… 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!