shouting at each other from a considerable distance. And remember the dialect is almost unfathomable. It's English Jim but not as we understand it, delivered like a round of machine gun fire.

Then there is the 100 metre shout. Today, Fred, cousin to Trish and well known to some readers of this blog engaged Trish's mum in this one. Fred lives about three 'doors' up. (Some doors are sturdier than others). Let's say best part of 100 metres. Matilda was on the balcony at the back of the house. Fred, standing on his porch. They needed to communicate and communicate they did. Fred could of easily secured a job as Town Crier anywhere in days gone by, "oh yay oh yay, the Internet is now on Tant". Matlida, 76 years old was also not to be outdone in the process and returned a gusty "Fred you......." .....there was more but that's all I understood! This 100 metre communication can of course be achieved over less distances and I have also seen it successful over greater, right outside our house here in fact, to the top of the hill.

Probably the most interesting of the conversations and the third I will mention, actually happened last night. The Argument. This indeed is really impressive and it too can be heard over a distance, and guaranteed to draw a crowd. Two protagonists are ideally required although Cousin Claude who lives in a board shack at the back of the house in our 'yard', can actually carry out one with himself at any time and in any place. And has done so on a number of occasions recently. But the two person salvo is more Impressive. I didn't understand a word of last night's conflagration and had to ask Cousin Elwyn, after it had all died down, what the hell it was about. I then learned that Elwyn had actually been involved. Whether this officially made it a three person argument or not I don't know.

Apparently this softly spoken man was mediating in the dispute between Clarrie, who lives in a small flat underneath 'The Disco' and some fellow in the street, her ex it turned out to be, who owes her money. This episode was pretty loud, drew a small crowd, could be heard from the back of the house and included 'cussing' which never impresses Matilda who luckily was round the corner 'going by Mosso'. In other words it had all the essential ingredients. When I arrived it was mostly blown out, similar to Hurricane Danny, now terrorising the Northward Caribbean. As usual the ex boyfriend left the scene still shouting the odds and kept at it as he departed up the street well past Fred's place. I then heard the West Indian 'supe' from Clarrie. This entails sucking air into the mouth through clenched teeth which produces a sound rather like a elongated tut but is always used when disdain is required. Clarrie produced a truly impressive one of these. I've tried it, but the folks round here just laugh at me, as they did when me, Merlin and Jim tried the long distance conversation mentioned above. We even started with the customary "hey (enter name) what's up." To no avail. We just sounded pathetic and Fred and the passers by were royally entertained.

A little later on I heard about Tropical Storm Erica approaching fast. Liat have already cancelled some flights on Friday and guess what day we are flying home! Supe that!

DAYS 22-26..... ROSEHALL......Like Nothing Else Danny Boy

It had to happen. Nowadays it seems no trip to the Caribbean is complete without a complete travel catastrophe. Richard Humphries will be in his element as Danny, relegated today to a tropical storm from hurricane status bears down upon the Windward Islands. Naturally it's due to make landfall on Monday the 25th which is the exact day we were flying out of Antigua, the town over which the eye of the storm will pass. Serves us right really. I decided to fly into Antigua this trip having twice been screwed over at Barbados by local carrier Liat Air. How ironic then that at this time Barbados will be unaffected by the weather front and Liat in panic at the first mention of Danny Boy, cancelled all flights to and out of Antigua, two whole days before the storm was due. This effectively marooned us in.......Barbados had we taken our flight out of St. Vincent today. If we had been flying out of there we would be on our way home as I write. Travel to and from there is fine. Bloody typical. So here we are with another five days with Mother In Law in Rosehall, so......                                                
let's have a walk round Rosehall folks.

To begin with, it's situated at the end of the road that twists and turns up through the verdant rainforest hills of St. Vincent. Hopefully the description of the journey up here in the previous post has covered all that. Once here, there is nowhere else to go. The village is fairly spread out and as usual there are grand residences and the usual corrugated metal and wood shacks standing side by side on Main Street. The whole village is overlooked by Mount Soufrié the giant dormant volcano which dominates the landscape in breathtaking magnificence. At the foot of the mountain, the Caribbean Sea sparkles in the sunlight with two villages nestling in the natural bays formed by its volcanic landscaping over the millennia. No golden tourist sand here, it's black and course. Sand castles for small children and their dads not possible I'm afraid.

It's fairly hilly and the roads consist of rough concrete and tarmac, in good condition compared to those leading up here. The people range, as do their dwellings but a high percentage are friendly and glad to see 'white men walking' as we are referred to sometimes when out on one of Jim's photographic expeditions. News travels quickly in these here parts and it's becoming well known that one of the white men is Mrs. O'Garro's Son In Law. The other two they are less sure of.

Some locals are keen to help, whether it's directions up to the burial ground (ultimate peace and great views up there) or advice not to sit in the sun, which Jim got this morning from a passing cutlass wielding citizen who informed him that to sit in the sun too long would 'make his piss boil'.

There are also those who partake to freely of the local hooch, St. Vincent rum. Both Tom Iddon and Dave Lloyd have fallen victim to this stuff back home, clear 84% rocket fuel which Cousin Claude, who lives in a shack round the back here, likes to drink, as you might drink an early morning cup of tea. Consequently we found him in the middle of the road this very morning, playing cricket.....with himself. It's interesting to note that even a totally pissed West Indian can make a forward defensive or an off drive look beautifully aggressive. Many of these such people crazily gate past the house at any time of the day or night exhorting salutations to anyone who will respond, usually us, liming on the veranda. But don't get the idea that they are all boozed up crazies, most are genuinely pleased to see us and spend the day in the sun, or their part of it, chatting about anything and everything with the three Strangers In Town.

One such is Mosso. He's in his eighties and amazingly, used to drink with my dad at The Hare And Hounds pub in St. Albans. When I first met him in 2009, he enquired as to my place of birth etc. I told him I was brought up in St. Albans. He had lived in that area then and told me where. I informed him that my dad had a milk round in that neighbourhood. He then told me he knew my dad....... 'Milkman Bill, dat was him, we had drinks in The Hare And Hounds...... dat pub near Cottonmill'. Unbelievable. Now it's my much anticipated and pleasant custom to visit Mosso on his veranda and have a few beers with him every time I visit. He's in the twilight of his years now, sunset approaches but his eyes still twinkle with mischief as he recalls his life in St. Albans.

The village by day is quiet, save for the occasional vehicle that arrives straining for mechanical breath after the torturous ascent, dogs barking, the distant thud of a mega speaker system and the salutation shouting that goes on nearly all the time in an incomprehensible dialect. Occasionally a breeze will blow, rustling the nearby palm, breadfruit and mango trees and giving welcome respite to the three white men, two of which are unused to the close humidity and lack of breath. There are shops but to us, more like huts selling just the basics but without cheese and milk which have to be purchased at least an hour away at the local supermarket. Fresh produce comes by way of the cars and trucks which come past selling fish, bread, meat, fruit or vegetables. Each vehicle will sell one of these. Today it was the fish man, who announced his arrival by the expert blowing of a conch shell, audible right across the village. In the boot of his ancient car he was selling small fish which were soon snapped up. Yesterday it was Amber Fish, bought, prepared and expertly cooked by cousin Elwyn. They were delicious.

So here life goes on, as it has done for centuries, with the occasional technological intrusion from the outside world. As we approach our last day, we feel like we are going back to civilisation which in a way is disrespectful to the quality of life we have experienced. For in Rosehall, the clock does not rule lives, it either morning, afternoon or 'goodnight'. The stress levels seem to be low and they are content with life as they have it. The young people have opportunities if they so desire, to move away and go to college or university and as Cousin Phil a sanguine and reflective Village Elder put it 'make something of themselves'. Soon the international airport will open on the Windward side of the island and perhaps this spell will be broken. But as we said the other night as we chewed the late night fat on the veranda, not up here.

DAYS 15-17.....ST. VINCENT..........Roads In Paradise

At last we arrived by speedy ferry on St. Vincent from Union. An early start but an early arrival too. The quayside was busy and bustling on our arrival and I think the Bequia ferry had just arrived too. It was alive with carriers, trucks and barrows carrying goodness knows what from and to the islands of the Grenadines. The next stage in our journey was the one up to Rosehall where the family home is located. I remember the first time I landed here and met with cousin Fred who minded us during our dollar van nightmare up the mountain. This was in the days before Venold, Trish's brother, lived in the family home and was able to meet us in his people carrier, which is what he was doing today.

For new readers who were not avid readers then, the journey to Rosehall takes, with a normal, sane, Venold type driver, about 90 minutes. Roads are narrow, villages busy with dog and human traffic but Dollar Vans race against the clock and each other, in order to secure more and more customers over the course of a day. Dan, the village Dollar Van driver has done the trip in half that. And is proud of it too. They overtake in ridiculous places, on hairpin bends, blind corners and summits, blaring their horns at the unsuspecting in their way, which was us on our calm journey, but not on my first terror ride.......

We were IN the dollar van, hanging on for dear, dear, life, as sheer drops on one side and landslides on the other brought additional terror. Fellow passengers, crammed sweatily into the van, seemed oblivious to the nightmare as they read the evening paper, slept, listened to the reggae music emanating from the tinny speakers or chatted and cursed among themselves, while all as one, swaying in their cramped prison at each twist and turn of the upward, downward and upward again mountain trail.

Rosehall, is the last village on this journey. And when you arrive, the van pukes you out into the sunshine with your bags and your sweat. You are hot and exhausted, clothing sticking to your back, fingernails left in the seat back that had been in front of you. But as the van races off to deliver its other victims further up the hill, you notice the calm that has descended. A light breeze welcomes you as it races from the valleys of Mount Soufrié. The view is spectacular, and as Jim said today, a photo cannot do it justice. The sparkling Caribbean Sea dances way below in Richmond Bay. Soufrié  rises in its magnificence looking down on the fertile valleys on its sides and in its skirts. Clouds weave and warp around its summit with weather systems fighting for dominance. The iron gate of The O'Garro house swings squeakily open and Cousin Elwyn, thin and wiry, ex grave digger and house caretaker welcomes us with a tombstone toothed grin and indecipherable words that mean we are welcome and we are 'home'.

DAYS 13-14........UNION ISLAND......Happy Islands

Every time I have been to The Windies, and this area, The Grenadines, I have made the trip to a place of stunning natural beauty, The Tobago Cays Marine Park. This is accessed only by boat, a day trip usually from Bequia, including snorkelling opportunities, photographic panoramas, good food and booze. This time the trip was shorter and we went by Catamaran not the Friendship Rose Schooner. Jim of course had never been so he especially was looking forward to it. Words cannot describe the natural wonders at The Park, the many shades of aquamarine, the sea life, turtles, stingrays, puffer fish and a myriad of other unknown species of marine life, apart from that little fishy chap from Finding Nemo. Brilliant . And this time the food was better, the Cat was great, the trip was shorter even under sail, Trish didn't feel like throwing up at any time and we called in at some other equally fab islands before arriving at The Cays. Stunning. And the best bit of all, thirty quid cheaper!
However, there is another island worth visiting in these here parts.

Let's get things in perspective. Out here in paradise life is tough for a great many of the inhabitants. True, they live in places where even the most ungreenfingered idiot could grow enough grub in this fertile volcanic soil to eke out a basic existence without the aid of charity from tourists. The weather, admittedly at times extreme, is generally pleasant with no need to huddle round a fire made out of anything that will burn whist watching the snow fall outside the circle of warmth. But still, there are a lot who live basically in makeshift shelters, shacks and tumbledown brickwork..

One such was a geezer called Shante, from Grenada who decided that action was the name of the game, to raise himself from nothing, to make something of himself. Instead of relying on others, he arrived on Union island, took one look at the natural reef that protects the harbour from the more serious battering force of the Caribbean waves, the resulting calm harbour of Union, and decided to build an island. An island he made from conch shells and concrete and then painted it bright red, green and yellow. Two Palm trees added to the overall decor, followed by a bar and outside bar b q area, then some speakers and a sound system and finally a name 'Happy Island'. And once built it quickly became established as the word spread that Rasta hatted Shante's bar was 'd place to be'. Water taxi drivers heartily agreed, charging tourists for the pleasure of being shuttled to and from Happy Island, five minutes easy motor from the mainland.

It was rude not to become one of the many hundreds who have paid his doubled up prices. And so we found ourselves aboard one of the local rickety wooden rowing boats, equipped with a powerful yet ageing, rusty outboard motor, making light of the one mile to Shante's mini paradise. The 'Captain' of our vessel was amply rewarded not only by us but also by Shante, who gave him, after we had disembarked, a cigarette the effect of which made our skipper drive his boat around the island in speedy widening circles until it was time to pick us up. Shante, meanwhile, a male lookalike of Whoopi Goldberg, plied us with rum punches (Jim's favourite drink out here) and free chicken, which Merlin attempted to pay for! The more we drank, the more we drank, words, which, as we were ferried back from Happy Island by our grinning fool of a pilot, I am sure I saw daubed on the roof of his bar, beneath his solar panels and satellite dish. It's a simple life.....but it don't have to be!

DAY 12 UNION ISLAND......Hotel Bastardos

King's Landing Hotel has a very good rating on Trip Advisor. It also rates itself highly on its own website. I suppose it's ideally situated not in the centre of Clifton, the Capital of Union Island, but at the end of the street where the shops, bars and restaurants run out into housing propped up on a steep hill. As we approached the hotel, we were assaulted by a very unpleasant odour, far worse than anything I had smelt recently including the inside of a French Cheese shop on a trip to Calais or indeed the last time we smelt it which was on Bequia...... It was the current curse of The Caribbean.....brown seaweed. The smell initially took your breath away, forcing you to breath open mouthed, the rancid foulness too awful to nasally contemplate. Breathing thus we stumbled into reception. Staff here were very polite but overcharged us for our rooms. We had ordered cheapo Garden View rooms but had been given, at extra cost it seemed, Ocean View rooms complete with a balcony upon which one could lounge and breathe in the sea air...the seaweedy air. The Garden View rooms were all taken. What a surprise, the occupants must be taking cover like foot soldiers during a gas attack, the Ocean View rooms forming a barrier between them and the rotten obnoxiousness.

But there was nothing else for it but to bite the bullet and take the rooms offered. After all these were deluxe rooms. Deluxe rooms with no TV, no Wi-fi, no warm or hot water, no air con that uniformily worked properly, no coffee making facility, no mosquito screens, and poorly maintained facilities generally. The only thing that came to our aid was that the credit card machine didn't work and they could not take our payment on arrival. Lucky, lucky, lucky.

Now I don't mind a three star hotel with basic facilities, the Frangipanni on Bequia is one such, but it does not purport to be anything different. What they promise you is what you get, but King's Landing was the complete opposite. For example, Jim and Merlin enjoyed the luxury of air con whilst Trish and I did not. Jim wasn't able to turn his off as he didn't have a remote, but luckily his thermostat worked and he was comfortable. Merlin on the other hand came down to breakfast looking like an extra from 'The Iceman Cometh' for his AC unit was stuck on 16 degrees and his remote was unable to make a difference. He took to covering his bed with clothes from his rucksack in order to stay warm in the night. Opening windows and letting warm air in was not an  option, not without mosquito defences. Meanwhile we sweltered the night away in our floor fan only room. For the next three nights this played out with regularity, apart than for Merlin who put some batteries in his remote!

DAY 12 THE ISLE OF UNION.....A Fistful Of Selfie Stick

The ferry from the Eastern Isles pulled into the port with the usual cacophony, hustle bustle and colourful hawkingat its arrival. The four travellers joined the queue for disembarkation trying unsuccessfully to blend in with the surroundings. How could they in this dark skinned Western Isle of Union? Only one of the four could do so and her spoken word would certainly give her falsehood away at the first greeting. The heat, even at this time of the day was intense, close and without breath. The four, destined for Kings Landing, were soon out upon the jetty, weaving past the boxes of fresh produce and other cargo being unloaded from their vessel by noisy islanders. The cargo was soon loaded on barrows and onto the back of trucks and driven away into the town leaving them, alone standing on the jetty.

The two Sellswords were the first to make a move ahead, Sers Mosedale and  Melinski moving ahead of their companions, Lord and Lady Scales, she of the darker skin yet unable to remain anonymous in this the latest Isle of their travels. They all soon were upon the town street which would lead them to Kings Landing. But which way? They had expected better. They had imagined Kings Landing as a grand place, towering above the colourful yet simple dwellings that were beneath it. But not so. Neglecting their duties, the Sellswords, still gawping about the place, made no attempt to ascertain the direction of travel. This duty was left to Ser Scales, none to pleased at their dereliction of duty. Shamefaced they followed their two betters up the colourful street past bars and eateries, with music promised at each on multicolour chalk board.

Before long they were approached by a stranger in even stranger garb, a chimney like hat, red yellow and green in colour, perched precariously on his dreadlocked head. Ser Scales tightened his grip on his selfie stick at the sight of him, watching carefully for the opportunity to draw it from its hiding place. The fellow melted away into the interested crowd before he had time to use it as the four made their way up the Main Street.

Before long sight of double story buildings with painted galvanised roofs, brought hope and awe to the hearts of the travellers. Surely this must be the place which they sought. The Kings Landing of both legend and Trip Advisor. A left turn was made and there before them it was indeed, magnificent and...........well no.......... as Ser Melin at that moment commented.....'looks like Hotel Bastardo,..........smells like Hotel Bastardo...........,it is Hotel Bastardo!' And so it proved.....

DAYS 8-11 BEQUIA....G'Day Sport

Fellow traveller Jim. What can we say about him? Well he's a damned good bloke and well traveled too. He likes the occasional tipple, his favourite being Baily's Irish Cream or whatever it's called, poured into a hot cup of coffee. Until this trip..... Now he is a hopeless beer and rum punch convert. I didn't realise how he had been led astray until two days into our Bequia stop. Island hopping out here is so much fun. Each island has its individual character and opportunities to experience the Caribbean way of life. Of course this includes some touristy things as well as sitting around liming. All four of us are good at this. Merlin is a Grand Master. But every now and then you need to get up offa dat 'ting as James Brown would say and do something.

So it was that we decided an excursion, by sea, to Tobago Cays Marine Park, was a pre requisite trip. Trish and I have been twice before, Merlin once. It's an area,  accessible only by boat, of stunning beauty. I am sure the Bounty Chocolate advert was filmed there in the way back of when, and every other such ad since. Snorkelling is a must, swimming with turtles, puffer fish and the occasional scary stingray, not to mention the myriad of less well known characters but nonetheless exquisite in their underwater beauty. The sea is many shades of Caribbean turquoise out there and it does take your breath away even at a second or third visit.

Previously on The Windies Blog, we have sailed out of Bequia in an old schooner 'The Friendship Rose', and I do mean sailed. Not so this time. The  Rose was not sailing this time. Disappointed Jim and I hot footed it down to the Tourist Office in the middle of Bequia 'Town'. And very helpful they were too. An assistant called ahead to Union Island and booked us up on a Catamaran sailing out of there on Saturday. She gave us both the time, the day and the place where it was sailing from. As the information came at us, Jim and I, already victims of a rum punch at our hotel, decided to spilt it up in true thriller style. One of us would remember time and the other the place. Together we would remember cost and other details like free booze and grub for the duration of the trip. So empowered we left the Tourist Office. We would assemble the relevant parts back at The Frangipanni. No problem man. Disaster lurked around the corner.

Our way home we were easily influenced by a ramshackle brick walled bar owned by someone called Sport. For outside, red daubed paint proclaimed the establishment thus......'Sport's Bar...live sport' (that seemed to entail watching locals play pool) and 'rum punch happy hour 6-10'. Unsure of which 6-10 Sport meant we ventured in. Luckily for us it was planned for the exact time slot we gained entry. It seemed rude not to partake as the locals noisily and determinedly argued over their game of pool, played on the baize the equivalent quality of Derby County's Baseball Ground pitch in the mid seventies. I casually sauntered up to the bar and ordered two rum punches. They were cheap. And they were strong. As in The Waltons Farmhouse at bedtime, I saw lights going out in Jim's demeanour. I also realised I was also suffering the equivalent power out. We left.

When we got back, the other two were naturally anxious to find out the details of the forthcoming trip to Tobago Cays. Like two best men frantically searching in their pocket for the missing wedding ring, we were unable to come up with any relevant info, even though it had been trusted to us not an hour before.

After breakfast the following day, two shamefaced individuals and a Swede made their way back to the Bequia Tourist Office. Luckily, they have a sense of humour in these here parts, or they are used to rum punched idiots. Either way, we are off to Tobago Cays in a couple of days. Merlin holds the vital information.........

DAYS 8-11 BEQUIA.....Lock Yourself Out

Sometimes you find a place that you never tire of, a place which epitomises the atmosphere of the break from the normal day to day existence that is your holiday. A place you will return to again and again. For Trish, myself and now Merlin too, that place is the island of Bequia. We had planned to spend four full days there and now with Jim along with his click clicking camera, we were sure to see the island through a new pair of eyes. And so we did.

I am writing this as we speed away from this jewel of The Grenadines which never fails to inveigle its unique charm into the consciousness. We had pulled into Port Elizabeth early evening on Monday night. The horseshoe shaped harbour ringed with small ramshackle shops and hotels was again alive with craft both big and small bobbing on the turquoise water in the wash of our lumbering ferry. Like the rest of The Grenadines, Bequia is volcanic, and behind the small yet expanding town, the green hills rise rapidly. Dotted among the palm and coconut trees hanging up there, are private residences ranging from the small shack type dwellings, to magnificent statements, multi roomed and multi millions too. On and on the hills rise until they are just jagged rocky skylines. Roads wind like snakes up into the forests. Sharp eyes, or Jim's zoom lens can make out cars and other vehicles slowly making their way up and along the ridges. Tomorrow, that would be us.

Where the hills tumble into the sea, past the occasional bar or hotel, the sand, tinged with streaks of black volcanic discharge from millennia ago, merges with a beautiful fish filled sea, water clear and sparkling in the hot sunshine. Bequia at this time of year is recovering from the Christmas and Spring high times. Then it's harbour comes alive with sailing boats pulling into the bay to spend sun drenched days at its bars and taverns, but at this time of year....it sleeps. Which is fine by us.

The Frangipani Hotel where we stay, is a wooden confusion of broken, nearly broken and please be careful. It's seen better days. But it's right by the harbour side with recliners parked invitingly under swaying coconut trees. We always stay here and it's standing fans and over bed mosquito nets instead of air con and  such like, provide a reminder of what holidays once were. It's even possible to lock yourself out of your room, which of course is what I did.

As the room door clicked too, I had a sinking feeling that Trish was not inside. No, she was instead on the communal balcony. Visions of sleeping with Merlin immediately raced into my beer addled mind as i furtively but futilely rattled the doorknob. Outside the midnight crickets chirped. I received a look from my wife usually reserved for a small child who has failed to eat all the dinner she has painstakingly prepared for them at her place of work What to do? Call for the duty clerk? There was none. All was locked tighter than a virgin's chastity belt. No, at times like these there is only one you can call.....Merlin. Over the years I have known him, the majority of these in his drinking days, I have repeatedly tried to lock him out of my house in some fit of pique or indignation. But he always found a way in. And so he did this night, expertly folding the plastic 'do not disturb plastic doorknob hanger found at all good hotels, sliding it down to the lock and applying just the right amount of shoulder pressure until the door sprang open. Cue celebration much back slapping. Quickly I slunk inside. At least I had a clean plate!

DAY SEVEN.......On The Road Again..

As I write we are nearly to St. Vincent, and as usual no trip in The Windies is without its frustrations. The fact we are nearly to St. Vincent belies the effort it took, mentally, to get here.

We left Montserrat yesterday.....this time by Air. After a visit to The Hilltop Bar to look at more rock memorabilia salvaged from the wreck of the Volcano, and owned by an avid photographer. (his photographs of the erupting Soufrié were dramatic in their beauty.) we were climbing aboard a small seven seater aircraft bound for Antigua and waving our goodbyes. I think I was the only relaxed member of the party as the light  aircraft seemingly struggled into the air. As it climbed a superb view of Soufrié and the buried Capital swung into view. As there were only six of us on the flight all queues were avoided at either end of the short twenty minute flight and driver Dyke was soon driving us to our overnight accommodation.

Unfortunately they had overbooked. There were only two rooms available to us. No problem, Jim and Merlin would share, Jim replete  with official Hotel Ear Plugs to negate the volcanic rumbles that were due to issue forth from Mount Merlin that night. It soon became apparent that were were staying at not The Wind Chimes Inn but at Hotel Bastardos. Not only would Jim have to share with Melinski but, because of the absence of a toilet door, would perhaps inadvertently, have to watch him shit as well! Complaints were made, money refunded but no toilet door was forthcoming. They were promised one on our return in two weeks. But not that night. For driver Dyke, this was the highlight of his day. He chuckled all the way to The Coconut Grove that night and more in the morning.

Antigua airport or more importantly Liat Air, the inter island Caribbean Airline. For many years now this airline has dogged and often screwed up my progress through these charming countries. It is better known as 'Leave Island Any Time' and even locals raise their eyes to heaven when the name is mentioned. They have caused me, in the past, to sleep overnight at Barbados airport, be marooned for three days at the same airport and sit like a fool waiting for a flight at St. Vincent that came eventually but as far as the airport flight information board was 'on time'. This caused us to miss our UK connection at......yes......BARBADOS.

So as we cruised into Antigua airport and Jim uttered the words 'look, our flight is ontime' you could understand why Trish replied with 'oh no Jim, you have jinxed it'. And so it proved. Antigua airport, at that very moment, shut down until further notice. So there we sat, and sat, visions of a missed connection to St. Vincent playing on my mental television, together with an overnight stay at Barbados airport.

Not to worry. Jim's faith was well conceived as within the next hour we were actually boarding the flight to Vinncy. Miraculously the airport had reopened. I rather think it was the prospect of them having to accommodate two plane loads of American Airline passengers within the next two hours in their matchbox sized international airport. But Jim was fairly reprimanded as to all future positive travel statements with regard to Liat Airlines.

DAY SIX......MONTSERRAT......Dinner At Sir Georgie's.

There was another part to yesterday that I didn't mention following our breathtaking yet sobering experience at Air Studios. As I have written before, Lou and Shirley once lived it what is now the Desolation Of Plymouth. The once proud capital stood directly in the path of the pyroclactic flow tumbling down the slopes of volcano Soufrié  and into the Caribbean Sea as did their home and beach bar, not to mention the golf course of which Lou was manager. The scars left by this cataclysm are clear to see but few can have the experiences we have had at the guidance of our fantastic host.

In the afternoon we visited the outlying suburbs of the Capital. We explored the ruins of a local hotel, abandoned, reception, and every other room, covered in thick ash and rubble, waiting for guests that would and will never come. The most poignant sight was, a radio, transistor type, just sitting in the middle of the floor in a bedroom. One could imagine the exhortations to evacuate emanating from the tinny speaker to terrified listeners.

As Day six rolled on we visited Woodlands Beach, volcanic black sand course and gritty standing out starkly against the blue of the ocean. Soon the snorkelling Merlin came back with reports of mating turtles in the area, two having just passed him by.....and surviving the shock, for we soon were able to observe them for ourselves, breaking the surface of the waves in front of us.

Upon returning home, Shirley informed us that she had made arrangements for us to dine at Ovendell  House just outside of the village of Salem, a colourful roadside scattering of wooden shack type bars and shops. We passed JD's Bakery where a photo for our friend of the same name was obtained and local limers lounged ignorant of the fame of their appropriately named establishment. Shirley seemed to know everyone and they in turn got to know us, four tourists on their way to Sir George's place. She is a personal friend of Sir George Martin who has done a lot for this terrific island over the years. Cue our invitation.

Ovendell House is the home of Air Studios builder and the one time Beatle producer. He fell in love with Montserrat and not only built the studios but a smart house too. As we entered, it's perfect lines of smartness contrasted starkly with our Air Studio experience. Comfortable furnishings abounded upon which we were soon lounging, rum punch cocktail in hand courtesy of barman Wilson who's striking resemblance to Tom Hank's football friend in 'Castaway' did not go unnoticed, not least by Wilson himself. The only difference that I could see was that Hank's buddy was white! Running through the centre of the house was a long corridor, off which various bedrooms could be found. But the most striking decoration were the framed photographs that hung on the corridor walls. Each one of these, a signed picture of a Beatle taken by Linda McCartney. Jim was again in his element, as was Merlin snapping as many of the pictures as they could before we were called to dinner.

DAY FIVE.....MONTSERRAT....Walking On The Moon....cont...

Air Studios Montserrat, opened by George Martin in the seventies and host to some of the World's  well known recording artists and their subsequent albums. Studios, state of the art but more importantly, away from it all in a tropical paradise, where the creative juices and no doubt the locally grown Mary Jane, could flow through the veins of renowned stars such as The Police, The Rolling Stones, Luther Vandross, Paul MC.Cartney, Midge Ure, Michael Jackson, America and local celebrity Arrow, remember him? Hot, Hot, Hot. Not now.

Like small children who have just discovered the world around is made from chocolate, we entered the premises through the side gate, thinking to a man, of those who had entered before us. Trish was also with us of course and like a mother looking after three wayward trespassing sons, was making sure we didn't tread carelessly or excitedly fail to heed the warning of the sign outside.

Firstly we came upon a hot courtyard into which was sunken a swimming pool. The pool was now filled with fetid green rainwater to a level where not even the bravest would trust a dive from the rotting, rust edged board. In the middle of the slime a frog or toad, giant, as if from living long in the toxic mix, baked in the shallows. Around the pool, cracked tiles gave way to our footfall, weed and fronded foliage swayed in the hot breeze on the sides where once was a lawn, green and fertile, but now presenting a realistic challenge to Alan Titchmarsh and his team of garden do gooders.

The building itself, the studio complex, edged the pool on one side. Massive windows looked out onto the pool area, now opaque with dust and dirt, not revealing what lay in wait beyond. A door to the left swung loosely open in the breeze and as I watched, Merlin disappeared through it, followed by Jim, camera clicking like some long abandoned, out of time metronome. Soon I joined them. The bright light outside immediately gave way to an inner gloom and smell of dusty decay. Some sunlight managed to find passage through the windows in thin shards no wider than the thickest string of a bass guitar or a conductor's baton.

The room in which we all now stood was recognisable to me. It had been the main recording studio. The control room was to my left where producers had filtered and mixed and musicians had negotiated and fiddled. Incredibly, the glass that separated it from the main room was still intact, but the speakers, once embedded in the wall above were now long gone. Wires hung down everywhere, and some even were bursting up from the floor in tangled confusion. We realised of course that much looting here had taken place and although the fabric of the building remained it had been depleted of its innards. Every step we took (!) kicked up ash which joined the beams of light.

We crept around like post apocalyptic survivors, recently up from a nuclear bunker, silently and with a strange respect, turning over switches and plugs as if hoping to find some rock heirloom, a discarded plectrum, a musical score, a sliver of recording tape buried in the debris. But no. All was gone, long gone, either rotten to the years, or taken by others such as we. Another door led to a huge area, the size of a small aircraft hanger. It was empty and with no windows, dark, even more gloomy that the rest of the studios. What it had been, we could only guess, but some of the flooring gave as we trod upon it, and like skaters on the first frozen lakes of winter, we decided not to venture further and turned back.

After some time and with great reluctance we realised that it was time to leave. Trish had long since returned to keep Shirley company in the car and we were mindful of the heat outside in the courtyard. Back outside I looked up, for the first time. The upper floor, accessed by a wrought iron spiral staircase, clearly had housed accommodation and living space. The way up was, however, barred. The roof looked none too safe and it was clear that the floor had given way in parts with floorboarding hanging through the ceiling below.

Soon these once great studios will be gone, reclaimed, like many of the ravaged areas of the island, by the magnificent nature, swallowed up and often reborn. But if the buildings would never come back could the spirit of the music made here live on? I think so. For as we explored in our reverential hush this day, there were tunes running through our minds. I talked to the other two after, they agreed. As I struggled to breathe in the claustrophobic ash and dust, an appropriate Police tune had played along. They too had their own personal experiences of a similar nature. To me this was a tiny triumph against the double disaster that destroyed Air Studios. As we drove away, on to our next adventure, my tune played on, and on..........

DAY FIVE.....Montserrat....Walking On The Moon

No visit to this island would be complete without an volcano experience. And I don't mean the pepper sauce we were given at breakfast to put on our scrambled eggs, which Merlin somehow managed to put in his eye. Cue pitiful wailing from the bathroom as he dashed handfuls of cold water into the injured area. No. Montserrat has more to offer. But as the day began we had no idea what was to later become of it.

Lou and Shirley as I have previously stated, are wonderful hosts and guides and this morning we set off with just Shirley at the wheel of their four by four. We were soon climbing up into the southern lands. Each turn of the wheel took as further and further into uninhabited areas where the occasional goat or lizard took it in turns to scoot across the dusty, broken road in front of us. Soon, ahead we could see a grey, white expanse of boulders and ash seemingly teeming down from the upper slopes, but frozen in chaotic time. We soon realised from the upper storeys of buildings protruding from the ash, that this was the remains of the once bustling airport and surrounding villages, levelled by the contents of the volcano spewing forth decades ago. We climbed out of the car on a desolate ridge, where a spectacular view opened out in front of us. The flow, all those years ago, having done its work, had continued onward into the sea, where it had billowed and boiled to extinction. Homes, businesses lives and livelihoods, all gone.

As we gaped, the hot wind picked up and blew across the levels, picking up ash and swirling it around, heading our way. All the time, way below, the sea, a beautiful blue with white tossing crests gave up a stark contrast to the land around. In patches, green fertility stood out in the grey earth, where nature was fighting back. Out at seas a squall gathered pace and was soon also coming towards us, to mix in with the whipped up ash and debris. Grit blew around and into our mouths as a refreshing yet tainted rain fell and buffeted. Jim, snapping away with his camera to capture the scene, was soon, like the rest of us, heading towards the safety of the vehicle. It was if nature had spotted our intrusion and like the inhabitants before us, contrived to send us away.

On we went. We entered complete and utter desolation. Signs by the wayside stood out starkly warning of the dangers of further passage. On we went. Climbing continually until we found ourselves in a relatively fertile area, where the nature had won its fightback and was beginning to overcome a solitary building, fronds and vine wrapping themselves around brick and board as if they were were the tentacles of some giant sea monster dragging a ship to its doom. We drove dustily through a of pair hanging, rusty gates, having long ago given up the effort of providing security to the building. We drew up outside what once had obviously been an impressive and spectacular residence, but one that was now contemplating Davy Jones Locker. A rotting sign gave a warning...'Air Studios Montserrat, unsafe building , enter here at your own risk'.

DAY FOUR.....Montserrat.....The Ashes Part One.

Outside somewhere too near at dawn or even before, a cockerel started its hour long cacophony. Sunlight was already starting to filter through the shutters, radiating from the surface of the swimming pool just outside the wooden door. We are in Montserrat.

Montserrat, one of the most peaceful and tranquil islands imaginable, with the nicest of people, two of which are our hosts at Erindell Villa. Erindell is a guest house situated in the Woodlands area of the island. Shirley and Lou, the owners have lived in Montserrat for many years, surviving, but losing almost everything and their lives in the Hurricane that decimated 90% of the island in 1989, including George Martin's Air Studios. More of that later. They also lived through the eruption of the local volcano in 1997. This destroyed their house and beach bar leaving them and many others at the mercy of cruel fate and the insurance companies who initially took to the hills, and not the one spewing fire and brimstone. But they have rebuilt their lives and now entertain a continual flow of guests who, once having drunk from the Killikranki Springs, are destined to return again and again.
Trish and I did in 2011, and here we are again.

Over half of the island is off limits. The once proud capital Plymouth, now buried under tons of ash and mud. A no go zone. The rest of the island is green and verdant, with steep, winding roads and flora and fauna emerging defiantly from the forests..... Here people go out and don't lock their doors. They do the same with their cars. If you are in trouble, someone will help you. Shirley had a flat some time ago, and four guys in a truck on their way back from work stopped, lifted up the car, replaced the wheel and went about their business. I rather suspect that had Merlin turned up here without his passport and wallet, leaving it in his room safe on Antigua (yes he did and had to go back for it), they would have printed him new.

Not much time for acclimatisation. Within minutes of breakfast we were all climbing into Lou and Shirley's four by four to start our initial introduction to the island. Unfortunately for Jim, with the Australians dismissed for just 60 runs before lunch on day one of the Fourth Ashes Test, this included a visit to a typical Caribbean beach bar. The owner, typically a cricket nut, on hearing one of our party was from OZ presented the usual Windian false sympathy, which went something like........'oh dear man,....sixty........ashes man ashes" accompanied by a wide, beaming smile and more "oh dears" and "ashes man, ashes" then a bottle of beer thrust into a grateful hand.

We stuck to the inhabited north of the island today, where thanks to investment from the UK Government and Sir George Martin, renewal is slowly taking place with a new capital emerging with brightly coloured houses and small businesses and bars, springing up where none were to be seen when Trish and I were last here. A Cultural Centre funded entirely by Sir George has been built and a museum stands proudly next to it. The centre was closed as we drove past but we were promised a visit tomorrow. Tomorrow was actually going to turn out to be quite an unforgettable day and not just because at the end of it The Aussies would be a mere three wickets away from surrendering The Ashes. However, ashes of a very different nature were to come to the fore.

DAY 2 ANTIGUA...Bass Bin Boomtown

DAY 2 ANTIGUA...Bass Bin Boomtown

It's the last days of The Carnival. The town has been jumpin' for a few days now and this day is the last. We set off fairly early under the guidance of our driver Dyke to St. John's. As usual the barely made up roads provided an interesting journey in, our taxi bumping almost suspension free along thewinding trail. Again own his suggestion we headed for a local restaurant which would prove a good starting point for our day. There was an outside upper terrace at Hemingway's with comfortable tables and a view over the street. We soon made friends with Valerie our waitress, who guaranteed us a table for later on when the carnival was going to be in full flow.

We sat there for some time and were soon aware of a deep thudding vibration which rattled the glasses on the table. Like crickets in the forest at dusk, this was the signal for the start of the proceedings. At the end of the street, a huge articulated lorry had been turned into a massive giant's entertainment system. Bass bins, each the size of a person were strapped together in stacked grids of at least nine at each end of the trailer. In the middle a DJ was connected to a mixing desk and amp. Some trucks even had their own generator powering up the on board systems. The lorry moved slowly past to be replaced with another of equal magnitude. We found out later in the streets, as the colourful troupes of dancers passed endlessly by, that there were dozens of these, each pumping out ear shattering rhythms and beats, feeding the revellers with a constant stream of soca, reggae and calypso, the latter often supported by trucks full of steel drum players, sometimes fifty strong, pounding out their delightful percussions.

And then there were the dancers. Mostly female, of all ages, resplendent in amazing colour. Feathers fluttered, magnificent headdresses arced through the air and, as one they performed perfectly gyrating patterns of dance throughout the day, in the tropical town heat.

Jim was in his element, camera in hand among the action of the day, as the dancers waved he clicked, leaping into the street in front of the performers as they bore down on him, to capture another beautiful captivating photograph.

DAY THREE: ANTIGUA.....Queue It Up

Disaster. I suppose that no trip to The Caribbean would be complete without a complete balls up and I am glad it happened on just our second day. But........my decision to take the ferry rather than the seven seater island hopper to Montserrat backfired big big time.

We arrived at the docks in Antigua in, one would suppose, plenty of time to pay for, board and be Montserrat bound on the inter Island ferry. But, when we arrived there was obvious chaos. The first sign of trouble in these here parts are indistinguishable raised voices and rapid patois. The ferry, at this, an early time, was fully booked. Fuses were lit and sweat furrowed many a brow as reason, cajole and occasional bribery were used in equal measure as a means to secure passage on the vessel, alluringly tied to the ramshackle quay. I had a distinct sinking feeling. We have been here before of course, not in Antigua but marooned at the behest of Liat Air, two years ago at Barbados airport. Now here we were again, in the rising heat, destined not to board the Montserrat Ferry. And board we did not. As it pulled away, us and other travellers cursed its departure, resigning ourselves to a day of waiting. Waiting for the ferry to return in the evening.

What to do? How to kill the time? There was a waiting area, out of the blaze of the sun but not escaping from the humidity. And of course there were fellow travellers, equally out of luck as us, just as pissed off and with nothing to do but wait in the heat. And moan. And curse, in that special West Indian manner.

There was Old Stinky for example. A middle aged black fellow en route from England to Montserrat who constantly complained of his own odour. He left England on Monday, after a delay there as well, and he hadn't had a shower since Sunday. He wanted everyone to know. And he was desperate to get to Montserrat. More than once I had him leaping from his seat in forlorn hopes of boarding the ferry or with news of suspicious queue activity.

And then there was Rastahat. Few teeth and grizzly grey beard. He came with promises of a guaranteed seat on the evening sailing for the mere price of a square meal. He was with us all day promising with every breath in his body and generally knocking about with all those waiting. Jim, also was good value. For as we reached early afternoon and after a few beers in the local bar, weariness overtook us all, and to a man, those waiting in the run down ex bar area, nodded off, either reclining on the seats or slumped in chairs. Suddenly there was a report as loud as a shot from a gun. All woke with a start and for a few seconds were unable to ascertain as to the cause of this.....until we saw Jim sprawled on the floor in what was left of his plastic garden type furniture chair. Merriment all round, and a green chair leg catapulted quite fittingly, in the general direction of the waste bin.

Time wore on. Hours passed, seven of them. Eventually there was activity. The ticket sellers turned up. We were allowed to purchase tickets from a single seller. Queue 1. Queue 2 was round the corner, that was where you presented your passport to a single passport clerk who slowly, laboriously processed the documents before sending you to, yes you guessed it, queue 3. That was the queue for the payment of the island departure tax. When he arrived, and that wasn't immediate. Tax paid we were sent with confirmation to the inevitable queue 4 which was also queue 2 where Immigration Man now found himself multitasking. I don't think that is actually a word in the Caribbean dictionary. I also question the presence of mono tasking too. All this done, were were sent back down the gangplank to the broken down bar to wait for the ferry that was somewhere out there on The Caribbean Sea. My last image of the day was Mr Stinky, feverishly searching his bag at the at the eventual embarkation point, for his lost ticket. We filed past. Upwind.

WINDIES 2015. DAY ONE.......GO WEST!

 So here we go again, another Windies experience sees a party of four this time, setting off from an early morning in Harlington on the five am train to Gatwick, bleary eyed after a hectic weekend which saw Jim and Merlin, travelling companions for the next three weeks, unwittingly host a garden party on Saturday. This was cunningly conceived by my good lady, the third member of the Gang of Four, and myself, to honour Merlin's birthday and Jim's simple presence in the UK from the far far away Sunshine Coast in Australia from which he has absconded to be with us on this tour of the gorgeous Grenadines.

Let's dwell a little on the dramatis personae. Firstly, we have Jim, a Windies virgin but otherwise an exceedingly well travelled geezer and top bloke. He's been hankering after accompanying us to The Windies for some time now, dropping hints the size of the Sydney Opera House into conversations, not only online but also over the dinner table in OZ when Trish and I visited him in April this year. So, yielding to pressure, here he is camera in hand and beanie hat ahead, looking to yet another cultural experience.

Then there is Merlin. Remember him readers? He was entertaining you all last time round. My friend of over forty years from Sweden could not wait for this day. The day when he was Windies bound, leaving behind the disappointing Swedish summer, and heading for the land of the lime, and if you are a regular reader, you'll know I am not talking about fruit.

And of course Trish. My wife. Long suffering but folks, it's always good to have a indigenous looking person along with you on these kind of trips, even if as soon as she opens her mouth and tumbles out her Luton born accent, the fast dollar sharks and charlatans descend upon her as they do the rest of us. So she is under instruction not to speak unless spoke to. If you believe that.........then
this blog is for you.


Antigua was our first stop. The journey was undramatic apart from take off turbulence which saw Trish mentally reaching for her Qwells whilst holding on tightly to my hand as the plane struggled to gain altitude through the buffeting clouds. We were soon touching down in Antigua, the usual blast of tropical humidity accompanying the opening of the aircraft door.

We were soon on our way to The English Harbour, where we are staying for the next two nights, courtesy of our taxi driver Dyke London who rattled and bumped his way over the cracked roads westward, cursing the local traffic. Dyke was mostly interested in hawking his services for the duration of our stay on Antigua, probably free of airport costs, as the fee for a ride from English Harbour to the capital St. John's was considerably cheaper than that for the ride we were 'experiencing' now. Card in hand we arrived at our hotel.

Unwittingly, I had booked us onto the island during Carnival, and for Jim, this was a promising photographic opportunity. However, as we ventured out in the mid afternoon to explore our local area, we found that most businesses, bars, cafes, were shut for the duration of the festive fun. English Harbour was a ghost town.(cue appropriate music from The Specials). Nothing was open. We wandered in the afternoon sun. I even had blasphemous thoughts about a nice cool pint of Carling. We enquired and were pointed in the general direction of 'cheaper beers that way man' by a dreadlocked chap, desperately in need of a Mr. Motivator type workout, 'relaxing' in front of his yard.



We soon found what he was referring to......a local store. Located at the end of Cheaper Beer Street, it was colourful porch fronted establishment with a few locals sitting at picnic tables chewing the fat of the day. Some had teeth, some had a few, nearly all had grey beards and/or moustaches. Merlin fitted right in. We ventured inside the store, hotter in than out, and bought some cold beers from the fridge. By the time we had paid for them at the counter, serviced by an elderly lady with little or no concept of the true flow of time, they had gained a few degrees but were nonetheless exquisite to the taste.

We three desperadoes, for Trish had wisely stayed at our air conditioned home, parked ourselves on the front porch and indulged in the best activity there is in these here parts, liming. As we limed, the locals in all shapes and sizes, sauntered up the path, wishing us the time of day, to make their purchases. Naturally, it wasn't long before we attracted some attention. Enter Cat In The Hat Lava. His friendly demeanour belied his intention to fleece us for something or other. He regaled us with tales of local treasure trove, some of the proceeds of which he had in his backpack. Undoubtedly old coins, but worn beyond accurate recognition that he insisted dated back to the time of Lord Nelson who had, anchored the English fleet in this very harbour, whist lying in wait for passing Spanish gold. Unfortunately for Horatio, disease and the rest of it was rampant amongst his crews and many of them died and were buried in simple graves on the beach here. Thoughtfully, before they left, they managed to share their pestilence with the locals. As I thought these thoughts, fittingly a one legged man made his way on his crutches, past the establishment.

Naturally, the treasure, offered in exchange for a bottle of rum, stayed in Lava's backpack.

Our walk home was uneventful bar a salutatory greeting from our lounging limer, still in position at the top of Cheaper Beer Street.

SCALEYRADIO 43 ON AIR...The 'Music From The Dukebox' Show.

SCALEYRADIO 43 ON AIR.. The 'Music From The Dukebox' Show by John Scales on Mixcloud

SCALEYRADIO 42: ON AIR THE 'Arry The Snake' Show

SCALEYRADIO 42: ON AIR THE 'Arry The Snake' Show by John Scales on Mixcloud

SCALEYRADIO 41 ON AIR THE 'MIDSUMMER MIX' SHOW

SCALEYRADIO 41 ON AIR…... THE 'MIDSUMMER MIX' SHOW by John Scales on Mixcloud

SCALEYRADIO 40 ONLINE

SCALEYRADIO 40 The  'Keep On Walking' Show by John Scales on Mixcloud

OZ BLOG PART 4

PHYSICAL DISABILITIES

 It's a well known fact that Ozzie sportsmen/women pretty much excel at whatever they have a go at while we Brits try to keep up with them or think up devious ways to better them. Ever since The Match that concluded with the burning of the bails and the interment of the ashes, cricket has never been the same and they even have a decent soccer team, an excellent record in the pool, a stunningly good rugby team, tennis players, golfers, cyclists, runners, rowers, ....you get the idea.

 As you will have ascertained by now, I have been out and about a bit, on my own, on my borrowed bike. I have chalked up the best part of 300km. During that time I have watched joggers jogging, bikers biking, walkers walking, swimmers swimming, surfers surfing, rugby players rugbying, soccer players doing just that, and all kinds of splendid and energetic pursuits. The common factor? Every one of them takes place outside, in the sunshine, in good weather, albeit in pretty high temperatures, whilst at home our sporty types are either indoor training, waiting for a break in the weather or taking a couple of winter months off until the whole thing takes a turn for the better. And of course here, it's a year round opportunity to get out there, in the sun and be active.

Now I'm not sexist, but I can also tell you that the atmosphere of my morning or afternoon cycle is certainly improved not only because of the weather, but also the company I keep. On the shared paths, bikini tops jog past, wired for sound with GPS trackers fitted, bronzed elbows pumping, pony tails swishing, the passing aroma of coconut alluringly following. I ride past schools both junior and high where great oceans of green are set aside for physical activity. From on high, swimming pools twinkle blue in the back gardens of dwellings all over the city. Children turn out of their coach on the seafront and charge towards the water clutching body boards and dive into the surf free of spirit and inhibitions. Cycle paths are wide and on both sides of the road, motorists forced by law to give pedal power a wide berth.

This lifestyle, this healthy, outdoor lifestyle, goes on 365 days a year here on The Sunshine Coast, and while our cricketers prepare for the coming test series in an indoor complex somewhere in the bowels of Mordor, here in Rivendell, the Ozzies, having just won The World Cup in March, are now putting their new fast bowling quartet through their paces under the warm, comforting and familiar sun.

But yet, it does rain. Serious rain. Hard rain. Warm yet stingy, it can cascade from the sky as it did today while we visited Australia Zoo. This is the zoo run by the family of the late Steve Irwin of Crocodile Hunter fame. Ironically, unlike Whipsnade, my local zoo, where I have accompanied many a soggy school excursion, Australia Zoo actually provides numerous shelter points along the paths winding in and out of the rainforest which houses the myriad animal life. For half an hour the rain fell, enough to call an abandonment of a day's cricket. But no. A mere half hour after the rain stopped, the moisture had gone. The paths were dry and play was resumed. The zoo came back to life and proceedings resumed. Crocodiles continued to bask, Tigers prowl, kangaroos kanga and the insects and reptiles resumed battle in the undergrowth. Life went on, unabated, unhindered and unashamedly positively under that warm Ozzie sun. No wonder for some the saying, 'if you can't beat em' join em' becomes a reality.

OZ BLOG PART 3

BUGGERED AT BUDERIM

 

 

Buderim. There is only one way to say it and I have just mastered the pronunciation at least. Jim lives as you know by now, at Mountain Creek. His charmingly named road, Karawatha Drive about 3 km in length, eventually gives way to a far more adventurous road.......the road to Buderim. 

Buderim, I found out the hard way, is on a plateau. All roads out if the charming, well ordered village have warning signs to drivers, especially those with large heavy vehicles...'low gear for the next 2 km'.....and you know what that means, it's steep. Access to it, no matter which way you choose, is the same lung bursting tortuous steepness. Now the bike that Jim has organised for me is quite fine. A mountain bike with ten gears. However, it lacks the 'chicken shit gear' as I call it which my Specialised has back home. I'm not ungrateful, but when I told Jim I was 'going to' Buderim, he failed to inform me that it was in fact 'up to' Buderim. We've been there since in the car. Mostly in second gear. There was not a chance on this bike of tackling the incline. He also failed to warn me of the impending weather as I set out on my daily ride, to the now dreaded Buderim. 

As I cycled along, the sunny tropical heat with its encompassing stifle was working overtime. Above, dark gloomy clouds formed banks of blackness. The rainforest on my left became still, the birds silent. For good reason. Just as I reached the bottom of the gradient, the heavens opened..the rain came down in rods. Quickly there were rivers of it coming down the road towards me as I toiled up the initial gradient. Trucks and cars coming in the opposite direction slowed to a crawl, an artic rumbled past its driver standing on the brakes. 

Determined, but foolish, I pressed on, immediately soaked, shoes filling up on the pedal. Standing up, the back wheel was failing to grip on the saturated surface and thoughts of pushing up rapidly filled my mind. The rain now began to hurt as it pelted down, hit the road and bounced back up. In the hazy distance this Pom cyclist made out a familiar shape...a wheelie bin. It was about half way up the precipitous incline. That wheelie bin became my marker, my target, my saviour. At that bin I would at least rest. My lungs were now at bursting point, straining to take in humid air amid the torrent. Pommie pride took over, I would get there, not far to go now. Standing on the pedals and moving as efficiently as a one legged man at an arse kicking contest I finally made it. Wheelie bin heaven and shelter under a spreading tree.....then the Pom saw what it said on the bin..............

 

OZ BLOG PART 2

 Jim

BEER, BAILEYS AND BIKING

It's a mistaken belief that OZ is either sea and sand or desert. This isn't true. The proof of this is the 'bush' better known as the hinterland. It's a lush, green, verdant belt which runs behind  the coastal road and ends where the desert does start. But there is a lot of it. Hilly, winding and utterly splendid. Like the Windies, anything grows here. Unlike UK citizens, Australians can buy home grown produce at their local food store. No oranges from Spain, Apples from South Africa, Courgettes from Portugal etc, it's all produced in OZ. There are vineyards producing some lovely wines, and fields of hops producing some truly....... rank tasting beer. Yes folks that's where the eulogising stops. The main breweries must be run by brewers whose taste buds were removed at birth. All of them seem to produce the same foul Amber liquid. I have tried nearly all, Castlemaine, Tooheys, 4xxx and the assorted bottles that Jim had stashed away with his precious Baileys. The Baileys, he found out, courtesy of Trish, was the only booze he had that was drinkable. With the bravery of Julius Caesar's official food and drink taster, she ignored the 2010 sell by date on the side of the bottle and quaffed a sufficient amount to reassure Jim that it was indeed good enough to drink, put in his coffee, pour over his ice cream and use as toothpaste. For Jim loves the creamy elixir, and was grateful to be bravely re aquatinted with his ancient treasure. 

Jim's 24 hour Al Fresco area

This would be an opportune moment to associate you with our mate Jim. He's a Brit who sensibly emigrated here from Luton some 25 years ago. He lives North of Brisbane in Mountain Creek. He has a lovely one storey detached house in a long sweeping drive where no two houses are the same and no two houses are joined to each other. No semi detached living here. He has an
outside seating area which is used all the year round. It's not called The Sunshine Coast for nothing. Al fresco dining is the norm. Parrots squawk away in the trees above and at the end of his garden is The Creek. A mini rainforest with paved trails all around, on which cyclists are encouraged to pedal, runners run, joggers jog and power walkers don't see bicycles! Indeed, road cycle lanes here are twice as wide as any in the UK and strict laws govern just how close motorists can get to cyclists. As I found out there is a safe cycle way all the way to the seafront from his house. It takes about ten minutes to get there. When you do its all blue seas, white surfer waves and greenery. Paradise. On one side of the road is the sea and on the other, cafés and bars together with the usual sea side type apparel shops.

 

Bike Path To The Seafront

Jim made sure that there was a bike to use and I have repaid his kindness by buggering off on a daily basis to try and avoid getting lost, dying of heat exhaustion, and annoying other road users through ignorance of the local rules and regs. As you can tell or even imagine there is only one of the three I have succeeded in. Although it was a close run thing...............................

All Will Be Revealed In Part Three

OZ BLOG PART 1

TESTING CONNECTIONS: Thursday/Friday 26/27 March

I know it's well known and obvious but Australia is a  l... o.... n.... g way. It's three legs for us as we started out on the first at Heathrow last Thursday afternoon/evening. We arrived in plenty of time to allow for ourselves to be customarily ripped off at one of the posh new terminal bars they have established there. Unlike good old Stansted where you can get a decent pint, gin and tonic and a standard meal for less than a tenner, it cost sixteen quid at Queen Elizabeth's Terminal Two. I rather fancy even Her Majesty might have thought that a bit steep, a fellow pensioner, especially as the 'meal' was a paltry ramekin of rock hard olives. Still never mind we were in 'the holiday mode'.  I guess that's what the boutique bar proprietors rely on.

We didn't even manage to get any duty free. It's bad enough when all the deals are refused when you travel inside the EU, but, we thought, we're of to OZ well outside the EU, vodka and gin, litres of both on special offer, here we come! But no. Australia only allow in 100ml of booze bought in the UK. Might as well not bother. Trish puts that in one drink. They advised us to wait for Taipai. That didn't turn out well either. 

We were flying, Trish and I, on a previously unheard of airline, EVA Air. I looked them up. An Asian Airline. No idea what the EVA stood for but as a science fiction fan I was not hoping for the obvious. No need to worry. The aircraft were new and the cabin crews, all female, were so tiny slim waisted and petit that even with the refreshment cart in tow, you could still get past them in the isle with room to spare. Their livery however, left something to be desired. It looked a little like Plymouth Argyle's home kit. Bottle green with a thin white pinstripe. 

On the first leg there were however, communication problems. Mainly the PA on the 'plane. Each announcement was made in three languages, English being the second on the list. It was if each of the girls had been trained in librarian etiquette. This isn't normally a problem but when you are faced with interconnecting flights you really need to be able to hear the instructions. Their whispered lines were lost amongst the drone of the aircraft engines. It wasn't much better when we stopped either as the sound of seat belt buckles being undone drowned out the girls' gentle yet faint words. 

Where EVA really stepped up was in the quality of their in flight meals. For those of you who are frequent flyers, you'll know that the removal of the tin foil atop your breakfast or dinner can reveal all manner of horrors. On a recent flight with BA  my early morning repast was congealed baked beans and scrambled egg. Not so today. Lovely, tasty Asian food served with a smile. Your local Chinese takeaway would be hard pressed to equal it. Choice of alcohol was a bit limited but here was an opportunity to try some of the local beers as we made our way across the face if the Earth.

First stop was Bangkok. The plane was summarily full of your usual Brits, making their away to a nice cheap holiday, hoping no doubt for a fish and chip shop whichever resort they were heading for. There was a smattering of Asian people too and after we had disposed of the holiday makers and re embarked the aircraft, they had been replaced by a great number of Asian travellers, like us, en route now to Taipai. Naturally, as Trish pointed out, there was the customary young Asian girl with big over white weightman. (!) This occurs, so I understand, because in Thailand, the bigger, tubbier,  Westerner you are the more money you have. Therefore an attractive 'catch' (using a Moby Dick style harpoon gun I assume). The bloke we saw had to be loaded for surely he was paying for two seats on the aircraft plus another for his girl. He'd be ok at Queen Elizabeth's Bar at Heathrow. He'd be fine on the all olive diet! 

And so we flew on, out of Bangkok same plane same seats but newly through security, towards Taipai, another landing a change of aircraft and on and on to Brisbane.

 

REAL TO REEL

We landed at Brisbane mid morning. We had 'Stansted arrangements' with Jim who was going to pick us up at the airport. This entails parking your car five minutes away from the airport and waiting on a text from the newly arrived. Merlin and I have perfected this tactic at aforesaid UK airport. Avoiding the rip off parking charges is paramount when collecting him. There is a handy McDonalds five minutes from the terminal where the car parking is free. You don't even have to purchase one of their 'meals' but beware, your number plate is recorded upon arrival and if you exceed two hours hanging about loitering, a £40 fine comes your way. So timing is critical. Here at Brisbane Jim employed a similar tactic and we were soon picked up outside the terminal with the kind of haste reserved for gangsters exiting a bank job. 

Not long after we were cruising down the Sunshine Coast motorway towards his home in Mountain Creek outside of Maloolaba. The sun was indeed shining and the spirits were immediately lifted and the paltry two hours sleep I had managed to secure during the journey out and the ensuing fatigue was temporarily forgotten.

On Jim's suggestion, going to bed was not an option. He is a seasoned traveler and his advice is to be regarded so after dumping our bags and a show round of Jim's brilliant home were were soon having a snack and a drink before out again for some acclimatisation and orientation. I have been here before but for Trish it's her first time. She had regarded the trip with some trepidation, thanks in large part to mum Matilda who regularly informed us from the comfort of her home on St. Vincent that Australians 'don't like black people'. Jim was confident that it was a load of bull and did a brilliant job of putting her at ease.

In the evening we were guests at his club, an establishment on the sea front at Alexandra Headland. Views from the panoramic windows afforded a view of the surf crashing on the shore as the sun set in flagrant stages of fire. We dined on the finest .........no hang on I had pizza and the other two had passable pasta. But the welcome was warm. On my way to the bog, I took a wrong turn and ended up in the gaming room. The Ozzies, as we know, like a bet or two. A lot of hotels have gaming rooms attached to them. The Alex Surf Club had a mini Las Vegas. A room stuffed full of spinning reels and flashing lights, complete with one arm pullers galore. The bells, whistles and sirens constantly on the air. Manfully, I resisted and found the urinals. I was amazed there were no bandits to play as one stood contemplating the insanity of life and the nice comfy bed at Mountain Creek.

SCALEYRADIO 39

SCALEYRADIO ON AIR 39 The 'Inflatable Guitar' Show by John Scales on Mixcloud

SCALEYRADIO ON AIR 39 Is upon you. Guest presenter Nick 'The Cat' Iddon takes time off from his inflatable guitar world tour to come and play us some of his favourite tunes. Music from, Richard Thompson, Acoustic Ladyland, Bryan Ferry, Jake Bugg, Pearl jam and The Stone Roses, amongst others. It's a great mix. Gram your inflatable and hit the dancefloor.