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.