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.