Port Louis Marina …

… is suiting us very nicely. It’s new(ish) and when finished will be really rather thooper-dooper deluxe, if things continue as they’ve started. We like it here very much as it is, however: it’s quiet and clean and pretty and we have a section to ourselves that would normally be for far larger boats and several of ‘em.  The staff have been excellent, too – efficient and charming and refreshingly unofficious.  So far, so very, very good …

Coming into the Marina Friday morning, early (before the customary gusts started in earnest), we were greeted by Ed and Sue off Angel Louise.  Ed waiting at the pontoon to catch our lines. They’d been tipped off about our imminent arrival by some new (to us) mutual friends, Ken and Judith, from Badgers Sett,  whom we recently met at Tyrrel Bay.  Ken had told Ed and Sue that we would be washing up some time soonish in the marina and to look out for us.  A lovely surprise since we knew nothing about it – and we’re lucky and not ungrateful to find ourselves in such good company.  But then the welcome we’ve received from other cruisers, here in the Windward Islands, has been wonderfully warm from the get-go.

I didn’t think I’d say this so soon – but it’s nice to be only a step away from land  and amenities for a change. And to find things you want to buy! We have a long shopping list of this ‘n that and those, and it looks like Grenada will be able to oblige us – for most things, anyway. Hey, even having a garbage collection just a short stroll from the boat is a little “oooh, nice!” moment.  A welcome break from a slightly humming sack sitting lumpily in the dinghy getting hummier with every passing hour no matter how tightly wrapped,  nor how many bags used. Funny how the little conveniences, like quick easy garbage disposal, can bring such a disproportionate sense of pleasure – albeit fleeting.  Not that we don’t love the days and nights moored out in some quiet bay or off an uninhabited island, you understand, without the frills of such convenience as easy garbage disposal, but every yang needs a dash of yin to keep it sweet. If our yang is swinging off the hook or buoy in a quiet spot with nary a shop to be seen, then our yin is a dip into the capitalist material pool and live like a lubber for a spell. It’s all good.

Our yin moment even included hiring a car for three days. We need to visit a fairly wide number of retail outlets and specialists fast, to get the repairs ball rolling effectively – so decided a set of hired wheels was the best way to go. Forgetting, of course, that tomorrow is Sunday and nothing will be open anyway. All very D’oh!

Ahhhh … but perhaps not quite so D’oh after all:   today we made a cracking start on the shopping list, and tomorrow being an enforced day of retail rest,  we can instead use the car to get to know Grenada rather better.  After all, we’re going to be here for some time to come.   A little sightseeing and reconnaisance time wouldn’t go amiss. So, tonight, it’s recharge the camera batteries time and tomorrow we’ll see if we can capture some of Grenada’s landscape and sights.  Then come Monday, and it’s back into the serious business of wifi aerial hunting, outboard sourcing, etc, etc.

The only downside to the marina are the bugs. We’re used to bug-free bliss swinging off the hook, but being so near the land we’re getting eaten alive tonight – and that’s after using mozzie repellant. I’d forgotten how fetchingly pink and lumpy and dementedly itchy those  little buggers left you. But then what’s a little mozzie yin to all the conveniences offered by Port Louis Marina yang?

(Scratch … !)

Woo-hoo! Weliable wifi …

… for a while at least, courtesy of Port Louis Marina, St Georges, Grenada.  But more of that later.  For now, an update cobbled together over the last two days.  Have also sloshed up a small backlog of photos in the blog gallery (the connection is that good, am making say while the hun shines etc.)  So, with the ether humming co-operatively once more …

Wednesday – Thursday 24^th -25th June

Up earlyish. Weighed anchor at Tyrrel Bay about 9 am and set off for St Georges Harbour, Grenada. Excellent sailing weather – winds 20-25 knots most of the way on the quarter or beam – just the way we like ’em. A lively, thoroughly enjoyable romp. A trio of Boobies (who names these poor birds???) provided terrific entertainment – fishing and playing all around the boat as we winged along. Close to, they are the most striking of sea birds – head shaped like a spear, a stout bullet of a body – so dynamically designed for plunging into the waves to catch fish. Not pretty, and certainly not dainty, they have, instead, an aura of impressive power and dignity – of being built to last. These soaring, plunging, water skimming feather-coated rockets certainly deserve a far more dignified moniker.

Where were we? Ah yes, Grenada – where we arrived, at lunchtime. Before dropping anchor in the bay outside the harbour, we took a quick varda inside the lagoon and marina area first. A lot of work has been done here to provide the new marina, which looks promising – although it’s not quite finished as yet. Tomorrow we plan to take a berth there for a few days, so we’ll find out more in due course.

The wind here is hellishly gusty at times, funneling down through the hills and valleys. And it was just a little too gusty for mooring comfortably at the marina. The marina was also very, very hot despite the frequent vigorous blows – so we opted to anchor outside in the bay until things were calmer and enjoy a cooler night to boot.

But just the one. For we really, really need to reprovision properly now and we have a lot of repairs to organize, for which we need a good chandlers and a reliable internet source, at the very least.

Something like 28 items still remain on the TBF (To-Be-Fixed ) list, despite having already knocked off a goodly number ourselves. This week alone we’ve cured five leaks, numerous patches of veneer water wicking, the galley fridge saltwater supply problem and, as mentioned last post – got the Mastervolt Inverter remote switch working properly again. One persistent leak that has proved frustratingly hard to source, let alone cure – and which has driven me nuts with the dank smell it generates throughout one hull – is, as of today, 11.30 am, Thursday 25^th June2009, now officially off that TBF List. Hallelujah and praises be! But then perhaps only another boat owner would understand how curing an elusive, persistent leak, properly and permanently, makes the sun shine brighter and the heart sing.

And the great thing is, as we re-seal, re-fit and re-plumb – and apply sealant and/or gaskets where originally there was neither  (was it ignorance or laziness, AfricanCats?) – so little by little, Butterfly is coming into her own.

But hey, that’s not to get cocky – an unhappy Tohatsu outboard is (again), the latest item to rejoin that list. Despite Dick’s earlier attentions which appear to have succeeded, it threw another wobbly (and a lot of petrol everywhere) yesterday and is obviously still not well. Which means with no petrol power and being more-or-less unrowable, the rib is out of commission (again) – if you drop in here regularly, you already know about the problems trying to even paddle the thing. In short, we’re boatbound.  Which is another reason to hole up in a marina for a while so we can go about our shore-based business without relying on water taxis.

(As an aside),  if you’re planning on visiting St George’s and want to swing off the hook outside in the bay as we have done, be warned the holding is fickle. With gusty winds and poor holding (it’s thin sand on a lot of rock and coral rubble), today, three yachts began drifting swiftly and steadily out to sea. One, whose owner was away, having only this morning, been rushed to hospital after smashing his finger in a winch (poor soul) had to be rescued in his absence. (The boating fraternity is a staggeringly helpful one and his boat is now secure and we’re all keeping an eye out on it.)

Even as I type this, the wind swirls and roars with gusto and I can hear our anchor chain crunching over the sea bed – and the view from the boat is ever-changing.

Mercifully, our anchor – a 40kg Rocna, that allows us to sleep well a-nights – is still holding tight. So on that happy note, time to turn in and wish y’all a very goodnight.

Or, to get a little naughty-cal here: May your hook be firm and your bottom sandy … Sweet dreams!

oh the joys of iffy wifi …

… our  current internet connection is frustratingly hit and miss here at Carriacou – more miss than hit mostly -   hence the delay in updates.  (I’m afraid photo uploads are a complete no-no.)  But we’ll see if this post can beat a path through the harrassed ether. Here goes then …

Our plans to clear out of St Vincent and The Grenadines and head straight for Grenada, took a couple of twists –and a small delay. Before leaving Clifton Harbour, we bumped into some new friends of ours, Ted and Gina, who’ve run a charter Leopard 47, Cool Change, here in the Windward Isles for over three years, and were enthusiastically recommended to pop along to Chatham Bay on the lee side of Union Island. A sweeping sand-fringed curve of get-away-from-it-all peacefulness. We can do that, we thought. Right up our alley the whole tranquility thang (as you’ve no doubt gathered.)

However, leaving Clifton Harbour wasn’t quite as slick as we’d have liked. Our anchor trip line came up with a loo attached! A complete head, bowl, stand, plumbing, the whole caboodle – all hooked on tight. Seems when somebody took a dump, they really took a dump. But there is a professionally recognized way of dealing with these little local difficulties … kerfuffle and swear. A lot. Or, in our case, kerfuffle and laugh. Well, a whole head, I ask you!

Anyhoo, Ted and Gina were not wrong, bless ’em. Chatham Bay is indeed an oasis of natural serenity and satisfyingly rich in wild life. There are a handful of bar and restaurant shacks on the beach, but apart from a designated “happy hour” (that stretched into two), when they blasted away with some music in what appeared a contest to draw the most attention, but which drew no customers, the rest of the time all you could hear were the cries of gulls, the plops of jumping fish, and the occasional weeeeesh of gusts blowing down through the hills. After anchoring  – Dick usually dives in to check the set of the thing – he flippered off to investigate the snorkeling grounds off Rapid Point on the northern end of the bay; I set about putting the bread-maker into action and tidying our disheveled floating nest. Rapid Point was a success, a bespoke snorkellers’ heaven according to Sir … (oh, and the bread wasn’t bad either.)

The following morning we awoke to find a small mono that had arrived in the evening, nearly kissing our stern – its anchor had dragged in the night, and the wind had swung through 90° and beyond. The apologetic skipper emerged sleepy-eyed, above deck, just as we were about to move Butterfly out of harm’s way, and he kindly shunted the mono off to a healthier distance.

Chatham Bay was a good call – only five boats moored, four, (including us) most of the time, and the peace held good all evening and through the night.  Next day it was a gentle amble along the beach to stretch our legs and watch a litter of very new puppies cavorting in the sand. The offspring of an all-ribs-and-mange mother who, despite her emaciated appearance, stood guard barking with gusto at nobody in particular – there was nobody except Dick and I – and we respectfully kept our distance.

Mid morning, it was pootle time to clear in to Grenada. But, tipped off by Neil and Tracy, we did this at Hillsborough, on Carriacou Island. Swine fever alert – something we were pig-iggerant of (sorry) until Neil alerted us in an email – means cruisers can now only check in at the Grenada Yacht Club in St Georges Bay, or at Hillsborough, Carriacou Island. The whole swine-fever fever was news to us. With so little internet access, no papers and no radio (other than a quick burst of the World Service a week ago) we are blissfully out of step with current affairs. Clearing in at Hillsborough, we both had to attend customs and immigration, (not just the skipper as is usual) and formally declare ourselves swine-flu free – which we are … we sincerely hope.

Hillsborough bay is utilitarian more than postcard pretty, but it is useful for provisioning. There’s a co-operative store that’s less expensive and has a far better array of fresh produce than most supermarkets we’ve come across.  Anchoring in the bay is easy – and there is plenty of room. We decided to overnight there and move on the following day to Tyrrel Bay … And then changed our minds.

Looking out from Hillsborough Bay, you can see, a short distance away, the less-than-imaginatively named Sandy Island. Although to be fair – that’s exactly what it is: a very small island with lots and lots of sand and not a lot else. And hey, it’s gorgeous! The last hurricane in these parts threw up large amounts of spent coral which have created small protective lagoons and the whole beach is bleached fine and white. In the reefs just off shore, there are fabulous amounts of fish for the ogling; the cries of black-faced terns for musical accompaniment. And, as the afternoon drew on, several pelicans arrived who spent much time lazily preening on the fossil-white branches of a pair of skeletal trees.

It was no good – sod diesel tank repairs – Sandy Island was just too idyllic to hurry away from. Although chiefly recommended by the guidebooks as a lunchtime stop, we elected to treat ourselves to an overnight stay. Before night fell, there was another check to ensure the anchor still held good (the waters here are pretty shallow) and then we settled down to watch the sun slide into the sea.

In fact, Sandy Island is sooooo nice, we couldn’t tear ourselves away the following day either. So yet another overnight stay to revel in the peace and loveliness of it all. And a lot more snorkeling and swimming – the water is quite, quite superb. So much to ogle, you find yourself snorkeling until you’re crinkly …  am I digging a hole here? Well, am sure you know what I mean.

Just a short burst away from Sandy Island, on the southwest corner of Carriacou Island, lies Tyrrel Bay. And that’s where we are now. The bay is huge and very protected in the main – and is a good base to get ashore and go find what Carriacou has to offer.

Well, yesterday’s early morning exploratory hike put us in fine spirits. Puttering over to the dinghy dock by the yacht haul out yard, we left the rib and picked our way up the steep hill there, taking the right hand fork. The road takes you almost immediately into tropical bucolic idyll. All goats and sheep and hills and vales and woodland. Keep walking and soon, you find yourself on a deserted strip of shoreline, where the crabs scuttle, the mangroves drip tortuously long roots into the sand, and dried vines, like witchy tresses, drape themselves in suffocating profusion over some unfortunate host shrub or tree. There wasn’t a soul to be seen; nor anything of man but the odd disintegrating flip-flop and the ubiquitous abandoned pop bottle here and there,  shorn of its label, flattened over time into crumpled submission. These items slowly, unobtrusively melting into the background, quietly being swallowed up by nature.

The day was young – just past 7.30 am – but already the temperature was soaring. Yet down by the shore, the breeze was lively enough to keep us comfortable. I guess we ambled around, basking in the beauty of it all for nigh on a couple of hours before making our way back over the rutted track down to the dinghy dock once more.

Today, we branched left after the Tyrrel Bay’s Yacht Club hill,  heading out for Esterre – and soon met up with our newest pal.   (To explain: the first day we went ashore at Tyrrel Bay, a friendly black and white mutt immediately adopted us and kept us company as we went about our shopping, until our paths crossed with some rather aggressive pet dogs, who saw him off very uncharitably.)  But today, as if waiting for us, our black and white pal fell into line almost immediately, trotting ahead leading the way, looking round only to see if we were still following.  Ten minutes later, another mutt joins the expedition. Substitute dogs for rats and it seems Dick and I are fast becoming the Pied Pipers of Carriacou!   So the four of us amble along, happy as sandboys (or sanddogs) … until a passing jeep reverses up, scoops up the second mutt and takes it back to its owner at Tyrrel Bay. This didn’t suit our four-legged friend one little bit – leaping from the back of the travelling jeep, he rejoins our little party at the run.  But his rescuers were determined and again reversed the jeep, dashing out to reclaim him but maintaining a tighter grip this time.  Alas, his jaunt was cut so short. So we waved goodbye, watching him watching us from the back of the jeep …  a little anxious face growing smaller in the distance.    The remaining dog contingent of our expedition trotted on happily as ever. Once at Esterre, we toddled down to the beach, where he lunged into the water, to cool off in the sea.  After some welcome refreshments – a couple of Cokes for Dick and I; water for the dog – we retraced our foot/paw-steps back to Tyrrel Bay and said our fond farewells beside the bobbing dinghy.  If ever you happen to find yourself at Carriacou, somewhere near the shore at Tyrrel Bay, say hello to our lovely, quietly unassuming pal there, will you, and give him a friendly pat from Dick and Karen.  Who knows, you may find he’ll be keen to give you a guided tour of the place!

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A total change of tack here for a moment. June 18^th 2009 may not go down as anything spectacularly special in the annals of time, but for us it was a date to remember. Hold tight here, kids, this really was a Red Letter Day. Why? Because our inverter can now be switched on and off from the nav station. As it always should have, of course. Yet for months now, every time we want to charge the laptop, use the microwave, cook toast, or bake some bread or do anything that requires a 220 volt supply, it has meant digging up the saloon leather seating, removing panels and ferreting in a locker and groping for a switch. And then putting the whole bloody disruption back to shipshape order again. A small inconvenience when written down like that; a major nuisance when it must be done several times a day. But at last Dick has wrought a little magic with the blessed thing, the remote switch on the nav station is purring again, and we and the inverter are on speaking terms once more. Oh bliss!

We’re currently anchored …

…  in Clifton Harbour at Union Island, which belongs to St Vincent and the Grenadines. We’ve had no internet access for the past two weeks or thereabouts, so  I’ve kept a rolling blog going since things went quiet after our boys went back to England.  If you are at a very loose end (like seriously looooose) then you can read on down from here to catch up.  (Once we’re back in business with regular wifi connections, things will revert to chronological updates).

Of course, if you are not at a loose end and have a fine and splendiferously interesting life, then you’ll be content to know very little about our doings in the Windward Islands … and who can blame you.  Not us, certainly.  Either way, hello, once again, mes cher-est of amis, and our sincere felicitations to one and all!

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Bequia & Petit Nevis

After a promising start, alas the charms of Bequia were not sufficient to keep us more than a few days. Three days after arriving, we weighed anchor and set off for pastures more alluring. In fairness, Bequia probably has bucketfuls of allure we just didn’t bother to look for, but we both prefer secluded little hideaways to busy bays, and Bequia’s Admiralty Bay is fair to bustling and, even in this, the low season, pretty well attended. In its defence, the bay is a whole load less ‘touristy’ than Rodney Bay, and is far more the genuine article (ignoring the plethora of internet cafés along the seafront) – so hooray for that.

What Bequia did provide, however, was some great company and new friends. Neil and Tracey, liveaboards who’ve been cruising the Caribbean for 3 years now, and regular readers of this blog, came over to introduce themselves – and we’re so glad they did. The boating fraternity is a small one, everyone seems to know or to have heard of everyone, and no surprises therefore that we had much in common to talk about from the get-go.  We sincerely hope our paths will cross again someday soon, so pretty pleasums you guys – stay in touch!

Spotting our South African flag, Dawn and David, both South African themselves and living aboard Amarula, a Voyage 450, also popped by to say hi to fellow countrymen – alas that we had to disappoint them. But as sociable and hospitable as almost every South African we’ve met to date (and we met a fair few during our nine months in Durban) – they nevertheless insisted we join them with a party of several SA liveaboards for some drinks and a natter last Saturday night. A great evening that started well, and just got better and betterer –  thanks in no small part to generous hospitality and a shaggy dog story that out-shaggied the best and the rest of them. Cheers, D & D!

If you’re passing that way, Bequia is a good place to stock up on provisions. In particular, Doris’ Fresh Foods is a revelation. Tucked away down a side street off the main waterside drag, it’s stuffed to the rafters with all sorts of culinary pickles and condiments and exotic ingredients and cuisine whoflungdunnery served up in dinky little jars and frou-frou tins, and – although mighty hard on the wallet – it’s a refreshing change compared to the more basic supermarket fare you find around these parts. I’m not a foodie, and shopping for food bores me rigid, but this was a lot of fun and a reminder of home.

There’s also a fresh fruit and vegetable market right down by the waterside in Admiralty Bay, with a reasonable variety and quality of produce. But the vendors are a canny, slick bunch with the gift of the gab and how.  They’re wonderfully entertaining and humorously charming, but the heavy duty sales pitch, however lively, is wearying after a while. We eventually escaped with several loaded bags of goodies, and a bill that was eye-watering. Fresh produce, much of it imported around these parts of the Caribbean, is just bloody expensive. But if you don’t find your head spinning with all the 3 for 2, BOGOF, four-cucumbers-get-you-a-half-price-tomato sort of guff they put before you, and if you’re determined to get a reasonable deal, then set yourself a top whack for each item and walk away (cheerfully and friendly, but resolutely) from further negotiations if they won’t play ball. The price will sometimes drop with every step you take towards the door. Sometimes it won’t, but you can’t win ’em all. Oh – but do spread your business around. One poor stall holder was very upset with us for not buying anything from her – you’re supposed to buy a little from everyone, not everything from one or two dealers only. Frankly, by that time, we’d had enough with the Barnum and Bailey circus of it all such that the second time we loaded up with fruit, we avoided the market altogether and went to a vendor who operated alone, just off the beach front. Same silly prices, but none of the confusion and pressure.

Apparently, Bequia also has some good chandlers and boaty-bits suppliers – just carry on walking beyond the fruit and veg market away from the dinghy dock. Again, we didn’t hang around long enough to investigate, so can’t vouch for this. It probably has some good restaurants too, and watering holes, and diving outfits and – well, everything a cruising yachty could wish for, (or so it says in Chris Doyle’s Windward Islands book), and heck, I’d hate to diss it – but what it didn’t have was seclusion, so we didn’t look any further. We had our minds made up: we woz off to quieter shores – and sharpishly.

Having decided it was Bequia-be-gone time, we weighed anchor earlyish (about 7.30 am) Sunday morning, and tootled out of Admiralty Bay, heading for Petit Nevis, for an early lunch stop. There’s nothing there now, at Petit Nevis island, except for the remains of an old whale rendering station – which, for us, is what makes it so appealing. Once anchored, and launching the (single) kayak, we took it in turns to go ashore and have a look around. There’s a derelict factory-sort-of-structure, and a few huge vats rusting to ruin in the wild grass, and now carrying nothing more than a discarded flip-flop and some weeds valiantly sprouting through their crumbling bases – oh, and just a little distance from the vats, a scattering of wooden crosses, but so crudely formed and nailed together it’s impossible to know whether these are to mark graves or if they served some other function once upon a time. Walk up along the crest of the island, beside the remains of a dry stone wall, and the wind whistles eerily through the coarse grasses and shivers the palm leaves. Odd being completely alone here, yet not feeling entirely alone – accompanied as you are by this insistent melancholy chorus of sighs. More bizarre, were the sudden intermittent snatches of laughter carried across the sea from Bequia, where a team of boys were playing football. But the wind can play funny tricks with sound and the disembodied laughter felt far closer, only just out of sight. Shiversomely spooky, however logical the explanation.

Back on board Butterfly, we found we’d been joined by another couple of boats anchored alongside. No wish to be unsociable, but it was time to move on towards the day’s next destination … the much celebrated Mustique.

Mustique

Ah the mystique of Mustique! Just the name alone conjours up the royal and the famous and the rich and well-connected. Say Mustique and I’m of an age to instantly think of the late Princess Margaret who once held court here – although nowadays most folk would know Mick Jagger as its most celeb.holidaymaker. Well, what’s good enough for Madge and Mick is certainly good enough for the Merediths.

They’ve allocated just one mooring area for visiting yachts – Britannia Bay – with plenty of buoys to tie up to, but no anchoring allowed. We chose a slot well to the right of the ferry docking area, near the sweeping white fringe of sandy beach where water traffic is minimal and the beach view completely uninterrupted by other boats (delusions of Garboesque we-vont-to-be-alone grandeur setting in almost immediately (!))

It’s not hard to see why this place has attracted the well-to-do. Beautiful white beaches, beautiful gardened vegetation, beautiful houses (glimpsed here and there, but mostly tucked out of view from prying eyes), beautiful weather, beautiful clear waters and beautiful prices making property ownership beautifully exclusive to the well-heeled and beautifully well-connected only. With so much beauty one way or another, what’s not to like?  Yet, the island remains commendably un-gated and visitors can walk around freely, providing they respect the fact that property or drives marked private mean just that – private.

Once secured, it was a trip ashore and the obligatory drink in Basil’s Bar. This establishment is famous – apparently (I’d never heard of it, if that’s a social faux pas, forgive me) – yet this establishment is about as unprepossessing and low-key as celebrity dives get. From the outside, it looks nothing more than a hotchpotch of small shacks nailed together ‘neath a patchwork of tin roofs, the whole conglomeration teetering on tired timber stilts rising unsteadily out of the water. The drink prices are fairly silly (as are all prices on Mustique), but that’s to be expected, I guess. Yet in ambience and appearance, Basil’s Bar (er, who is Basil???) is just the right shade of insouciant, couldn’t-give-a-damn beach-bum stylish. Sipping something cold and wet overlooking the sea with the seagulls wheeling above, for all its rough wooden timbers and corrugated roofing, it was as good as a palace and a lot more cosy.

The next day we breakfasted early and zimmed (well, as much as that footlin’ stupid rib can zim) back to do a little more exploring. Keeping Basil’s Bar on our left, we followed the road around and up, climbing a steep meandery hill and finding the community library on the way. This being a bank holiday, it was closed – but not to worry, it was kind of reassuring to find such a facility, anyway. And such a pretty lemon yellow building – what a lucky community.

But  then ‘community’ is very much the spirit of this place. A well-ordered, well-manicured, exclusive little enclave with nature allowed enough rope to pretty the view, but not so much as to be inconvenient. The roads are tamed too, with speed bumps zingily painted in yellow and white stripes, and bordered with trimmed grass and well-ordered palms; and here and there, set in the grass verges, a set of benches or climbing frames thoughtfully provided for those who must keep beautiful the hard way – with sweat.

Oh, and in case you don’t quite know what to do with these structures, there are neat little placards beside them telling you which stretch or muscle flex to flog through. I must confess to laughing my head off at these – I mean isn’t a holiday paradise all about getting away from the tyranny of such  - dare I say it? – nannying body-mindedness. But I should cease my ungenerous sneering because it’s obvious this place has been set up to suit those who might appreciate such ‘thoughtful’ gestures. And besides, where’s the harm?

Anyway, back to Mustique and its sense of community: a lot of effort really does seem to have been given to providing somewhere that’s a little slice of home for its glamorous holiday guests – tennis courts, a library, riding school, kindergarten, school, helicopter pads and a fleet of golf-buggy style runarounds, called ‘Mules’, ideal for transporting those who’ve already sweated their body beautiful, across the island’s curving, wooded, and enthusiastically hilly terrain.

Mustique is the love child of Caribbean idyll mated with Beverley Hills. It’s also somewhere that feels reassuringly safe and well-looked after and where you will be looked after, too. It was certainly very nice, for once, to walk around with a couple of cameras on view and toting a full backpack of lenses – something I haven’t done since leaving St Helena – with no concerns about being mugged. In fact, Mustique was a welcome reminder of how relaxing it is to forget about personal security for a while. That aspect alone got my vote.

The second day, we turned right at the dinghy dock, and struck out for the palm-fringed beach that presented such an enchanting view from Butterfly’s starboard side out in the bay. Wow! Pure picture postcard. White sands, electric blue/neon turquoise water and a balmy breeze tic kling the palm fronds.  There’s a lagoon to be found here too, one that’s been designated a nature reserve – you’ll know you’re near it by the smell – intense Eau de Rank. Mangrove swampland, slime-blackened reeds, multitudes of midges, crawlies, flies –  the whole works (including, yes, some more thoughtful little notices of an educational nature) and all in all, an ideal peaceful breeding ground for zillions of species of marshland waterlife. Lovely to behold, if hard on the nose. The beaches and the woodlands leading to the lagoon are populated by thousands of scuttling crabs – all sizes, large to very lickle (lickle? now that really is twee – Apologies!) – which scootle into a nearby hole as you approach: the ground – mud, soil, sand, some of it thickly carpeted with old leaves –  being densely perforated with crab holes everywhere you look

By the way, the waters of Brittania Bay are enticingly clear and there are some good snorkeling patches – some just a flipper away from where we moored. Entering or leaving, you need to watch out for Montezuma’s shoal – marked by a flashing red and black beacon – but there’s plenty of room for manoeuvre even so. Be warned, however, they’ve recently raised the mooring fees around here. For yachts under 70ft, a three night minimum mooring rate is now US $75. Until last December it was EC $75. Same number; different currency that triples the cost or there abouts. Neat eh? But costly or not, Mustique is definitely on the revisit list, if time and tide allow.

Tobago Cays

We’ve heard some real horror stories about the dangers of visiting St Vincents – and these from yachties who’ve been cruising this patch for the past three years, so they should know. It seems the St Vincent authorities have recently tried to crack down on the marijuana growers, who have hit back by trying to scare off much of the tourist trade through violent means. Cruising yachts are their prime targets. For the yachtie, such encounters don’t tend to end healthily. Of course, some of these tales of pistols and cutlasses (and worse) may be alarmist only, but there are enough such tales from enough sources to give credence to there being a real safety issue here, so we’re avoiding St Vincents altogether for the while, which is why no mention of it as we traveled from St Lucia to Bequia.

Happily, the Tobago Cays enjoy a much better reputation (see, I got around to the Cays eventually). They are – and always have been – justly famous for their tranquility and unspoilt loveliness. Neil and Tracey were as enthusiastic about them as everyone else we’ve met out here, so how better to follow magical Mustique, then head south-south-west and see what all the TC fuss is about.

The fuss, it transpires, is well worth the making. No word of a lie or exaggeration, we’ve never seen water quite so many shades of outrageously-saturated blue. Picking your way through the scattering of islands, looking out for rocks, reefs and shoals is made so much the easier thanks to the sparkling clarity of the water. Like many others, we slipped our way through the passage between Petit Bateau and Petit Rameau, then anchored as close to the long meandering horseshoe reef that protects these islands as our draft would allow – dropping anchor with Jamesby Island to our stern. Anchoring is easy, the holding excellent, but there are plenty of mooring buoys if you prefer. However, there is very little protection from wind and swell in some areas, so most days there’s a fair ol’ rock, particularly as the wind picks up during late afternoon and through the night. It is probably worse where we elected to drop our hook – but was by no means unpleasant; it also gave us the advantage of not getting crowded as the day-charter yachts mooched in: when it comes to anchoring, we’re unsociable swines, us.

Describing these waters, and the whole sublime setting is a thankless task: how to come up with phrasing that captures the sheer unadulterated paradise element of it all, that doesn’t read like hackneyed holiday brochure gush? So, I shan’t bother. But trust me – if you’re ever in this neck of the Caribbean, check out the Tobago Cays and you’ll be seriously wowed.

A short burst on the rib away (yes, even ours), is Baradel island. Its west coast boasts a turtle sanctuary marked by a series of small buoys. The second day at the Cays , we decided to check it out and found ourselves snorkeling in the company of these ridiculously appealing and zen-placid creatures, along with some alabaster-white, deep-sided fish with humongously baleful eyes (I’ve no idea what these are called), which were as nosy about us as we about them. The turtles, by contrast, seemed entirely un-nosy about anything but the seagrass they were munching on the seabed. In fact they seem totally blasé about their human guests, probably since everyone who comes to the Cays tootles over to pay them a visit. And since they can’t read and aren’t much impressed by lines of little buoys, they ignore man’s imposed peripheries and go swim-about beyond, much to our delight regularly flippering by Butterfly – for some peace, no doubt, since we were rather out on a limb from the rest of the yachts and therefore in more peaceful waters. In the five or so days we were there they charmed us something silly.

The snorkeling is generally excellent too. Although I’ve seen more colourful coral in the BVI’s, there is plenty of it here to support a huge amount of fish life.  And where you get fish, you get birds. Lots and lots of birds. Mostly, black-faced gulls with very round, very black, poppy eyes, framed with upper and lower flashes of purest white. Rather like the Black and White Minstrels of the Seventies (apologies, only Brits of a certain age will know what I’m talking about).

One bird in particular took a shining to sitting on our lifebuoy near the port sugar scoop. This may have something to do with it knowing it is on to A Good Thing. I am its Good Thing, of course – providing it with regular titbits when it came a-perching. But hey, this guy had manners. Waited patiently until I stirred to feed him – which, alas, was cue for his rowdy relatives to move in and things quickly descended into a gull rugby scrum. **

Footnote: ** Why, I don’t know, but I have a compulsive yen to photograph these gulls. The humble gull is a wonderfully convenient wildlife subject, since it is usually bold enough to let you get close. And when viewed close, they soon start becoming individuals rather than feathered clones. You begin to see that this one flies with its feet crossed (yes, really!); that this one is a secret Malvolio, full of his own importance; another the fall guy, pushed around by the rest of the flock. Little idiosyncrasies that hint at distinct personalities, each their own bird.  But what I’m looking for is the shot that brings out that unique personality, that certain individuality – the one that is unexpected and has that little something ‘extra’. Unfortunately, what I don’t have yet (don’t tell Dick about that ‘yet’ will yers) is the perfect camera – well, not for bird work. I need something that canfire more frames per second than the measly 3 that my Canon 5D gives me. That 5D is still a lovely camera, and I’m very, very fond of it, but it’s not a wildlife and sports shot tool really. However, I do have a good bird lens. It’s not meant as such, but the gorgeous, crystal sharp Canon 135mm f/2 L lens is as versatile as it is well-regarded and has swiftly become a personal favourite – fabulous for portraits and still life and low light and much else besides – yes, including gull shots.. Anyway, with the 135mm and a lot of trial and error (not to mention an indecent helping of luck), I might just get that perfect shot one day – if not yet. But until then, best keep clear of the blog gallery, cos you’re going to find a whole lot of ‘outtakes’ and ‘almosts’ – all of them feathered and beaked – so humble apologies in advance.

Union Island

‘Cruiseheimers’, some wag called it. The inability to remember what day of the week it is, or even which month. A well-acknowledged side-effect of this cruising life – and it’s so true. With no papers and no television and little or no need for such knowledge, it’s odd how quickly you lose track of the calendar details. The sun comes up; the sun goes down, you work some; you play some – and what difference if it’s a Tuesday or a Wednesday? So we think we were in Tobago Cays for about five days … or was it six?

Whichever. Reluctantly, we must move on, gradually making our way to Grenada to start boat repairs in earnest. So we kissed goodbye to the turtular (yes, I made it up; should be shot for it too) paradise of Tobago Cays and headed off for Union Island. Here we can re-provision with essential food supplies and clear out with immigration and customs officials**.

Anchoring in Clifton Harbour on the east side of Union Island is tricky thanks to the many reefs and shoals with little free space that doesn’t have a mooring buoy jauntily floating in it. Eventually, a small mono left bequeathing us an ideal spot. These pepperings of mooring buoys are a pain for yachties who prefer the cheaper option of anchoring. So many buoys have been dotted around in profusion in these islands – not always soundly sited, either – that sometimes it is like a game of dodgems trying to find space to swing off a hook. The buoys, of course, are a source of revenue for those who own them, and for the many ‘boat boys’ who loiter around, offering to help you tie off to them. Often, they will insist on picking one up and are waiting to hand it over to you as you approach, leaving you feeling obliged to pay for this service, however unnecessary it is. Swinging off a hook avoids all that. Most of these guys will also want to flog you water, gas, diesel, petrol, bread, fish – and if you can resist that little lot – then to remove your garbage. But to a man, they’ve all been cheerful and friendly, and although we have needed none of these items or services, it seems churlish to keep the wallet fastened when they’re such a likeable bunch. However, after the sixth or seventh boat-boy visit in less than two hours, it got easier! Perhaps a large sign with “Don’t Call Us, We’ll Call You” swinging from the bimini might be the answer. Once they realize you’re not in the market for such things, they tend to leave you alone far more and, to their credit, still seem as friendly as ever and happy to pass the time of day with you.. They can be very useful friends to have around sometimes too – but more of that later.

Once safely hooked, Dick tackled the errant outboard. (It had packed up back in Tobago Cays and adamantly refused to start). A couple of hours later, and the maestro had got it working again. Hooray! Looking at all the bits spread on the cockpit table, I couldn’t see how it would ever fit back together again, let alone work, but then engines aren’t my forte. (Trust me – never has a statement been so undered.) Thankfully Dick understands them well enough to make a reasonable stab at fixing ‘em successfully. Bloody good job one of us does. But once in Grenada, we’ll start looking at professionally produced ribs and see what outboard options that leaves us with.

Now we’ve got the footlin’ rib working again, we’ve decided to linger a little longer around Union Island before checking into Grenada. In truth, neither of us is looking forward to being tied to one place while repairs are carried out, which with regard to the diesel tank leak repair could take some time. We’re reluctant to surrender the freedom of knowing we can just pootle off on whim. Not to whinge, Grenada has been given such good press, it seems as good a place to be holed up as any, so it should be cool.

What isn’t cool is that we’re not getting the cardio exercise we were used to. Since living on the boat, we’re kept limber by all the flexing and twisting boat-living demands, and footling around in the water burns off a lot of calories, but our hearts and legs and spines miss some regular terra-firma pounding. Time to get a better land/sea balance. Out here in the Caribbean, it’s just too damn hot to jog or trot briskly, unless you rise with the sun. So, from now on, up with the sun it is, into the rib, pootle to dinghy dock and you’ve guessed it … Step Out Time!

And even with the interruption of an occasional downpour, it’s grand. We’ve been so boat-tied trying to fix what we can ourselves and cleaning it, maintenance etc, we’ve neglected the land far too much. Fabulous to feel the ground firm beneath your feet for an hour or so, and to stride out – big steps, arms swinging – something that’s impossible on a 44’ x 25’ floating, rolling climbing frame, cluttered as it is with stays and saloons and cabins and cockpit furniture. Whether we can discipline ourselves to rise this early every morning is another matter, but knowing the rewards a long brisk walk brings might be incentive enough to kick back the sheet and greet the day on the trot.

Back to those boatboys for a moment. Clifton Harbour has been quiet since we arrived. This afternoon, when the mooring area was already rather full, a large Sunsail flotilla pulled in. With the sun low in the sky, the water isn’t so easy to read – it’s far harder to see the changes in colour that highlight where the shoals, rocks and reefs lie. So no surprises, therefore when three of the flotilla ran aground. But bless ‘em, the boys in the boats were on the case every time within seconds , and even though it took two of these wooden fishing boats, engines smoking, to pull one of the hapless yachts free, they eventually got all three boats safely off their rocky bed and moored up well before sundown. Like I say, good guys to know at times – but no, we don’t want a fish today, thank you!

Footnote** For those not familiar with this  cruising lark, boats have to clear in and out of every country they visit. Think of it just like immigration control – you roll up with various documents, ship’s papers, crew list, passport – that sort of thing, and after jumping through each port of entry’s  various red tape hoops, you hopefully get the all clear to sail in that country’s waters and go ashore and generally have a good time, you hope … but only after handing over a fat little fee of course for all that rubber stamping.