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'.