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.
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