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'.