As those who know us will understand, since living in France we have had a passionate love/hate relationship with France and especially the French themselves. Thus, even at the best of times, we had mixed feelings about spending a fortnight there – but even stronger reservations about a precious fortnight with Chris and Tanvi on board. They met up with us in St. Lucia – very much familiar territory to us and utterly Caribbean in nature and culture. Despite a long period of dodgy strong winds looming we left Marigot Bay with high hopes of what Martinique, 30 nautical miles or so north, had to offer us. And yes, Martinique is indeed France (and consequently, part of the European Union) in every respect. A French Overseas Department – 7000 kms from Paris. Subsidies from the Maman-land (and yes, the EU too) ensure the standard of living is noticeably higher than the other surrounding independent islands. The mix of peoples is also noticeable in the crowded streets and towns: indigenous ‘Bekes,’ dark-skinned African descendants from the sad days of slavery on the numerous plantations; some Indian and Lebanese faces too, not to mention the thousands of civil servants and private individuals who hail from metropolitan France (all of whom seem to own a yacht!).
After a blowy and rather lumpy sail from Marigot we arrived at the southern tip of Martinique – a huge sheltered bay called Cul-de-Sac du Marin. Instead of heading straight for the mega marina at Marin itself at the very tip of the cul-de-sac, we opted for the more low key but very popular anchorage off the town of Ste. Anne. As far as the dreaded checking in process is concerned, the French have got it sorted as there are handy computerised check-in stations in bars and chandleries in all major marinas and anchorages. A minor drawback for some is that both the computer keyboards and the questions to be answered are both French but having been presented with both hurdles before we knew what to expect when we arrived at unlikely sounding Café Boubou to do the business. Afterwards we strolled through the streets of Ste. Anne which superficially could have been anywhere on the coast of mainland France……but wait a minute….no….something is very different! The shopkeepers and café staff smiled genially and were helpful and gracious to us their customers. Our faltering attempts to speak French were met with patient smiles and a switch to their broken English to aid mutual comprehension. Most significant of all, when we hesitated on the roadside cars would stop to let us cross! No, this was not France at all – or rather these were not the normal characteristics of the French at all….some Caribbean niceties had obviously crept in and eroded the hard edges of the national traits. Bravo!
Chris enjoying the sail
Tanvi on the wheel!
With our eye on the very changeable weather, we took our chance to head north along the whole length of the island to another anchorage off the town of St. Pierre. The 30 mile sail was a glorious broad reach which Resolute, in her element on this point of sail, covered effortlessly in less than 5 hours. To add to the splendour of the day we spotted a whale – initially quite close ahead and then on our port bow – arching, weaving and tossing its tail with gay abandon whilst we stared in awe and grappled with the camera to get a decent shot (and failed miserably – managing just a glimpse of his vast, black back). We wanted to shout at him to keep well clear of Bequia where limited whaling is still permitted (see our previous blog).
A little bit of whale!
Theatre ruins, St. Pierre, Martinique.
St Pierre is no ordinary town. It lies at the foot of the Mount Pelee volcano. The story goes that it was here in 1658 that the French wiped out the last of the Carib inhabitants who, before they died, uttered loud curses, invoking the might of the volcano to take its revenge. Many moons later, in May 1902 it did just that. St Pierre was, by then known as the Paris of the Caribbean, resplendent with fine buildings including a beautiful theatre. The rich plantation owners and businessmen of the island flocked to the stylish capital city of Martinique where in the large basin offshore ships plied their trade with the prosperous island. There had been several small eruptions of the volcano killing workers on the fertile slopes but no heed was taken and few left the city. Then, on the morning of 8th May, the mountainside burst open, forcing a huge ball of fire and gases directly down into St. Pierre. 29,933 people perished. Famously, one of the only survivors in the centre of town was a prisoner, Cyparis, encased in a thickly walled cell. St. Pierre today still bears the scars of that fateful day. Ruined walls are everywhere – often having provided foundations for new buildings and structures. A museum graphically depicts the tragedy in haunting grainy photographs and mangled, melted debris of normal turn of the century living. The huge iron cathedral bell completely flattened and torn forms the vivid centrepiece in the room. Outside the biggest edifice to the event is the ruin of the vast theatre. Grand steps still lead up to the empty façade and ruined auditorium.
The grand theatre steps…St Pierre, Martinique.
With such an inglorious story to tell, St Pierre is now a mecca for tourists in their coach-loads. The narrow streets are bustling with sellers of souvenir wares and refreshments. The ubiquitous Disney-esque tourist train plies the cobbled streets. Solace can be found in the cool of the simple twin towered Cathedral where an informative exhibition about the religious life and times of St. Pierre adorns the walls.
The Cathedral, St. Pierre, Martinique.
Enough. After a day alongside all the other tourists in the town we decided to move somewhere less associated with tragedy and more associated with peace. We headed south again into the Bay which houses the new capital of Martinique, Fort de France. Deciding against the capital itself we sailed on past the huge fortress battlements and urban sprawl of the city (which we had visited briefly last year – our only prior hasty port of call in Martinique). At the top of the basin, past the airport and metropolis is the small island-littered headland of Trois Ilets. Creeping past the islands we anchored as close as we dared to the ferry jetty and little town, treating ourselves to a wonderful meal ashore where we were reminded once more that we were indeed in the culinary heartland that is France – albeit with a Creole, rum-laced twist.
With the weather on the slump with strong winds forecast we left Resolute in the sheltered anchorage, hired a car and set forth to Martinique’s rich interior. Tanvi had meticulously researched and put together a day tour of the island’s highlights – at least those which we could not access by boat. We started with the Clement plantation and distillery. Following the successful model employed on the French mainland in Cognac country and elsewhere, the many rum distilleries in Martinique vie for tourists with seductive tours and tastings. Clement, we decided, went one step further than most as it also had a beautifully planted garden in which to stroll, the old plantation house to visit as well as the original distillery with fine rum tasting and sales…a winning combination if ever there was one. Only the French could deliver such an impressive plantation tour with hardly a mention of slavery.
The Clement Rum Distillery, Martinique.
The family home, Clement Plantation, Martinique.
Onwards then to Chateau Dubuc on the Caravelle peninsula. Another sugar and coffee plantation on a huge scale but much older than most. It was eventually abandoned by the owners during the French Revolution when the slaves got the idea that rebellion against the ruling classes might win them their freedom. These stone ruins with stunning sea views conjure up a much earlier picture of ex-pat life…hard and turbulent for slave and master alike juxtaposed against a glorious landscape.
One could not tour Martinique’s interior without attempting the steep winding road up Mount Pelee almost to the mouth of the volcano itself. Tanvi’s tour included this drive but as soon as we got through the foot hills we suspected the low cloud would render any view from the top invisible. This was proved to be correct. Thus for the first time since coming to the West Indies we were found wishing we had packed our cardigans and cagoules. Without the correct apparel we succumbed to a hot chocolate in the cloud-shrouded café at the top. A tad disappointed, we made our descent, quickly re-establishing ourselves in the warmth, blue skies and rain forests on the volcano slopes, reminiscent of the Caribbean once more. With a quick stop in the village of Morne Rouge which was most terribly affected by the volcano being in such close proximity to the summit, we headed down, down down, on the windiest road ever, through endless verdant forest which in places threatened to overspill on to the road. Suddenly ahead of us in the late afternoon light was the huge sprawl of Fort de France with its ring road clogged with cars honking their horns in frustration – not in greeting as on so many of the other islands – yes, then, we were in France. A quick stop in Carrefour supermarche left us speechless with delight at all the French delicacies on offer With our boot laden with shopping we then headed wearily back to Resolute faithfully waiting for us at anchor in Trois Ilets. Phew!
View from the top of the Mt. Pelee volcano!
The next day, once the car had been returned and the shopping stowed we decided to move just a little way to a small marina in the next bay which Colin and Tanvi had discovered when they returned the car. Our pilot book had told us it existed but stated it was mainly for local boats so we held out little hope of finding a berth there. However whilst returning the car, Colin enquired in the marina office and oui they had one berth we could use. We sailed the few miles to Pointe du Bout marina with the strong winds whipping at our heels and filling our headsail. The manoeuvre to berth Resolute in the tiny marina was not easy given the wind but eventually we managed to get in our place …having first, with the harbour-master’s help, to see off a pesky catamaran who had sneaked in before us. The little town of Anse Mitan flourishes with tourists and trippers coming over from industrial Fort de France to find some prettiness and relative tranquillity. As with many a marina, we found ourselves being part of the attraction, as people strolled along the boardwalk just inches from our stern stopping to study our flag or have their photo taken with Resolute as their backdrop. We took our notoriety in our stride, making the best of being near some very chic boutiques alongside a good beach.
All too soon it was time to make watery tracks back to Le Marin at the southern tip of the island but the weather forecast was predicting strong winds and swell as a trough ploughed its way uncharacteristically through the southern islands. In the flatter waters in the shelter of the island we beat our way to windward to get nearer to Ste. Ann and the Marin Bay from whence we came deciding to stop at the crowded bay off the little village of Grande Anse D’Arlet en route. It was a stunning bay surrounded by tall lushly green peaks and boasting a long stretch of beach. After an evening stroll along the beach a little restaurant with tables right near the water’s edge took our fancy and we dined splendidly (the lobster could not be resisted!) with a view out at the twinkling anchor lights in the harbour.
Then onward south again….more beating, this time to somewhere more familiar to us, full circle back to Ste Anne once more where Colin hurried ashore with our papers before the café shut to clear us out on their computer. There was nothing left to do but hope that the wind and swell would be kind to us the following day for our return sail across the exposed Atlantic gap back to St. Lucia. Chris and Tanvi’s homeward flight would wait for no one! The Ocean did not disappoint in giving us a taste of the true Atlantic again, including several sharp squalls which made the 10 foot waves seem even more tempestuous as the spray blew horizontally from their frothy tops. Chris and Tanvi were totally and fearlessly entranced by the conditions, taking turns to steer and tackle the big seas with obvious relish. For more timid Gilly-mate the rounding of Pigeon Island into the shelter of Rodney Bay once more could not have come soon enough….but we had achieved our aim with our beloved guests: some challenging sailing to an extraordinaire, if French, island.
Happy Days with Chris and Tanvi.
resolute-en-voyage 