The Grenadian Dash

We found ourselves leaving Martinique with an apology on our lips that we had nearly skirted past it completely and were certain that our short stop in Fort de France had not availed us of all it had to offer.  If possible a return trip was promised at some future point.  So much to see, so little time!

Sailing out of the harbour we glimpsed the infamous (from a French perspective) Diamond Rock…or should that be H.M.S. Diamond Rock?  Apparently, in 1804 when the British had naval supremacy throughout the Caribbean waters it was felt that Diamond rock would be the perfect place to have a naval ship if one was available to engage the French coming in and out of Fort de France.  There being a scarcity of ships someone decided to commission the rock as a ship instead.  After 18 months of secretly trudging equipment, cannons and supplies up to the pinnacle of the rock without the French noticing, H.M.S. Diamond Rock raised her ensign and opened fire on the totally unsuspecting French ships leaving and arriving in Martinique.  Needless to say, Napoleon was apoplectic – mainly because Martinique was the birthplace of his wife Josephine.

And so it was that we came full circle back to where our Caribbean adventure had begun in December ’13 when we had first arrived in St. Lucia after our epic Atlantic crossing.  The nostalgia flooded in (probably a bad choice of verb when at sea!) as we approached her shores again recalling our original approach on that grey day 5 months or so and very nearly 1000 nautical miles earlier.  Thus St. Lucia will always have a special place in our hearts – our first experience of the Caribbean on board Resolute.  It is sad that it has since been denigrated in the minds of many by the murder of a British yachtie in January.  It seems so out of character to the St. Lucia we know and everyone we have met along the way has also commented how implausible it is.  We headed into Marigot Bay which is arguably one of the most beautiful bays in the Caribbean and were helped very graciously onto our pre-booked berth and welcomed by the friendly staff.  However, we noticed some changes in senior staff and learnt that the Manager of many years had been usurped in favour of a representative of a huge American hotel chain who excitedly regaled us of the mega-plans afoot to “upgrade this place”.  Oh dear!  What a difference a few months can make.  Nonetheless, for the time being at least the marina was still a haven of calm and contentment and the faultlessly attentive staff made our stay there a pleasure once more.  Marigot Bay has become in our family history a place from where sons are met….well, at least two of our three that is.  We met middle son Simon and his family there back in December and now eldest son Chris and his wife Tanvi were arriving the next day.  We drove the now well-trodden route to and from the airport in our rental car, checking as we went the progress that had been made in the restoration of the devastation caused by the massive landslides which tore through the south of the island last Christmas.  Impressive road and bridge rebuilding was in evidence; piles of debris had been amassed along the road sides and whole areas cleared ready for replanting one supposed; a massive reconstruction of homes, schools and small businesses was underway.  The area seemed to be healing itself on a grand scale which was heartening indeed.

There was no time to hang around.  Chris and Tanvi had a mere two weeks with us and in that time we had to cover the large area between St. Lucia and Grenada including St. Vincent and the Grenadines, the Tobago Cays and finally Grenada itself.  We needed to step up our rather slovenly pace!

With nostalgia still in the air we headed back down the coast to anchor under the famous Piton peaks where we had spent Christmas with Simon, Liz and Tommy.  This time though the weather was fine except for the pesky katabatic winds which I have come to realise are the price one has to pay for parking oneself under any picturesque peak.  The boat boys were alongside again helping us find a mooring buoy and offering trips and tours and provisions.  Chris and Tanvi being still jet-lagged and weary decided no further island touring was necessary (we had taken in as many of the sites of worth on the way back from the airport). They took instead to enjoying the stunning views and snorkelling in the clear blue waters.

Early next morning we set off for St. Vincent, giving Chris and Tanvi their first (this side of the) Atlantic open water sail.  Tanvi is prone to seasickness so we all held our breath rather, but no, with exciting sailing to be had and new skills to be learnt she and Colin did the lion’s share of the sailing whilst Chris and I had plenty of catching up to do.  St. Vincent was another one of those islands like Dominica that we half thought of missing off our itinerary because of dodgy security reports in the past, but I hasten to add that we are mightily pleased that we didn’t as it was a gem of a place with none of its Caribbean identity erased.  We approached our chosen destination of Wallilabou Bay and of course a boat boy (called Pnut) had dashed out to help us.  The main Bay was crowded (it too had found notoriety by being the main filming location for the first Pirates of the Caribbean film) so our boat boy recommended the next Bay called Keartons.  He rowed round to help us and picked a buoy for us which was right at the mouth of a cave made famous by the film by Johnny Depp who fortunately had long since departed. On our trusty boat boy’s recommendation we booked dinner that night at a beach-side eatery called The Rock-side Café and we were served a beautifully simple but delicious meal by Rosi (who was originally German) and her husband Orlando.  We ate under a canopy in the garden overlooking the harbour and our own boat with the waves lapping on the shore…a perfect introduction to Chris and Tanvi of the magic of Caribbean life.  When we left Rosi and Orlando it felt as though we were leaving family – so friendly and hospitable were they both.

By-passing the capital, Kingstown, which had no sheltered anchorage or marina, the next day we sailed down to the very southern tip of St Vincent – Blue Lagoon, the entrance to which is not for the faint-hearted with only a narrow and virtually unmarked channel through the reefs.  Needless to say, our doughty Skipper got us in safely and we were escorted to a mooring buoy in the harbour.  Chris and Tanvi were keen to go on an escorted trip to the volcano which graced the north of St. Vincent and which boasted a 3 hour hike to the summit.  We were somewhat taken aback by this desire as historically Chris has never been a fan of the concept of ‘a walk’.  To him it is a four letter word and best avoided unless completely necessary….perhaps Tanvi calling it ‘A hike’ made the difference.  Skipper and Gilly-mate declined – surprise, surprise – claiming that they were all volcanoed-out.  At 7 the next morning the intrepids set off and returned thoroughly exhausted at about 4 telling tales of woe about their hike over very rough terrain with an escort who had had his mercy-chip removed long ago.  The icing on the cake had been when they reached the volcano top, which promised wonderful island-reaching views, the mist and steam completely obscured any view.  Skipper and Gilly-mate congratulated each other on a decision well made!

This being Easter weekend we decided not to venture into the capital Freetown by bus as we had planned but to press on instead to Bequia.  Knowing that a regatta had been held over the bank holiday weekend in Bequia’s major harbour of Admiralty Bay we avoided it by favouring a huge anchorage on the southern end called Friendship Bay.  However, when we arrived it didn’t seem too friendly at all as there was very little space to anchor – most of the available space having been taken up by local boats on mooring buoys.  Feeling that time was pressing and with some regret we decided to make it just a lunch-time stop and go on again to the nearby island (all the Grenadines are nearby) of Canouan.  En route we passed the famous but private haunt of the royal, rich and famous – Mustique.  It is possible to moor there but certain terms and conditions apply to protect the privacy of the inhabitants and our trusty pilot guide advised that the prices in the few bars and restaurants reflected the type of clientele they were trying to attract.  Feeling lowly, we sailed past.

Canouan was delightful; a huge sweeping bay alongside a tasteful resort; dusty streets with tortoises roaming free along the road sides, pausing to munch on fallen hibiscus blooms; a fish market where we bought the freshest red snapper for next to nothing and the sweetest pineapples and mangoes to date.  If Chris and Tanvi wanted to sample the essence of Caribbean life this was it….albeit with a very decadent resort hotel nearby to provide us with the finer things in life like wifi and rum-punch.  We were offered fresh lobster tomorrow from our budding boat boy and self-appointed village guide, Michael.  We showed some interest but had to leave quite early the next morning to get to the Tobago Cays.  No problem said Michael, I will get up and dive for them early so you can leave by ten.  The deal was done.  Next morning we saw Michael heading out to the reef and we watched him jumping into the waters over and over again to catch our lobster.  Perseverance must have been his middle name and when he eventually proudly returned with his sack of feisty, angry, shellfish he looked exhausted.  We gave him the very few Caribbean dollars he had requested for our feast and a few more besides and several cans of cold beer for which he almost pleaded – so well deserved after his exertions.  With our haul of lobster languishing in salt water in the kitchen sinks we set sail for the Tobago Cays – supposedly the highlight of any southern Caribbean cruise.

The Tobago Cays are a group of small uninhabited islands, protected from the ocean by a massive horseshoe reef.  They look like the quintessential Caribbean islands – all powdery white beach and azure clear waters with palm trees and lush green vegetation.  As you might expect they are protected areas and form part of a National Park with designated mooring buoys to protect the coral from anchors.  Of course being THE place to go it is crowded….not just a little crowded but share-every-detail-of-your-life-with-your-neighbours crowded.  Added to this there are a myriad of boat boys squabbling over who are ‘their’ clients and trying to sell everything possible – from fresh fish to whale teeth necklaces.  Not quite the secluded bit of Paradise we had imagined then.  However, once there, we were determined to make the best of it so joined the masses on Baradel island to turtle-watch and snorkel (the turtles sensibly seemed to keep a low profile in their ‘designated area’ but could be seen more readily from the dinghy as we went between the islands).  Behind the hordes of which we were one, it was truly an awe-inspiring place where one felt the slightly vulnerable freedom of being right out on an ocean limb with nothing but the turquoise waters and the huge skies  Keeping a sharp lookout we managed to swap our buoy in the middle of the pack for one on the periphery immediately it became vacant and enjoyed the relative solitude there for a further day – enjoying especially the near desertion of our desert island idyll (well, sharing it only with a French family playing boules and a German couple body-boarding and numerous snorkelers shouting to each other when they saw something extraordinary….).

Slightly disillusioned we carefully reef-hopped out of the Cays and on to Salt Whistle Bay, on the island of Mayreux – only a couple of hours sail away.  This Bay has a sweeping crescent of beach and a lively atmosphere with a beach bar, a small and subtle resort and multiple sellers of sarongs and T shirts looking like lines of colourful washing from afar.  A surfeit of bare back snorkelling in the Cays had left Christopher looking like a lobster so he for several days kept himself below decks and like Dracula only ventured out in the evenings….such a shame with Mayreux to explore.  Needless to say there were plenty of jokes about how a doctor should show more awareness to the dangers of too much sun!   Naturally, Tanvi definitely had the last laugh.

1. This time to Union Island in order to quickly site-see and clear out of the Grenadines.  Christopher was still literally laid low, nursing his blisters (ouch) and was unable to join our hasty exploration.  Skipper was quite pleased to leave somebody on the boat in any case as the buoy to which we had been escorted gave us very little swing or drag room in the overcrowded, busy Clifton harbour. Our glimpse at Union though made us feel again that we were not doing it justice.  The village of Clifton was very twee – shops, restaurants and little colourful market huts selling fresh fruit and vegetables clustered round a little village green.  We learnt that the little (only about 25 miles square – but with high peaks) island had been mainly populated by Scots when it was first inhabited in the 18^th and 19^th centuries and there was certainly an air of secluded highland village about the place…albeit with trailing bougainvillea everywhere and warm clear blue seas lapping the shoreline.  We were able to take back some lunch to our wounded crew-member.  The take-away of choice throughout the Caribbean is roti – wraps of curried and spiced chicken or beef…but the most popular filling is lambi which is the local word for conch.  When in a dash they are the perfect hearty snack.  And we were in a dash.  Having done some shopping and completed the clearing out formalities we left Clifton basin and headed the few miles east to Petite Martinique. Our particular yen to visit the tiny island of Petite Martinique (no relation to the grand French isle already mentioned), had its basis in the great reviews we had read for a restaurant there called The  Palm Beach.  Helpfully this restaurant also provided mooring buoys for its customers and a water taxi to its tables.  Perfect.  Petite Martinique (PM to its friends) is completely unspoilt and relies on the authentic trades of wooden ship-building and fishing for its survival – topped up in the high season with us tourists too.  We radio-ed the restaurant, and sure enough our water taxi came to collect us at the appointed hour and we were shown to a table over-looking the beach in the secluded garden under a shady canopy.  In this spectacular but simple setting we ate spectacular but simple food which was absolutely delicious.  Callalou (a local sweet tasting leaf something like spinach) soup, followed by the inevitable lobster and fresh seafood dishes all mopped up with home-made bread and puds to die for.  No doubt lobsters everywhere in the Caribbean were breathing a huge sigh of relief at this juncture as their comparative freedom season was just about to begin for them on 1^st May……the alternative view of course being the catching season was just ending….so at the tail end of April, lobster was everywhere whilst the going was just about good.  Replete with our excellent meal we were taken back to our boat ready for our final Atlantic sail with Chris and Tanvi to Grenada.

   Just as you are thinking we have nearly finished this lengthy tome, here we are in Glorious Grenada which deserves so much more than to be glossed over.  It is a very special island – sophisticated and cosmopolitan but without having lost its Caribbean flavour and identity in the least.  To get to the Grenadian Yacht Club in the capital, St. Georges where we had reserved a berth, required a long day sail, but with Chris being fully recovered, we all enjoyed and relished the journey.  Grenada is a relatively large volcanic island which is called ‘The Spice Island’ due to the rich agricultural lands it is blessed with due to the rich volcanic soil.  Nutmeg, cinnamon, mace along with coconuts and bananas form the mainstay of the economy alongside the thriving tourist industry of course.  With Chris and Tanvi only sadly having one last day to see Grenada we took up Pete the Taxi’s offer of a trip to Customs to clear-in followed by a whistle-stop island tour for a bargain price.  We covered such a lot in one day: winding through the bustling streets of St Georges on market day with Pete tooting his horn at everyone he knew; swimming in the beautiful Annandale waterfalls after a short hike (or is that walk) through the exotic rain forest trail to get there; driving up and up and up through the dense forest to the lofty volcanic crater at Grand Etang with spectacular views from a wooden viewing station seemingly at the top of the world  – looking for the shy little monkeys which occasionally make an appearance there – but to no avail.  The Rivers rum distillery was incredible as it still used exactly the same methods to distil and bottle their rum as they had since the 1800’s.  Our tour guide was very entertaining and we were able to partake of the resulting grog (some of which is 80% proof!).  Our last port of call was to the Belmont Plantation Estate where we saw how it makes its famous organic chocolate which is found throughout the southern Caribbean.  Never having much considered how cocoa was grown and the resulting chocolate produced it was a fascinating tour and of course the tasting afterwards was divine!  The history of the estate was also very interesting as the plantation had been taken over by an Indian immigrant family in the early 1900’s who still own and run it along with other plantations on the island and have turned it into a huge commercial success.  Pete then took us back along the Atlantic coast road, pointing out things of interest along the way, especially the southern bays which housed beautiful estates of stunning properties overlooking many small marinas and anchorages.  A mental note was made of these as Skipper and Gilly-mate intended to stay in Glorious Grenada after Chris and Tanvi had left them – not having to be in Trinidad until the end of May, a welcome return back to the slovenly pace of old.

   And so they did……

Lawrence of Arabia

Sandwiched between the French islands of Guadeloupe and Martinique is the mountainous and seemingly impenetrable island of Dominica.  We sailed from the relative commercial and social idyll of modern, sophisticated Guadeloupe with a longing to get back to the indigenous Caribbean again but with some trepidation as we knew that Dominica was known to represent the darker side of just that…in spades.  Guide books and websites warned of fast practices and being constantly bothered by ‘boat boys’ and having to fastidiously lock everything.  Lock it or lose it was the refrain in most books.  With its rugged terrain and lack of the characteristic crowd-pulling beaches, Dominica has had to sustain itself on less of everything – surviving on its fishing industry, fruit – mainly citrus, and cocoa as well as a talent for basket-weaving and other intricate handicrafts.  The people therefore, we had been told, are quick to try to offer the un-witting yachties their wares and skills in the hope of making a quick dollar – understandable in the circumstances but a far cry from our recent French Antilles experiences.

The 50 mile sail across From Marie Galante with the wind on the beam was fast and furious.  Resolute loves this point of sail and performs at her best with both sails billowing, enabling her to take on the not inconsiderable Atlantic swell with alacrity.  About 6 hours later we were under the eaves of this magnificent island, dwarfed by the thick jungle clad craggy slopes.  From nowhere, as we found some shelter from the swell behind the island, the wind increased from about 25 knots to about 35-40!  We hurriedly reduced the sail and completed the last downwind section under headsail alone gusted along at warp speed.  Before we could even see our intended destination of Portsmouth we were approached by a little wooden boat with a chap asking us if we would like one of his buoys in the bay to tie up to.  We had been warned about some of these ‘iffy’ buoys so were a tad reluctant to agree but when we eventually did he raced off, shouting into the strong wind that he would meet us there.

We were relieved to turn the corner at West Cabrit and into the massive Prince Rupert Bay which was dotted with hundreds of yachts.  True to his word, our trusty helper led us to a buoy (in fact a floating plastic petrol can) and assured us that in even these still “very blowing winds” it would hold us “no problem”.  Once safely (we hoped!) attached, we were properly introduced to our helper – his name and title were actually painted on the side of his boat, he explained – his name was Lawrence, Lawrence of Arabia, and he would be looking after us throughout our stay in the bay.  His speciality, he added, was a tour in his boat up the Indian River.  Our prior research had informed us that this was a ‘must do’ whilst on the island.  He quickly added too that he would be able to take us to the Customs and Immigration offices to do our legal formalities.  That swung it.  After he had left us we realised that we had agreed to let Lawrence of Arabia pick us up at 0800 the next day to take us to Customs and then onwards up the river…and stupidly we hadn’t even asked him how much it would be!

The katabatic winds continued to hurl themselves down the mountainsides and into the bay all night and we both wondered if Lawrence’s makeshift buoy was actually attached very firmly to the sea bed.  However, when we arose early we could see that we had stayed firmly put…unlike some of the other yachts who had chosen to anchor and had dragged alarmingly.  True to his word, at eight o’clock a far too bright and breezy Lawrence of Arabia came alongside to collect us, warning us not to tread on the dog as we got into his colourful wooden boat.  Dog?  We were both struggling to see anything canine aboard….until he lifted up an old life-jacket on the floor of the boat and there was a little black mewing lump….a four week old puppy as yet only called Black Dog.  Lawrence explained that thus far Black Dog hated the water and cried a lot but he was sure he would get used to it.  Right we said, Customs first then please….uh, no said Lawrence because the best time to go up the river is at daybreak so let’s do that first shall we?  Knowing only too well all the draconian rules and equally severe punishments casually doled out to those who dared to set foot on an island without having cleared in first, it was with much trepidation that we agreed to do the River trip first, buoyed up as we were by Lawrence’s avid enthusiasm and assurances.  Hidden in the recesses of the bay was the entrance to the Indian River.  Just past the entrance Lawrence turned off the outboard engine and got out his trusty oars explaining that it was forbidden now to use engines in the river so rowing was the only option.  Black Dog approved of the quieter environment and dared to put his nose out above the life-jacket.  We approved too as soon the bustle and noise of the Bay and of Portsmouth town gave way to birdsong and insects.  The river narrows quickly and there is a virtual canopy of trees and vines.  What Lawrence didn’t know about this river wasn’t worth knowing.  He explained that the trees were called bloodwood trees which thrived in swampy conditions and he pointed out to us herons and hummingbirds, orchids and butterflies.  We asked about the wildlife and Lawrence said there were plenty of iguanas but as they used to be put in the pressure cooker if caught they were now pretty shy.  They tasted like chicken he said.  We went down an even narrower tributary and there on the bank was an old hut in the mangroves which he told us had been built for a starring part in the Pirates of the Caribbean films – home of the character Calypso.  Lawrence was mightily proud to have been part of the transport network required by the film crews at the time and said he had met some of the stars too.  We continued up the river being lulled by the peace of it all as the oars dipped in and out of the brackish water.  At the top of the river is a little watering hole where we were able to stop, get out and explore the beautiful gardens and have a drink in slow time before being rowed back through the broad leaves and over-hanging vines.  Truly magical.  Back to reality with rather a groan at the river mouth where we were approached by an official looking chap.  “It’s OK”, Lawrence explained,” this is the National Park Attendant and you owe him $5EC (about £1.25) for going up the river….he wasn’t around when we came into the river so we left it until now.”  Muchly relieved, we purchased our retrospective tickets and then Lawrence turned on his engine and we whizzed down the length of the Bay and ashore to the commercial dock where he assured us the Customs and Immigration resided.  Sure enough we found them and were soon legal again….always a relief.  Lawrence then took us back to our boat and we asked him tentatively how much we owed him.  He said that $40 US would cover it…..and we were astounded as our prior research had told us to expect to pay at least $20 each (£12.50) when in a large group.  But we had been honoured to have Lawrence’s (and Black Dog’s) undivided attention for a whole morning and had him literally ferry us hither and thither….not to mention hearing his wonderful stories and anecdotes along the way.  Needless to say we gave him twice the money he asked for but our faith in human nature was boosted ten-fold.

During our continued, pleasurable stay in the Bay off Portsmouth (amusing in itself to us as at home in England we live about 10 miles from the original Portsmouth – no iguanas there!) we got to know many of the yacht helpers in their little wooden boats.  We learnt too that they had formed themselves into a cohesive group of young men calling themselves PAYS (Portsmouth Association of Yacht Services).  They dashed around in their colourful vessels emblazoned with their equally colourful names (Cobra, Providence, Sea Bird, Spaghetti….to name but a few) offering every service imaginable to the yachties:  fruit, bread, laundry, rubbish collection, taxi services and tours and can find you any sort of help or technician.  They also provide security which in the past had been a problem in this area but with the advent of PAYS there had been no further problems.  Such an admirable achievement and this honour and admiration was written all over the faces of these guys.  There was no pestering or cajoling – just good smiling, professional service if you required it…..all could be contacted on Channel 16 on the VHF.

So it was with a heavy heart that we had to say goodbye to Portsmouth and to Lawrence and his friends in Portsmouth and head south to the Capital of Dominica, Roseau.  Sailing in the lee of these islands is always a pleasure insofar as one is spared the indomitable Atlantic swell but in exchange, especially behind such high mountainous islands such as Dominica, the wind is capricious and fluky making for a jittery unrelaxing time where sails have to be constantly tweaked. Thus we arrived in Roseau.  A different feel entirely to Portsmouth, Roseau greeted us with a big cruise ship tied to its concrete dock; a commercial dock to buzzing with shipping and a deep bay for us to find ourselves a buoy or to anchor. The katabatic, down-the-mountainside wind and the depth of the water in many areas of the bay made a buoy the best and easiest option…but , having picked one up (dab hands at this manoeuvre by now!) we wondered to whom it might belong as nothing was written on it to help us.  You see, without knowing if it is available to you as a visitor it is impossible to rest or to go ashore, thinking the rightful local owner might bowl up in his boat at any time and order us off.  Our pilot book informed us that one of the Marine Centres had some buoys in the Bay and sure enough when we radioed them they assured us that the buoy was theirs and we could pay for a night on it when we came over to their café to have our sundowner…..churlish not to do so we thought (although to do so meant some pretty adventurous dinghy disembarking up a steep ladder onto a dodgy pontoon in wind and rolling swell).  Several rum-punches and a wonderful supper of coconut shrimp later and the reverse exploit seemed child’s play!

The next day we braved the dinghy again with thankfully less swell and blow and walked into Roseau town.  Past the cricket ground, past the very posh-looking Fort Young Hotel (another one for the Maybe One Day wish list), past the icing-white very grand Government Buildings and down the hill we found ourselves in a colourful mixture of old and new Caribbean houses and shops…old businesses on the wharf side streets which had obviously been there for generations and still thriving.  First we headed for the market, finding with our noses the fish market first and buying some freshly caught tuna.  Then along to the fruit and vegetables with such an incredible choice we had to pause and take stock in order not to buy far too much for us to possibly consume before it started rotting in the heat.  Nonetheless we were able to buy grapefruit, mangoes, lemons and limes and various vegetables including, much to Gilly’s delight as they are her favourite (after tomatoes of course), green beans.  Hurray!  We then went in search of a supermarket and found the delightful Whitchurch and Co. – a modern well-stocked supermarket cleverly disguised in its old 19^th century façade.  Laden with our edible delights we trudged back up the hill and down to the dinghy dock feeling very pleased with our purchases and also with Roseau with its happy throng of friendly ambience.  Dominica was proving to be another one of those islands which we were falling in love with but we knew we had to move south.  The April days were passing fast and there was not too much time to tarry as we had to be back in our old haunt of St. Lucia for Easter when eldest son Chris and wife Tanvi were to meet us.

The question was, after not long having left the French in Guadeloupe, did we want to subject ourselves to another French island so soon?  Heading south our next natural port of call would be Martinique which lies just to the north of St. Lucia.  The alternative was to stay in Dominica a little longer and by-pass Martinique and head straight for our much-loved Marigot Bay in St. Lucia where we already had a berth booked.  Having had over 30 years in military service being told where to go and when we have discovered that decision making is not our strong point.  Eventually of course it was the food and wine question which clinched it.  Obviously, I hear you retort!  Our fast diminishing supplies of French goodies tempted us back to French shores again.

Martinique, we found was a completely different kettle des poissons than Guadeloupe.  After a pleasant day sail from our dear Dominica we anchored in the bay near the capital Fort de France. The Fortress itself, Fort St. Louis, which is still a functioning military camp reminiscent of the Citadel in which Skipper Colin served in Lille, stood atop the cliff above the anchorage and loomed rather gloomily over proceedings as I suspect it had done for centuries.  Fort de France had obviously done its best to be yachtie-kind and to this end there was a very Gilly-friendly dinghy dock and a whole parade of food and snack outlets called lo-lo’s (locally owned and locally operated) of various kinds in tents in the public park right opposite the bay.  The town itself ran in the usual grid system but lacked any of the charm of Roseau, feeling instead like many a seaside French town on the Channel coast…with added degrees centigrade of course.  It was a real melange of old and new jostling for our attention: a very plush trusty Carrefour in a mall with every French chain store imaginable, whilst alongside the street corner vendors selling everything from sweetcorn to underpants.  Enough about shopping I hear you say….what else did it have to offer? The beach.  A bountiful strip of palm tree fringed sand well used by the public from 6 in the morning when they started their morning swims before work, until late at night.  We too found ourselves drawn there amongst the coconut palms and under the looming fortress to partake of the cooling waters and sun ourselves.  Bien sur, being in France the height of fashionable swimming and sun bathing attire were de rigeur….but we hid amongst the palms in our unfashionable British togs uncaring.. Sunday bought swarms of people walking towards the chiming cathedral bells swinging huge palm leaves for Palm Sunday – an entrancing sight.

Don’t panic! I know some of you avid Blogees, who have now got used to the bug-bear formalities required of us, might be worried that I have said nothing about clearing-in to Martinique for our whistle-stop visit.  Were we legal I hear you ask?  Yes, of course, our first city-search was for the French Customs and Immigration computer terminal usually hidden in the most unsuspecting of places (see our previous Guadeloupe entry).  We found it tucked in the corner of a chandlery which seemed to sell a plethora of fishing tackle and designer nautical wear….don’t you just love the French!  The timing of our visit however, turned out to be perfect for a couple of unsuspecting American charter boaters.  Bemused doesn’t cover it!  Not just the notion of a self-service Customs and Immigration Computer in a bizarre shop, but the French keyboard and the succession of French questions to answer yes, in French!  Poor Darlings.  Completely flummoxed, they latched on to us immediately as we sauntered down to the back of the shop brimming full of our expertise in this fun French game!  Skipper was delighted to spend a good half hour helping them complete the formalities whilst Gilly-mate busied herself studying the amazing range of designer nautical wear (largest size a 10!) and, when push came to shove, the fishing gear.

Guadeloupe – the uncut truth

Fort Josephine ruins

Les Saintes anchorage

Ilets de Petite Terre

ilets de Petite Terre

A sunbathing Skipper

iguana

Massive Guadeloupe squall

To be Guadelouped. You didn’t know it was a verb? Well, after spending nearly 2 weeks on Guadeloupe and its surrounding islets we have decided it definitely is and can be defined thus:

To be thoroughly inconvenienced, either by weather or a shrugging French person.

Let me explain how we came to this conclusion. We arrived in Guadeloupe from Montserrat looking forward to exploring it more thoroughly than we had when we stopped off in Basse Terre en route to the Virgin Islands in January. On our approach, just before we could make out the steep contours of this big island, we were confronted by a massive black cloud with a dark black curtain falling down to sea level looming large. Slowly, as we got closer, from under this black cloud emerged the entire island. On closer inspection we could see the island was lush and green which means only one thing….lots and lots of rain. And so it proved to be for the whole of our stay. We were often and unexpectedly surrounded by big black clouds which suddenly guadelouped all over us…usually at the most inopportune moment. May I point out at this juncture that March/April is not considered to be the rainy season in the Leeward Islands.

Needless to say Guadeloupe, including its smaller islands of Les Saintes, Marie Galante, Desirade and Petite Terre are French…..not just that they were once inhabited by the French you understand,(as is the case with some of the formerly British islands) this is a fully paid up, EU funded French department…as French as Paris or Nice. In fact it is ridiculously French as only a place can be which is populated by enthusiastic ex-pats who miss their homeland and thus put all their energies into creating an image of their own personal Nirvana-remembered. A thoroughly Uber-France.
We were unable to stay in the bay we had ear-marked as a good first stop, as the buoys supposedly reserved for Visitors such as us were not actually there….or rather, were not reserved for visitors at all but all taken by local boats. Yep the first 2 fingered fully fledged Guadaloping. Thanks! On we trogged further along the coast being very careful not to get tangled up in one of the multiple annoyingly-placed fishing buoys all along the way…some of them cunningly disguised as floating lemonade bottles. As the sun set on a long day from Montserrat we picked up a buoy of dubious ownership outside Basse Terre and watched more black clouds with their accompanying winds roll in. Early next morning after a very rolly, showery night we set sail for Les Saintes….a short sail of about 12 miles…but of course there were the squalls with wind and Atlantic swell too so we were very pleased to reach the shelter of the islands and we proceeded to the big buoyed area off Bourg des Saintes the biggest town languishing on the largest of the four islands. As we approached we could not see any free buoys but as we got closer we spotted one right in the middle of the pack and headed for it. With Gilly-mate on the foredeck fully equipped with boat-hook and line we approached….3 metres out we encountered a speeding dinghy but we thought nothing of it until the man in the dinghy reached our buoy. How kind, we thought, someone is going to take our line for us….but when handed the line with an appreciative Merci Bien he grasped the top of the mooring buoy possessively and replied “ Non, cette boule est pour moi….” The Skipper begged to differ in no uncertain French terms to which the Frenchman said ….”you are crazy…” and incensed Gilly-mate said …” and you are rude…” and then Skipper seized the moment and threaded our line through the top ring of the buoy and claimed it for England. A very crestfallen Frenchman returned to the yacht for which he had been hoping to reserve the buoy, gesticulating wildly and presumably explaining to them that some crazy Englishman had snatched it from his grasp! We celebrated the avoidance of a Guadalpoping but what a welcome! After this we suspected some retaliatory action might be forthcoming but thankfully, apart from seriously acerbic looks as they motored past, we were left in peace to enjoy Les Saintes.
These islands felt very different from anywhere else in the Caribbean we had hitherto visited. They are populated by descendants of Brittany fishermen and their familiar ruddy visage is still in evidence everywhere. There had been no agriculture on the islands – fishing being the mainstay of the economy – thus there were few people of African descent there having been no plantations and therefore no slavery. The islands were well organised for the visitor with plenty of help and support services interspersed with quaint French restaurants, supermarkets and boutiques. Every day boat loads of tourists visited the islands from the mainland by ferries, but early in the morning and after about 4 pm we had the island to ourselves – a quiet relief. There was one thing that spoilt the tranquillity…scooters. They were everywhere. It soon became obvious that they were the main form of transport round the island but they were noisy and we found ourselves constantly having to dodge them along the roads and tracks. We soon felt we needed to escape to find some real peace and let go of our hard-fought-for buoy to head for another island and another free buoy (this time unhampered). At Islet de Cabrit we found the peace we had sought and took walks up the shady forest path to the ruined Fort Josephine which crowned the island – enjoying the cooling breezes and the atmospheric rampart remains and of course the far-fetching azure views at the top.
After several days it was back to civilisation with a capital C. Not since leaving Europe had we encountered such a large commercial port such as we found as we approached Pointe a Pitre back on mainland Guadeloupe. Huge cranes and high-rise apartment blocks lined the mouth of the River Salee…the like of which would have made Rotterdam proud. We found our way to the marina and got a berth in the cheaper stern-to pontoons cheek by jowl amongst the international clientele but of course there was something of a garlic aroma to the whole thing. Wooed by the opportunity to visit the large French supermarkets nearby we pledged to stay 3 days in order to resupply. Alas the supermarket nearest the marina was stocked mainly with frozen protein and little else. Even when we tried to exchange our camping gas cylinders there we were inexplicably Guadelouped once more. The pile of gas cylinders on display were suspiciously in bright blue mint condition. They admittedly bore little resemblance to the rusty (having resided in the anchor well for some time) empty pair we were trying to exchange. Nonetheless we were astounded when the shop assistant refused to take them. Camping Gas works by a simple exchange system where the old empty cylinders are exchanged for full ones and when they are filled at the depot they are presumably re-sprayed to look more presentable. The supermarket is but an agent in this transfer and never before have we been refused. Needless to say, Skipper was incensed encore un fois! All this considered we took it upon ourselves to hike the next day to the nearest hypermarket which was a sweltering 45 minute walk through outer Point a Pitre city rather than spend another cent locally. Now, on our travels throughout the Caribbean islands to date we have not always enjoyed the pretty sites afforded to the prosperous few living here, but nonetheless it was with some shock that we encountered the squalid living conditions endured by the residents of outer Point a Pitre. Never would we have expected to see such conditions in an otherwise affluent French department. Walking back with our laden bags and rucksacks through this poverty-stricken area we even felt a little unsafe for the first time and were mightily relieved to be back in the marina. Juxtaposed on these slums, as if we needed another reminder that we were indeed in France, was a big gleaming new building with a hoarding boasting proudly that it was the new university provided free and gratis by the motherland. Frustrated dark-skinned students were cramming the pavements and on closer inspection as we walked past we could see what was causing the mayhem: the (clearly ex-pat) university lecturers were barricading the main doors proclaiming with their banners that they were on strike! What a wonderful example to these eager young Caribbean students!
Time definitely to move on again….this time fully laden with yummy French provisions (but no Camping gas) we headed down the coast of Guadeloupe to what was reportedly one of the most beautiful islands in the Caribbean….some claim when beauty abounds! Stopping briefly at the little resort of St. Francois we sailed through the Guadeloupe squalls to the Isles de Petite Terre just off Guadeloupe’s eastern coast. Now, as everyone knows, brazen beauty always comes at a price and these islands were no exception. The approach was always going to be difficult as the islands are very nearly completely surrounded by a coral reef, with only an unmarked, constantly-changing-as-the-coral-grows entrance which is only accessible in moderate winds and swell. That particular day it was marginal but Skipper in his wisdom was keen to give it a go and so we crept in following the exact co-ordinates in the pilot book and held our breaths….Gilly-mate calling out the ever-descending depth readings as we motored through the big Atlantic rollers. We made it! Only one other sailing boat was parked in the gap between the islands where some mooring buoys greeted us. We were mightily grateful to tie up to the buoy and survey the landscape we had battled through wind and wave to attain. Beautiful it was indeed, with palm trees and long pale beaches all overseen by a huge very French lighthouse…reminiscent of many family holidays on the French coast. Of the 2 uninhabited (by humans) islands only one is accessible as the other is a bird (of the feathered kind) sanctuary. Tourist catamarans come from the mainland each day, the difficult entrance posing no problems to them by virtue of their short keels and their local knowledge much to the roller-coasting delight of their squealing passengers. Once deposited the beach-lovers walk, snorkel and sunbathe and the next morning we dinghyed over and joined them. Being designated a National Park there were marked trails to walk and explore the parts of the island not being excavated by archaeologists keen to trace the early settlements. One of the claims to fame of the islands was the rare iguanas living there. Having nearly completed our circuit of the island trail we commented that we had not seen any of these illusive creatures, when suddenly right in front of us this metre (yard)-long chap trotted across the path, giving us sideward glances and stopping photogenically under a prickly bush. Skipper laid down on the sandy path trying to position himself for a good photo of big iguana who tapped his tail impatiently as the camera clicked and then took himself into the undergrowth. Several more, including a very green ungainly specimen – who seemed to be walking on his front elbows – made themselves known to us. What a treat for us….we really felt we were in foreign climes now.
Much as we loved our time on one of the Isles de Petite Terre we had to move on……but leaving was presenting its own problems with the entrance often completely engulfed by the rolling Atlantic swells. Thankfully on the appointed day we rose early and looked out at a calm entrance and a clear exit. Using the same co-ordinates as those for entering we were this time safe in the knowledge we would not hit any coral and thus we set sail for another of Guadeloupe’s islands, Marie Galante.
On Marie Galante we had intended just to visit the capital, Grand Bourg, to clear out of Guadeloupe but decided on a whim to stop at a little town called St. Louis as we passed the bay and saw other boats anchored there. Unlike neighbouring islands Marie Galante is given over to cultivated fields of fruit, vegetables and cereal crops and the old plantation windmills have often been restored to produce wind power. Sailing past its shores the landscape could have been mistaken for any European rural coastline. St Louis proved to be a little treasure with a grid of streets making up the little flourishing town and a rash of beach bars along the sands. Almost bereft of tourists this was much more authentic French Antilles with a flourishing fishing community and smiling welcoming residents. However, there was no avoiding the clearing out formalities of course so the next day we headed onward to Grand Bourg where we anchored in a crowded harbour and Gilly-mate needed to stay aboard in case of dragging anchor or the appearance of a ferry whilst Skipper did a dinghy dash to customs and immigration.……hoping for no more guadelouping on his final Guadeloupe mission.