… 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.
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