Back with yers …

… with another splash of dithy-witter.

Saturday was Halloween – if you were busy trick and treating and butchering pumpkins, then you won’t need me to state the obvious. But here in Grenada, all that ghouls and ghosty milarky came with a slight twist – a Hash. Nothing to do with fried cowpats of smashed potato, but everything to do with scrabbling around a wooded hillside, clawing through brambles and vine, looking for the next forlorn little heap of shredded paper. And all this ‘fun’ in temperatures to make a thoroughly fried hash of the brain. Hashes are regular features here in Grenada – rambling walks (or runs) through the local countryside, following a pre- laid trail (complete with false detours) aimed at the doggedly masochistic and terminally insane. We were eminently qualified to participate then.

This hash was reputed to be one of the easier variety (oh how they lied!), and the reward for such a silly endeavour was the promise of hot grub and cold beer at Le Phare Bleu holiday resort. Le Phare is gorgeous – a lovely comfortable establishment right by the shore on the southern coast of Grenada. It has the added attraction that the Doc Adams Blues Band (whose talents I’ve already waxed lyrical about) regularly provide some hot foot-stompin’ jazz there. Among the cruising crowd, there is a strong Doc Adams Groupie contingent – and the band’s gigs are regularly packed to heaving. But whether it was the lure of the good Doc’s and his strummer’s and drummer’s great music, or the thrashing and crashing about in the woods that held such appeal, or even the strange desire to be-smear oneself with fake blood and apply lashings of black liner and wear a wig  – that drew the punters in their hundreds, we’ll never know.  But in their hundreds they were there.

Men

Women

Children

… and Dogs!

The Hash began about 4.30 pm after a general signing in (so that those who lost the plot … I mean way, might later be found by search party.  Ha! Very comforting, that.  So off we went, some in galloping, loose-limbed style (mainly teenage students from the local university); some in grim determined plod (the woollen speckly socks and hiking boots brigade); some with trepidation (those with good sense and a dislike of pain); and some with a stout stick, a leisurely pace and plenty of humour (veterans, obviously). These last, well seasoned in the perils and pleasures of hashing are deemed to be ‘Hounds’. Hash ‘Virgins’ are those like Dick and I who had yet to be initiated into this strange “mad dogs and Englishmen” pursuit.  By the end of things, I wasn’t entirely convinced losing one’s virginity to achieve hound status was quite all it was cracked up to be. In fact sense insisted it might have been better to have found a shady spot, kept my legs firmly crossed and sat it out with a cold soda.

But hey, there’s no fool like an old fool, and it must be said that between scrapes and slithers there was a perverse sort of pleasure to be gained from yomping through bracken and briar, skating around on treacherous scree, grabbing root, branch, stalk – the guy in front – anything in a bid to keep arse off forest floor, lacerated by thorns and decorated with mud and leaves as the hordes ahead and those behind demonically bellowed insistent commands of  “ON! ON!” (On, on? I couldn’t have gone back if I’d bloody tried – there was at least a hundred or several folk pressing close behind).

In fact had it not been for the heat and the slipperiness underfoot (crocs are NOT a hash-friendly shoe choice), I think I just might get the Hash habit big time if I recover after the last one sufficiently.  It’s certainly an intense way to get close to Mother Nature (although some might say uncomfortably close at times).

Anyway, in straggly, gallumphing style, we completed the course as daylight began to wane and there at the finishing line was the cool(-ish) sea and the bar of Phare Bleu to put a new urgency into weary feet and limbs.  Those that had taken a more leisurely approach or who had been waylaid by the false trails (oh such wags those trail organisers!)  continued to stumble back sometime later, their way lit by candles placed and lit along the path – a kind and thoughtful touch after the heartless treachery of being knowingly sent in the wrong direction.  But then, like I say, Hashing is a seriously screwy affair.

Screwy or not, it was strangely heart-warming to see all ages, of every shape and size, from silver tops to kids,  to babies and pet dogs, the fit and the unfit, all gathered together in thoroughly good-natured, dirty, dusty, dishevelled, sweaty harmony.

Later that night, the worst of the grub sluiced off in the sea, we tucked into a different sort of grub – the edible variety  – and then danced the night away.  The mood was absolutely top dollar. Must have been the endorphins after all that effort earlier.  Nobody wanted the music to stop and, as one, the crowd on the dance floor hollered for more – and then some more still. Clearly enjoying themselves as much as the rest of us, the obliging Doc and his gang played on … and on … and on.

Hash Virgins? Wot us? Not any more, we aint’. Hounds to the marrow, us Merediths!

Heck, is that the date …

… alright, already? Sorry about the no-show. All sorts of excuses for not honouring that update promise in the last post – all of them valid; none of them interesting. But the main, and most boring excuse of them all, is that my laptop battery is on its deathbed.  Fifteen minutes is all the charge it will now hold. When we return to the UK I will be buying a replacement and blog updates will be far more frequent … well, that’s the plan. You’ve certainly been a faithful lot checking in regularly despite the lack of new material, so a big thank you.

Okay, amigos, on with business …

This is the view from the back of the boat.  The headland and entrance to – guess where – Prickly Bay, of course! But during this recent radio silence, we’ve also pootered back and forth along the south coast to St David’s again, enjoyed a few quiet nights at Whisper Cove and a few quiet days at Clarkes Court Bay Marina.  There were various errands to attend to that necessitated the trips, but even without such practical excuses, it’s just great to move around some.

At last, the hurricane season is drawing to a close – only a month to go before our insurance will allow us to venture north of Carriacou once more.  Since June, Grenada has been home to a lot of cruisers sitting out the hurricane season, and many firm friendships have been forged. The hubs of this great little community, here at Prickly, are always the Tiki Bar and de Big Fish, with cruisers alternating between the two according to whichever establishment is providing Happy Hour that night – or the best entertainment.

But now as the humidity levels get a little less silly and the sweatometer gauge drops,  boats are on the move again. Each day another trickle of cruisers strike out for the horizon before making a right at Prickly Point to make their way northwards up through the island chain. Each evening, another set of familiar faces (many of whom have become good friends) are now conspicuous by their absence from the Tiki or De Big Fish.  No doubt we’ll bump into them at some point later, since we plan to do pretty much the same soonishly and evenutally head north. The difference for us, is that we must return to Grenada come mid-January for warranty work repairs, when they can better accommodate us at Grenada Marine boatyard. Both main boatyards are chocka at present, though they are just beginning to empty as folk who have left their boats on the hard to go home, return to the Caribbean to resume their cruising. But we’ve been assured January will be the quietest time for the sort of work we need doing, so that’s the deal.

By the way, more detail about warranty work once we have a complete overview and all the financial aspects of warranty issues have been settled  – and paid.  But in the interim, it is clear that African Cats do not/will not agree with our surveyor on some of the repair/remedial work he considers elegible for warranty status.  In short, we will be footing a sizeable chunk of the bill to ensure Butterfly is made strong and safe and nicely finished. I dare say those of you who regularly follow this blog, are as unsurprised as we are.

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If you come to Grenada, you simply must take an island tour with Cutty.  We took our time getting round to this,  but good things are worth waiting for – and Cutty’s tour is definitely A Very Good Thing.

From 9.00 am till about 5.30 pm in air-conditioned comfort, you are transported on a winding leisurely tour of the best and the most interesting the island has to offer.  And I promise you, you will be in excellent company with a host who knows his homegrown onions and how.

Even between the various ports of call, Cutty  frequently stops the bus, saunters over to the roadside, and breaks off leaves and twigs and berries and grasses growing in rich and chaotic profusion everywhere,  for you to sniff and sample – always with a colourful description of what these are and how they grow and what they’re used for. The aromatic blast from freshly torn lemongrass, newly crushed pimentos is a world away from those tired and shrivelled offerings in supermarket jars.

Pit stops are included for swims under invigoratingly chilly waterfalls (heck, I sound like a Thomson brochure); an inspection of the local rum factory – a thoroughly Dickensian affair, both fascinating and slightly horrifying from a UK health and safety inspector’s point of view. Luckily, the strength of the brew must render the ‘rustic’ manufacturing conditions sterile. This is the way they have made rum for eons here no doubt and I for one hope the health and safety guys keep well away. It has a charm and history that is far more appealing than the soul-less spick and span modern breweries of today.

Er, grapefruit and rum, anyone????

Then there was a tour and talk given at a spice factory… quaintly authentic, with a gentle, bucolic setting and all-pervading, deliciously aromatic atmosphere. Outside were swathes of cocoa beans being ripened in the sun prior to processing (they smell anything but chocolatey!) – and more nutmeg than you could shake a stick at (it’s one of Grenada’s chief exports).

The first half of the tour meanders northwards through the parishes of St George, St John, St Mark and St Patrick where a stroll through a graveyard led to a fabulous view and a site of many deaths at Leapers Hill.  Click on the pic and you can read why it was so named.

… Although I must confess, I was far more taken with the humble and far less celebrated departure of a little girl just a stone’s throw from that plaque.

A little life cut so achingly short but one that few will ever know about.

However, the indisputed star of the show had to be this chap. A bold Mona monkey who kept our cameras clicking during a pit stop in the Etang Forest Reserve. Cutty had come armed with plenty of monkey fodder (bananas ) and this little fella wasn’t shy about taking his fill – though he regularly turned his back on us to actually eat them. To paraphrase a well known wotsit “Manners maketh the monkey”.

Here he is again, helped by some dramatic lighting courtesy of the sun’s positioning being nicely low. Just love the rich tapestry of colours in his fur.

The cost of the tour was, I think, about US $25 per person.  How often Cutty runs these tours, I’m not entirely sure, but every Thursday it seems to be a regular thing.

I’ve oodles more photos from the day, many which will never make this blog, but will post a few more up in the blog galley later when time and laptop battery allow. All in all it was a darned fine day and one I recommend you try if you’re Grenada bound.

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Okay, time to explain there’s a chess game – or three – going on, aboard Butterfly as I type this. Chris, John and Dick playing three games simultaneously, and judging by the groans and chuckles and cackles and sighs of despair, it’s obviously going well! The first pawn was shuffled around sometime about 4.00 pm, but it looks likely like they’ll be playing long into the night. Since Man, it must be said, does not live by check and mate alone,  I must vamoosh at this point to cobble together some sustenance for those battle-weary brains.

More (laptop and housebank batteries allowing) coming later …

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Footnote: sorry if those who subscribe to this blog with RSS feeds etc have received multiple editions of this post. I’m having the devil’s own at the moment, with WordPress messing up the layout of pics and text big time – that coupled with a sporadic wifi connection which is adding to the hassle factor.