DAYS 15-17.....ST. VINCENT..........Roads In Paradise

At last we arrived by speedy ferry on St. Vincent from Union. An early start but an early arrival too. The quayside was busy and bustling on our arrival and I think the Bequia ferry had just arrived too. It was alive with carriers, trucks and barrows carrying goodness knows what from and to the islands of the Grenadines. The next stage in our journey was the one up to Rosehall where the family home is located. I remember the first time I landed here and met with cousin Fred who minded us during our dollar van nightmare up the mountain. This was in the days before Venold, Trish's brother, lived in the family home and was able to meet us in his people carrier, which is what he was doing today.

For new readers who were not avid readers then, the journey to Rosehall takes, with a normal, sane, Venold type driver, about 90 minutes. Roads are narrow, villages busy with dog and human traffic but Dollar Vans race against the clock and each other, in order to secure more and more customers over the course of a day. Dan, the village Dollar Van driver has done the trip in half that. And is proud of it too. They overtake in ridiculous places, on hairpin bends, blind corners and summits, blaring their horns at the unsuspecting in their way, which was us on our calm journey, but not on my first terror ride.......

We were IN the dollar van, hanging on for dear, dear, life, as sheer drops on one side and landslides on the other brought additional terror. Fellow passengers, crammed sweatily into the van, seemed oblivious to the nightmare as they read the evening paper, slept, listened to the reggae music emanating from the tinny speakers or chatted and cursed among themselves, while all as one, swaying in their cramped prison at each twist and turn of the upward, downward and upward again mountain trail.

Rosehall, is the last village on this journey. And when you arrive, the van pukes you out into the sunshine with your bags and your sweat. You are hot and exhausted, clothing sticking to your back, fingernails left in the seat back that had been in front of you. But as the van races off to deliver its other victims further up the hill, you notice the calm that has descended. A light breeze welcomes you as it races from the valleys of Mount Soufrié. The view is spectacular, and as Jim said today, a photo cannot do it justice. The sparkling Caribbean Sea dances way below in Richmond Bay. Soufrié  rises in its magnificence looking down on the fertile valleys on its sides and in its skirts. Clouds weave and warp around its summit with weather systems fighting for dominance. The iron gate of The O'Garro house swings squeakily open and Cousin Elwyn, thin and wiry, ex grave digger and house caretaker welcomes us with a tombstone toothed grin and indecipherable words that mean we are welcome and we are 'home'.

DAYS 13-14........UNION ISLAND......Happy Islands

Every time I have been to The Windies, and this area, The Grenadines, I have made the trip to a place of stunning natural beauty, The Tobago Cays Marine Park. This is accessed only by boat, a day trip usually from Bequia, including snorkelling opportunities, photographic panoramas, good food and booze. This time the trip was shorter and we went by Catamaran not the Friendship Rose Schooner. Jim of course had never been so he especially was looking forward to it. Words cannot describe the natural wonders at The Park, the many shades of aquamarine, the sea life, turtles, stingrays, puffer fish and a myriad of other unknown species of marine life, apart from that little fishy chap from Finding Nemo. Brilliant . And this time the food was better, the Cat was great, the trip was shorter even under sail, Trish didn't feel like throwing up at any time and we called in at some other equally fab islands before arriving at The Cays. Stunning. And the best bit of all, thirty quid cheaper!
However, there is another island worth visiting in these here parts.

Let's get things in perspective. Out here in paradise life is tough for a great many of the inhabitants. True, they live in places where even the most ungreenfingered idiot could grow enough grub in this fertile volcanic soil to eke out a basic existence without the aid of charity from tourists. The weather, admittedly at times extreme, is generally pleasant with no need to huddle round a fire made out of anything that will burn whist watching the snow fall outside the circle of warmth. But still, there are a lot who live basically in makeshift shelters, shacks and tumbledown brickwork..

One such was a geezer called Shante, from Grenada who decided that action was the name of the game, to raise himself from nothing, to make something of himself. Instead of relying on others, he arrived on Union island, took one look at the natural reef that protects the harbour from the more serious battering force of the Caribbean waves, the resulting calm harbour of Union, and decided to build an island. An island he made from conch shells and concrete and then painted it bright red, green and yellow. Two Palm trees added to the overall decor, followed by a bar and outside bar b q area, then some speakers and a sound system and finally a name 'Happy Island'. And once built it quickly became established as the word spread that Rasta hatted Shante's bar was 'd place to be'. Water taxi drivers heartily agreed, charging tourists for the pleasure of being shuttled to and from Happy Island, five minutes easy motor from the mainland.

It was rude not to become one of the many hundreds who have paid his doubled up prices. And so we found ourselves aboard one of the local rickety wooden rowing boats, equipped with a powerful yet ageing, rusty outboard motor, making light of the one mile to Shante's mini paradise. The 'Captain' of our vessel was amply rewarded not only by us but also by Shante, who gave him, after we had disembarked, a cigarette the effect of which made our skipper drive his boat around the island in speedy widening circles until it was time to pick us up. Shante, meanwhile, a male lookalike of Whoopi Goldberg, plied us with rum punches (Jim's favourite drink out here) and free chicken, which Merlin attempted to pay for! The more we drank, the more we drank, words, which, as we were ferried back from Happy Island by our grinning fool of a pilot, I am sure I saw daubed on the roof of his bar, beneath his solar panels and satellite dish. It's a simple life.....but it don't have to be!

DAY 12 UNION ISLAND......Hotel Bastardos

King's Landing Hotel has a very good rating on Trip Advisor. It also rates itself highly on its own website. I suppose it's ideally situated not in the centre of Clifton, the Capital of Union Island, but at the end of the street where the shops, bars and restaurants run out into housing propped up on a steep hill. As we approached the hotel, we were assaulted by a very unpleasant odour, far worse than anything I had smelt recently including the inside of a French Cheese shop on a trip to Calais or indeed the last time we smelt it which was on Bequia...... It was the current curse of The Caribbean.....brown seaweed. The smell initially took your breath away, forcing you to breath open mouthed, the rancid foulness too awful to nasally contemplate. Breathing thus we stumbled into reception. Staff here were very polite but overcharged us for our rooms. We had ordered cheapo Garden View rooms but had been given, at extra cost it seemed, Ocean View rooms complete with a balcony upon which one could lounge and breathe in the sea air...the seaweedy air. The Garden View rooms were all taken. What a surprise, the occupants must be taking cover like foot soldiers during a gas attack, the Ocean View rooms forming a barrier between them and the rotten obnoxiousness.

But there was nothing else for it but to bite the bullet and take the rooms offered. After all these were deluxe rooms. Deluxe rooms with no TV, no Wi-fi, no warm or hot water, no air con that uniformily worked properly, no coffee making facility, no mosquito screens, and poorly maintained facilities generally. The only thing that came to our aid was that the credit card machine didn't work and they could not take our payment on arrival. Lucky, lucky, lucky.

Now I don't mind a three star hotel with basic facilities, the Frangipanni on Bequia is one such, but it does not purport to be anything different. What they promise you is what you get, but King's Landing was the complete opposite. For example, Jim and Merlin enjoyed the luxury of air con whilst Trish and I did not. Jim wasn't able to turn his off as he didn't have a remote, but luckily his thermostat worked and he was comfortable. Merlin on the other hand came down to breakfast looking like an extra from 'The Iceman Cometh' for his AC unit was stuck on 16 degrees and his remote was unable to make a difference. He took to covering his bed with clothes from his rucksack in order to stay warm in the night. Opening windows and letting warm air in was not an  option, not without mosquito defences. Meanwhile we sweltered the night away in our floor fan only room. For the next three nights this played out with regularity, apart than for Merlin who put some batteries in his remote!

DAY 12 THE ISLE OF UNION.....A Fistful Of Selfie Stick

The ferry from the Eastern Isles pulled into the port with the usual cacophony, hustle bustle and colourful hawkingat its arrival. The four travellers joined the queue for disembarkation trying unsuccessfully to blend in with the surroundings. How could they in this dark skinned Western Isle of Union? Only one of the four could do so and her spoken word would certainly give her falsehood away at the first greeting. The heat, even at this time of the day was intense, close and without breath. The four, destined for Kings Landing, were soon out upon the jetty, weaving past the boxes of fresh produce and other cargo being unloaded from their vessel by noisy islanders. The cargo was soon loaded on barrows and onto the back of trucks and driven away into the town leaving them, alone standing on the jetty.

The two Sellswords were the first to make a move ahead, Sers Mosedale and  Melinski moving ahead of their companions, Lord and Lady Scales, she of the darker skin yet unable to remain anonymous in this the latest Isle of their travels. They all soon were upon the town street which would lead them to Kings Landing. But which way? They had expected better. They had imagined Kings Landing as a grand place, towering above the colourful yet simple dwellings that were beneath it. But not so. Neglecting their duties, the Sellswords, still gawping about the place, made no attempt to ascertain the direction of travel. This duty was left to Ser Scales, none to pleased at their dereliction of duty. Shamefaced they followed their two betters up the colourful street past bars and eateries, with music promised at each on multicolour chalk board.

Before long they were approached by a stranger in even stranger garb, a chimney like hat, red yellow and green in colour, perched precariously on his dreadlocked head. Ser Scales tightened his grip on his selfie stick at the sight of him, watching carefully for the opportunity to draw it from its hiding place. The fellow melted away into the interested crowd before he had time to use it as the four made their way up the Main Street.

Before long sight of double story buildings with painted galvanised roofs, brought hope and awe to the hearts of the travellers. Surely this must be the place which they sought. The Kings Landing of both legend and Trip Advisor. A left turn was made and there before them it was indeed, magnificent and...........well no.......... as Ser Melin at that moment commented.....'looks like Hotel Bastardo,..........smells like Hotel Bastardo...........,it is Hotel Bastardo!' And so it proved.....

DAYS 8-11 BEQUIA....G'Day Sport

Fellow traveller Jim. What can we say about him? Well he's a damned good bloke and well traveled too. He likes the occasional tipple, his favourite being Baily's Irish Cream or whatever it's called, poured into a hot cup of coffee. Until this trip..... Now he is a hopeless beer and rum punch convert. I didn't realise how he had been led astray until two days into our Bequia stop. Island hopping out here is so much fun. Each island has its individual character and opportunities to experience the Caribbean way of life. Of course this includes some touristy things as well as sitting around liming. All four of us are good at this. Merlin is a Grand Master. But every now and then you need to get up offa dat 'ting as James Brown would say and do something.

So it was that we decided an excursion, by sea, to Tobago Cays Marine Park, was a pre requisite trip. Trish and I have been twice before, Merlin once. It's an area,  accessible only by boat, of stunning beauty. I am sure the Bounty Chocolate advert was filmed there in the way back of when, and every other such ad since. Snorkelling is a must, swimming with turtles, puffer fish and the occasional scary stingray, not to mention the myriad of less well known characters but nonetheless exquisite in their underwater beauty. The sea is many shades of Caribbean turquoise out there and it does take your breath away even at a second or third visit.

Previously on The Windies Blog, we have sailed out of Bequia in an old schooner 'The Friendship Rose', and I do mean sailed. Not so this time. The  Rose was not sailing this time. Disappointed Jim and I hot footed it down to the Tourist Office in the middle of Bequia 'Town'. And very helpful they were too. An assistant called ahead to Union Island and booked us up on a Catamaran sailing out of there on Saturday. She gave us both the time, the day and the place where it was sailing from. As the information came at us, Jim and I, already victims of a rum punch at our hotel, decided to spilt it up in true thriller style. One of us would remember time and the other the place. Together we would remember cost and other details like free booze and grub for the duration of the trip. So empowered we left the Tourist Office. We would assemble the relevant parts back at The Frangipanni. No problem man. Disaster lurked around the corner.

Our way home we were easily influenced by a ramshackle brick walled bar owned by someone called Sport. For outside, red daubed paint proclaimed the establishment thus......'Sport's Bar...live sport' (that seemed to entail watching locals play pool) and 'rum punch happy hour 6-10'. Unsure of which 6-10 Sport meant we ventured in. Luckily for us it was planned for the exact time slot we gained entry. It seemed rude not to partake as the locals noisily and determinedly argued over their game of pool, played on the baize the equivalent quality of Derby County's Baseball Ground pitch in the mid seventies. I casually sauntered up to the bar and ordered two rum punches. They were cheap. And they were strong. As in The Waltons Farmhouse at bedtime, I saw lights going out in Jim's demeanour. I also realised I was also suffering the equivalent power out. We left.

When we got back, the other two were naturally anxious to find out the details of the forthcoming trip to Tobago Cays. Like two best men frantically searching in their pocket for the missing wedding ring, we were unable to come up with any relevant info, even though it had been trusted to us not an hour before.

After breakfast the following day, two shamefaced individuals and a Swede made their way back to the Bequia Tourist Office. Luckily, they have a sense of humour in these here parts, or they are used to rum punched idiots. Either way, we are off to Tobago Cays in a couple of days. Merlin holds the vital information.........

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.