No Time To Linger.

There she blows – whale sighting on starboard bow!

The view from Shirley Heights, Antigua.

The Alexander Hamilton, English Harbour, Antigua.

Picnic-ing with cousin Ray and wife Marilyn, Antigua.

A bit of whale passing by…pretty close.

The whale’s tail waving adieu.

Having gathered ourselves again in St. Lucia, after Chris and Tanvi had departed, we realised we had little time to waste as Hotel Ship Resolute needed to get to Kitts and Nevis to make her next rendezvous with guests – our friend Carol and her daughter (Gill’s God-daughter), Izzy.  Kitts and Nevis, in the Leeward Isles, are about 220 nautical miles north of St. Lucia – not an insignificant distance as we wanted to day sail.  There was no alternative but to set off back to Martinique – the rather challenging sail in the other direction to Rodney Bay was in no way mirrored by our crossing this time with the wind nicely just behind the beam and the seas moderated to about a 7 foot swell.  We thus arrived in Anse Matin (in the huge bay opposite the capital Fort de France) and stayed there a few days to absorb the French flavour of things again.  A further few days anchored across the bay in Fort de France meant we could go to Carrefour and reacquaint ourselves with all the French goodies we had by now come to expect to see lurking enticingly in our larder locker.

In the Fort de France anchorage we were delighted to see some South African friends we had first met in Trinidad aboard their catamaran .  They had then just sailed north from Brazil.  Henceforth we met up with them periodically as we both headed north.  It was so good to have some time with them again and compare notes.  It was mutually agreed that a very different and interesting perspective on things is to be had by exchanging observations of our cruising grounds between those who have lived on totally different continents but share the same language and wanderlust.  We soaked it all up (yes, liquid beverages were involved!) during our evenings together and remain anxious to have some more time together – our separate paths permitting.

Onward.  Dominica was calling us back and we were happy to respond – but not before we glimpsed another whale whilst we were en route.  Clearer views this time of this huge but graceful creature as it  blew and wended its way past us (a little too close for comfort).  By nightfall after another good sail north, we were greeted by Dwain who asked us if we would like to use one of his cousins, (called Sea Cat) buoys’ off Roseau.  We gratefully accepted and with his help were soon tied up forward and aft.  Like seasoned Caribbean travellers we are now accustomed to recognising the individual feel of the different islands we had first visited last year.  Dominica has a very unassuming feel – genuinely welcoming but not gauche or brash.  We were once again surrounded by the lush, towering hill sides of the rain forest sheltering the city of Roseau which still boasted the best local fruit and vegetable market we had seen for many an island.  Incredible produce sold by smiling un-pushy vendors at cheap prices.  We had to restrain ourselves from buying far too much.  Nonetheless, we came back to the boat laden with mangoes, pineapple, oranges, tomatoes (of course), little cucumbers…..I could go on.  It would be impossible, one feels, to have a walk around the old town of Roseau and return miserable as everyone greets you and seems to genuinely want to help you find whatever it is you are seeking there.

Colourful Roseau market, Dominica.

Having visited these islands before I will not labour any descriptions in this blog.  We were merely passing through en route north on this occasion, trying where we could to moor the boat at a slightly different bay or visit places we missed last time to give a different slant to our first impressions.  This we were able to do when we arrived back in the French islands of Les Saintes off Guadeloupe.  In fact we had little choice as the mooring buoys off the principal island of Terre de Haut were all taken.  Thus we were forced to look elsewhere so just as the sun set we arrived a crowded anchorage off Terre de Bas at Grande Anse.  With the help from a kind chap who had just returned from diving, we were guided to a spot quite close to the Hotel Bois Joli.  True to its name it nestled on wooded slopes which stretched down almost to the beach.  Here we were away from the frenetic ferries bringing hordes of people to the main island.  When at last, after several quieter days, we did venture round to the hub-bub of Bourg des Saintes Colin had the unfortunate experience of an attempt to pick his pocket amongst the throngs of tourists.  Thus, with a bad taste in our mouths, we bid farewell once more to our daily croissant and departed hurriedly for friendlier, less manic shores.

After another very long day sail the sun was setting as we closed the coast of Antigua.  We were very surprised when our name was called on the VHF radio….who could that be?  Some of our friends from the Ocean Cruising Club had remembered we were heading for Jolly Harbour that particular day (we had broadcast our intentions on the morning OCC SSB net) and were radioing to see if we were nearly there yet!  More than that, they had identified that there was a free mooring buoy close to them in the entrance to Jolly Harbour which, when we arrived about an hour later, they helped us tie up to.  Kindness itself – and so welcome after 18 hours or so on the go.

On further investigation during the ensuing days in Jolly Harbour, we discovered to our delight that we were part of quite an OCC ‘squadron’ there. What to do when so many fellow OCC-ers turn up? Soiree of course… with new and old friends – and thus we formed some very special bonds as the days went by, making our eventual departure an emotional one.   Jolly Harbour had indeed lived up to its name.  We headed back along the south coast of Antigua to Falmouth Bay.  Another rendezvous had been arranged here with my cousin Ray and his wife Marilyn who have a business between Falmouth and English Harbour.  We had much to catch up with – it having been a year since we last found them there.  We made the best of the short time available to us with them sharing supper with us aboard Resolute; with them showing us some hidden treasures of Antigua including a wonderfully remote picnic spot and the stupendous views from Shirley Heights. They pointed out the mansion belonging to Eric Clapton on the tip of the bay.

St. Kitt’s ahoy!

Eric Clapton’s sprawling Antiguan villa.

We did not feel we properly knew Ray until we met his beautiful boat.  Traditionally built in Nevis (one of our next ports of call) the Alexander Hamilton was completely unique.  Evidently having no truck with new-fangled contraptions like winches she (he?) had the traditional rig including natural ropes, wooden blocks etc……not a labour-saving device to be seen!  When we had met up with Ray and Marilyn last year their beloved boat had been for sale but, though Ray had ‘interviewed ‘several candidates for future ownership none had been considered worthy to take over the guardianship of this exceptional vessel.  Thus, fortunate Alexander Hamilton still languishes in the attentive care Ray willingly bestows.  (There will be more about Alexander Hamilton the man in my next blog about Nevis).

Looking tantalisingly close but actually a good fifty miles away from Antigua lay St. Kitts and its close neighbour, Nevis.  You may remember last year we had to bypass these two islands in our rush to head to the Virgin Islands.  But it is not strictly true to say we have never visited them:  back in November 1998 when we first came to the Caribbean on a Sunsail charter boat we came ashore here.  We have never quite forgotten the shock of that first encounter back then.  Hurricane George had just passed through.  In its wake there had been much devastation with the inhabitants trying to piece together their lives and livelihoods from the rubble.  The marina at Port Zante in Basseterre the capital of Kitts had been decimated with the concrete quays designed to take the full length of cruise ships just blown away leaving just the jagged teeth of their supports.   The dazed populace were selling T-shirts with the slogan ‘I survived Hurricane George’ printed across them.  A memorable visit for us in many ways and one which has remained in our consciousness as a testament to the power of the dreaded hurricane.  So now, 17 years later here we were returning on our own boat.  Those years ago we would never have thought it possible that we would even own our own boat let alone that we would have sailed the Atlantic to revisit these islands.

Martinique A Quatre

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 8^th 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.

Joining the dots in the SVG

Bequia was another of the islands to which we failed to do justice last year.  When we passed it en route to Grenada with Chris and Tanvi aboard urgently bound for their return flight from Grenada, there had been some sort of festival in progress in Bequia.  Approaching the island, we had been warned by other yachts we had encountered, that Admiralty Bay was full to bursting with yachts.  We had therefore decided to give it a miss – choosing instead the smaller bay on the other side of the island for only a desultory lunch stop.

It was time to remedy our negligence.  One bright, blowy January morning we sailed out of Charlestown Bay, Canouan and headed north-east straight into the brisk trade winds for an exhilarating but frustrating reefed sail to Bequia.  After about 20 miles we could clearly see the vast Admiralty Bay on our starboard side, littered with a forest of masts.  Getting into it under sail meant several tacks backwards and forwards into the increasing wind until at last defiant skipper allowed the engine to go on and the sails to be taken down so that our last mile or so could be undertaken in a straight line!  We were met by a smiling chap in a wooden launch who introduced himself as Dennis.  He asked us if we would like to take one of his mooring buoys and we agreed.  We followed his lead weaving through the other moored and anchored boats until we found ourselves attached to a Dennis buoy very close to the town of Port Elizabeth.  Now, we needed to be as close as possible to the town docks because just before leaving Canouan we had had a little mishap with our dinghy.  Seeking more shelter we had moved from one anchorage to another within Charlestown Bay.  As it was not far at all, we had towed the dinghy with outboard attached.  We often tow the dinghy, but not usually with the outboard, oars, bailer etc in situ, but as we were going such a short distance in fairly sheltered waters we did not consider it at all risky.  Whilst we were in transit, the wind funnelled through gaps in the surrounding mountains in the bay and as it did so it turned the dinghy over, dowsing the outboard.  We did not notice immediately so by the time we had, the oars had also gone A.W.O.L.  Once we were re-anchored in a more sheltered area of the bay Skipper tenderly dried all parts of the outboard and it seemed none the worse for its submerging…but still we had our doubts about its reliability.  Consequently, we were very thankful to dear Dennis for finding us a mooring right at the front of the packed bay, very close to one of the dinghy docks.  Of course if ones outboard engine fails the reserve method of propulsion is by rowing….but we had lost the oars!  Thus it was with some trepidation that we took to the dinghy to go ashore once we had settled ourselves on Dennis’ buoy (and Colin had dived down to check its integrity).  Thankfully though, trusty outboard, despite being half drowned got us ashore and we set out tout suite to find some replacement oars.

So here we were in bustling Port Elizabeth.  Admiralty Bay is enormous and is edged by beach, rocky cliffs and plush resorts which all give way in the deep cul-de-sac to a very diverse selection of waterfront restaurants, shops and colourful shaded stalls.  Much of the life of Port Elizabeth is given over to the provision of the yachties.  This has not always been the case.  It did not take us long to notice that alongside every reference to Bequia was a little picture of a whale.  On further investigation at the local museum we found out that Bequia’s relationship with whales is not altogether a friendly one despite the cute caricatures:  Bequians are proud to explain that they still have an International Whaling Commission license to practice the hunting and killing of up to four humpback whales annually from February to April.  It is then that the whales leave their northern feeding grounds to find a mate further south – passing close to the island’s shores.  From 1^st February there is a constant lookout in the highlands ready to give the shout if a whale is seen.  Apparently the traditional methods are still used to pursue the whales – small, frail-looking, open wooden skiffs –hand made on the island since time immemorial – are launched in an attempt to harpoon the massive whale and bring it to a nearby Cay to be butchered.  The livelihood of many on the island has always depended on the catching of the whales for food and from all the by-products of the catch.  It is no surprise then that the island was originally peopled by those who had experience of boat-building, large scale fishing and in particular whaling.  Today’s Bequians are a diverse bunch whose ancestors hailed from Africa (due of course to slavery associated with the cultivation of coffee, indigo and arrowroot), Scotland, North America and an influx of Barbadians in the 1860’s.  With the growth in the tourist industry, especially associated with sailing and diving there have been added many Europeans into the mix.  Thus, walking round Port Elizabeth that first day when we arrived we were struck by the many dialects spoken and many different shades of skin colour all intermingled and keen to show off their lovely island and sell their wares.  Skilled woodworking was obvious too in the sort of roadside tourist mall with various wares on sale:  miniature boats carved in exquisite detail and other wooden souvenirs were in abundance.

Whaling in Bequia plaque.

view from Bequia

I suppose with so many yachts in Admiralty Bay it was no surprise that there were other Ocean Cruising Club members there too.  One morning on the radio net we heard that there were two other couples on their boats in the bay.  We had already lingered there longer than intended – no hardship in such a lovely spot – for a rendez-vous with some of our friends from our Guyana rally days, John and Deb on Orion 1……infamous for John’s homemade ginger beer which are transformed by way of copious amounts of rum into toxic ‘dark and stormies’.  Many a jolly evening had ensued and finding other O.C.C. members in the bay was a fine excuse for a big boozy lunch for eight!  There was no shortage of bayside restaurants, cafes and bars to choose from.  It is always pleasurable and reassuring to chat to other couples doing the same live-aboard thing – exchanging tips and notes about places, supplies, maintenance and war stories too of course.

One Thursday morning when Colin was controlling the O.C.C. radio net a voice he recognised from way-back-when in his Military career emerged from the ether.  As a consequence a plan was hatched to meet up with them.  This involved us going 30 miles back south to Union Island and them coming about the same distance north to meet and what a grand reunion it was…but it had to be brief as we needed to continue back on our northerly track in order to get to St. Lucia in a timely fashion for the arrival of Chris and Tanvi on 20^th February.

On our northerly trajectory through the Grenadines  (Saint Vincent and the Grenadines or SVG)

The 27 foot whaling skiff, Bequia.

there was one other island we wanted to visit – another casualty of our rushed tour last year – Mustique.  To every British ear the mention of Mustique conjures up pictures of celebrity and royal holidays and trysts.  It was particularly cast in this light by the late Princess Margaret who had her own villa retreat there which she frequented as often as possible.  ‘Goings-on’…in tabloid speak…happened in Mustique but frustratingly for the press, Mustique was and is a privately owned island and therefore often impenetrable to public and media scrutiny.  The entrepreneur Colin Tennant bought the tiny 3-mile long island in the 1960’s and the private solitude it offered attracted the rich and famous to its shores soon earning it the nickname ‘Billionaire’s Island’.  Today the Mustique Company, representing all of the proprietors, runs the island’s administration.  For us yachties the only place to tie up is on one of the Company’s mooring buoys in Britannia Bay.  As you may expect, in this exclusive spot, these do not come cheaply but there is a clever pricing policy of $200 (Eastern Caribbean dollars, so about £50) for a maximum of 3 nights.  This is very expensive for one night but fairly reasonable for three.  Thus many of the charter boats who are rushing to see as many islands as possible in a small time frame would only be likely to be able to stay for one night.  Now it would be unfair and rather hypocritical of us to decry charter boats and crews which are in abundance in the Grenadines, indeed before we had our own boat we chartered in the Caribbean and the Mediterranean, but they do have a reputation for careless sailing (it not being their boat) and exuberant behaviour.  Mustique’s mooring policy then gave us some relief from the myriad of charterers and made us too part of the exclusive, escapist set.  We arrived in Mustique straight from Union Island (about 25 miles) enjoying a slap-up breakfast courtesy of our long-lost friends on Laros before we set out.  Consequently the sun was beginning to set as we looked for a buoy in Britannia Bay.  Our way seemed blocked by a massive superyacht which we had no choice but to pass quite closely.  Gilly, on the foredeck ready to pick up the mooring buoy, was distracted by the sight of this huge vessel. Imagine her excitement then when she noticed on the bow the emblem of the Prince of Wales on the burgee flag on the bow!  She did a double take and clearly saw Prince Charles’ 3-feathered fleur de lys emblem as well as the undefaced blue British ensign. We were amongst Royalty!  Tying up to a mooring buoy nearest the huge yacht (called La Masquerade) out came the camera and binoculars for closer inspection but disappointingly there were mere shadows of figures passing through companion ways and on the sun-screened decks.  We learned that the previous week Prince William and Kate and baby George had been there.  Despite this notoriety we were free to go as we pleased on the exquisite little island.  On our full three day visit (oh yes, we were going to get our money’s worth from the expensive mooring buoy!) we walked along the beach to the salt lake looking for the abundant birds and wildlife along the trail and on the lake.  Colin tip-toed across a reef to a little beachy outcrop offshore.  Thanks to some advice from friends we discovered the delights of a local restaurant tucked out of the way up a steep path overlooking the bay.  It’s humble name – ‘The View’ does nothing to prepare one for the VIEW!  Simply, unspeakably, stunning.  The food too was simply delicious and reasonably priced.

Resolute’s proximity to ‘Royal Yacht’!

Royal burgee on bow of La Masquerade.

La Masquerade, Mustique

On our last day we took a hot walk to the little airport to check out of the Grenadines.  Out of the little town, up the hill, past the little police station (with a chair on the stoop), past the primary school and alongside the runway until we reached the bamboo and thatched buildings housing the airport administration including customs and immigration.  I can hear you sigh, dear reader, as you brace yourself for yet another tale of woe about the minor bug-bear to all cruisers of the checking in and out procedure.  But sigh-you-not!  “Yes Sir, how can we help you?…..oh, you would like to check out….no problem please fill out the form at the desk there…” (directed to large, beautiful mahogany desk to complete single form).  Cursory look at passports, stamping of forms and passports directed to Immigration office where the chap was equally polite, affable even and task completed!  A pleasure not usually associated with the checking in and checking out procedure as you know.

Mustique airport.

View from ‘The View’ restaurant, Mustique.

Colin conquering the windy reef, Mustique

Glorious beach, Mustique

On our way back down the steep hill into the small town we caught a heavy shower.  We had taken a short-cut through a park and as we sheltered under a tree we watched some rocks move in front of us!  On closer inspection the tan-coloured rocks were in fact hundreds of tortoises all venturing out of their hideaways in the park perimeter to enjoy the rain with their heads out and their necks stretched up in adoration of the moisture falling from heaven.  Quite a sight indeed, especially to a person like Gilly who has had the same pet tortoise since aged eight which now abides with her parents in quiet retirement.

Wild tortoises galore in the park, Mustique.

Even though Mustique is the sort of place one could while away a month or two quite easily (if one could afford to of course) we needed to be on our way to St Lucia which, even though the largest of the Grenadine Islands, St. Vincent, was in the way, we decided to do in one hop whilst the weather was settled.  After a swim on the beach and one last sundowner in Basil’s Bar (the famous bar supposedly frequented by the rich and famous but which actually seemed decidedly ordinary as beach bars go.) we prepared Resolute for an early morning departure for the fairly long (80 mile) sail to Rodney Bay.  At sunrise we slipped our buoy and promised Mustique a return visit with Gilly still straining to see beyond the portholes of ‘La Masquerade’ as we passed.

Back to the Blue

The chill of early January in U.K was in complete contrast to the warmth of welcome Gilly met everywhere she went.  Celebrations for sister Liz’s 60^th birthday seemed to stretch over 4 days of lunching, wining and dining with all key family member’s present – except Colin of course.  Needless to say it was such a treat to see everyone and catch up with friends and family face to face and especially wonderful to see what wonderful little people our two adorable grandsons are turning into.  But then, inevitably, it had to be faced…..sad goodbyes were said and leaves tearfully taken so that before Gilly could fully comprehend it, she was in the air alongside many very excited holiday-makers heading to Tobago.  Somewhat incongruously, amongst all the travel reps and seething hot airport bustle Beloved Skipper was there to meet his Mate.  Wheeling the over-stuffed suitcase (containing everything from water pumps to insect-killer) through the dusty hot streets towards the beach and our anchorage we chatted about a world so far away where momentous birthdays had happened and cold Januarys still held sway.

Thankfully the huge swell at Crown Bay had subsided in the fortnight away, so Gilly-mate and suitcase were able to take to the dinghy together to get back to Resolute.  Home.  Skipper had been busy spring cleaning, tidying and varnishing the wood-work so Resolute’s interior was gleaming; laundry had also been done, several novels read and foreign neighbours entertained.

After a few days catching up and re-provisioning we refocused on our next move north.  We decided we would not retrace our recent steps (can a yacht step?) but instead start again where we left off – or very nearly.  Union Island was therefore decided upon.  Having gone back to Scarborough one more time to clear out, off we set one January afternoon for the 90 mile-ish trip.  We had a god sail with the steady easterly wind roughly on the beam the whole time which meant we were having to slow ourselves down an little to stop the land arriving before the dawn.  With a little tweaking we managed to arrive in Clifton Bay in the capital of Union Island just as the sun was coming up.  The most difficult part of the journey was finding somewhere to sling our hook in Clifton as it was jam packed full of all sorts of boats.  Eventually we took the plunge and felt our rear end was blocking the main channel in, spending the next hour or so in expectation of someone telling us we had to move.  But in true Caribbean fashion all the local boats that passed us just smiled and waved in welcome all of which gave us the peace of mind to catch a few hours’ sleep before going ashore to do the formalities and explore.

You may remember, we have mentioned Clifton before.  We had visited very briefly last year with son Chris and daughter-in-law Tanvi but our time constraints with them meant we could only give Clifton the benefit of a brief lunch stop.  If she was offended by this she certainly did not show it as we found our way ashore again.  No beach landings required here – oh no, a very civilised designated dinghy dock was provided only a short walk from the central green which housed little individual, brightly painted market stalls.  The fruit and vegetables which were laid out there for our delectation were wonderful indeed.  Just the colourful sight of smells of it all encouraged us to buy far too much from the smiley stall holders all vying for our business.  And talking of delicious aromas I can’t forget the bakeries selling everything from sophisticated baguettes to the local banana bread all baked fresh daily.  Yum.  There we were, taking our bulging rucksack full back to the boat and feeling we were replete when who should come along but a chap who introduced himself as John.  There was no question about what John wanted us to buy from him as he was waving in his hand a very angry, flailing lobster.  Unable to resist, we took the poor beasty and within the hour it was supper alongside all the fresh salad stuffs we had bought from the market and some posh baguette.

Union island is part of the St. Vincent and the Grenadines island group.  At only about 4 miles wide its landmass is enhanced considerably by the massive reefs which nearly encircle it giving shelter in the many bays from the Atlantic swell at least – if not from the trade winds which whip across the anchorages with gusto.  Clifton is hectically busy with small ferries and supply boats, fishermen and tour boats and of course us yachties too.  Baywatch has a new meaning here as one can pass hours away sitting in the cockpit watching all the frenetic comings and goings.  Interestingly the population here is very mixed:  primarily descendants no doubt of the poor African slaves who worked the plantations, but also descendants of the many Scottish land-owners and fishermen who settled there.  We also learned that latterly many French people have also bought land and settled there ….hence the baguettes.  So, as its name suggests, the island is a true melange of peoples and cultures living and working together literally in union.

Having sufficed of the adequate sufficiency and the hustle and bustle of Clifton we set sail clockwise round the island exploring Ashton Bay for a lunch stop which proved just too rolly to make it an overnighter.  Here were the remnants of an exciting project which had floundered…the remains of a would-be marina which was begun but sadly never completed….seductively waiting for someone to complete the project.  Our next bay was Chatham on the protected lee side of Union.  It is a huge, magnificent anchorage surrounded by powdery beach.  We anchored with ease in the northern corner.  Although there were many boats sharing the bay it was so vast that we all had plenty of space.  Ashore the beach was lined with thriving bars and nightly barbeque venues – from the plush, wicker-chaired (you can tell a hostelry by its chairs!) Aqua, whose Margaritas were truly divine to the rough and ready Shark Attack hut where our Carib beers were laced with pot smoke and thoroughly  mixed with colourful local tales (woe-betiding the recent French invasion which it was felt was eroding the island’s strong Commonwealth roots and their abiding loyalty to “De Qween Elizabet”).

Onward.  I think you can sense how difficult it can sometimes be to move on from these precious enclaves….but push on we must….but this time with some excitement to what is arguably the jewel in the already very sparkly Caribbean crown – the Tobago Cays.  Superlatives defeat me here..and no doubt I waxed lyrical last time we passed through…..but the inadequate words, breath-taking and spectacular come first to mind when arriving amongst this tiny cluster of small, uninhabited (except by palm trees) islands and their adjoining sheltering reefs.  One can sit on board in the shelter of the horseshoe reef with the whole of the Atlantic is in front of you:  startlingly blue and incredibly alluring.  Around you are the quintessential beach fringed, palm strewn islands just asking to be swam from and snorkelled round.  To add to the blissful outlook, turtles swim by nonchalantly in the clear azure waters, seemingly oblivious to the myriads of boats and people around them….munching the sea grass contentedly and cunningly avoiding every photo opportunity as well as the area designated for them.

Breaking our spell one day John arrived alongside….yes, the very same John-the-lobster-supplier from Clifton.  He invited us to a barbeque he was arranging on the beach the following evening and invited us to come – in fact he said he would collect us in his splendid wooden boat and bring us back.  John was very sweet and very persuasive, but what clinched the deal for us was that he promised lobster would be the main course.  Thus we found ourselves sitting at a flowery plastic covered picnic table on the beach with John serving us the most delicious grilled lobster with all the trimmings. . Simple exquisite fare in a simply exquisite venue.

Days were then spent swimming, snorkelling and watching the constant stream of boats and the clever, patient boat boys co-exist.  We discovered there were large death-row pots of lobster kept in reserve and dived on each day to ensure freshness, located around the shallows of the largest island.

Canouan beckoned us on the far horizon.  Another return visit to an island populated as much by tortoises as by people.  They wander  – the tortoises – wherever they like to graze amongst the hibiscus and frangipanes looking for fresh blossoms to devour glancing up at the humans as they pass completely fearless.  Half this island is privately owned and gated with a very exclusive hill-top resort to which jet-setters fly in.  The other half near the bay where we anchored – Charlestown Bay – is quaint and fairly untouched, except for the tasteful Tamarind Beach Hotel complex which is very welcoming to yachties in the bay.  The wind hurtles down the hillside making the anchorage rather rocky but that aside it is a delightfully unspoilt and peaceful place to be after all the hype of the Cays.  We got to know the staff in the Tamarind who helped us find some wifi as well as providing us with all sorts of edible delights from their marvellous deli shop.  Conversely, the main street in Charlestown provided us with fresh fish and conch at the docks (the conch experiment though failed miserably despite the passion of the young fish monger who prepared it for us and who went to such pains to explain to us novices how to prepare it).Wonderful fruit and vegetable stalls abounded dockside too all served with a smile.  We were certainly not left wanting.

There was one island left in the St. Vincent and Grenadines which we had previously passed only lip service to and it was beckoning us from 20 miles away on the horizon in Canouan…..Bequia here we come!

Arriving in Clifton, Union Island.

Chatham Bay, Union Island.

Tobago Cays

Tobago Cays

Our lobster beach barbeque courtesy of John.

The hidden stash of lobsters, Tobago Cays.

2015 and all that

Sunrise as we arrive back in Tobago

Christmas day bucks fizz breakfast

Our little Christmas tree!

2015!

Already the Christmas and New Year celebrations are becoming a distant memory as we refocus on the New Year ahead and our further Caribbean meanderings.

After our extended stay in the delightful Tyrell Bay, Carriacou, we took one further small island step north-east to Petite Martinique.  This would give us an even better angle from which to the sail back to Tobago.  We were going to have to get used to the novel sensation of returning to places already visited and Albert Bay, Petite Martinique was no exception – in fact we picked up the same mooring buoy to which we had attached ourselves back in May.  We could be certain of this because it was one of only two belonging to a local restaurant which we had enjoyed with our eldest son and daughter-in-law on our last visit.  We were not disappointed by our second visit to the Palm Beach Restaurant which is not really a Restaurant as you would know it.  Here we sat under an awning in the pretty garden of a beach-side house looking out over the palm-fringed bay where home-made local food was delivered to us across the lawn from the main house.  Very special indeed.

We found ourselves back in Tobago for Christmas – in plenty of time for Gilly’s solo trip back to Blighty for New Year and her Sister’s 60^th birthday.   We opted for another overnight sail with the wind and swell often well forward of the beam for much of the trip ensuring a slanty (technical term!), bouncy but speedy crossing, finding ourselves in the hitherto unvisited town of Charlotteville in a deep forested bay at the northern tip of Tobago very early the next morning.  Charlotteville is a notoriously difficult anchorage as it is not at all shallow, but by exhausting our full compliment of anchor chain (60 metres) and some rope besides we eventually found purchase among the other tethered yachts in the magnificent bay.  After a few hours sleep we dinghyed ashore.  The other huge advantage to Charlotteville is that it has its own branch office for customs and immigration which, we imagined, would make clearing in a doddle.  Our guide-book instructed us to head for the local police station which we dutifully did only to be met by a rather bemused and sleepy officer.  In fairness to him, it was Sunday morning and the whole place had a very easy-like-Sunday-morning feel.  He made several local phone calls and eventually told us that tomorrow would be a better day to check in.  Having attempted to do what was required of us we had a mooch around the sleepy town and went back to Resolute to catch up on more sleep and enjoy our newly-found scenic bay.

The next morning we and Charlotteville were looking more lively.  We set off ashore again with our papers and were advised to report to the back of the medical centre buildings where apparently the Customs and Immigration offices resided.  Sure enough the Customs officer jumped to his feet and cleared us in, advising us that the Immigration officer comes all the way from the Capital, Scarborough and would not arrive for another few hours at least.  No matter, we thought – we headed down the hill, past the cricket pitch which was being carefully manicured by attentive grounds-men, to the small dockside town.  Unlike yesterday there was now much more buzz to the place and we successfully bought some fresh bread at a little bakery shack (which seemed to be a co-operative of large cheerful ‘Mammas’ who could barely pass each other in the baking confines of their tiny workplace),alongside other welcome supplies in other small shops.  Having thoroughly explored, at the appointed hour we made our way back up the hill, past the cricket pitch (still being attended to) round the back of the medical centre to the Customs office.  Still no Immigration officer, we were advised, but apparently he is on his way.  We waited.  Others came – a French sailor who was at pains to confess to us that he had lost his clearing out papers from Brazil (uh oh – Trinidad and Tobagoan officials are not known for their forgiving ways we thought to ourselves whilst mumbling to him as many French reassurances as we could muster).  After the first hour of our wait we were joined by a crew of a large American Catamaran which had sailed from South Africa via Brazil.  They certainly enlivened the conversation and were full of humorous anecdotes about their voyages which helped us kill the second hour of the wait (during which the nervous Frenchman kept leaving us to pace outside and smoke yet another Galloises.  Eventually he arrived.  We stifled our loud cheers (knowing that Trinidad and Tobagoan officials are not at all given to frivolity).  We were first into his office.  Thankfully all seemed to be in order with our paper-work but we were dismayed to hear that when we reached the other end of Tobago, Store Bay, we would have to get a taxi to the capital Scarborough to inform them we had arrived there.  He gave us a letter to pass to them.  We both looked at each other meaningfully as the same thought crossed our minds:  we had waited 2 hours for this man to come from the Scarborough office – surely then we could give him this letter back for him to take back to the Scarborough office.  No, of course not….that would be far, far too simple!  Without another utterance we left the office and advised the nervous Frenchman he could now go in and we wished him a very heartfelt “bon chance”….we felt he would definitely need it!

A celebration was in order.  We headed to a second storey balconied bar we had earmarked previously and enjoyed a thoroughly good lunch served by a very friendly Australian lady who, she explained, had married a chap from Charlotteville and they had returned to help them out in his parents’ hostelry over Christmas.  We were soon joined by the American catamaran crew….but they had no news for us of the paper-less Frenchman who we just have to hope was granted leave to stay…somehow.

The notorious Christmas winds were forecast to set in alongside mounting swells forcing us to leave Charlotteville and head south towards Store Bay at the southern tip of the island (which was very close to the airport from where Gilly was due to depart after Christmas).  After sampling a few of the other bays en route south, none of which seemed very sheltered, we decided to head for a known quantity – Courland Bay, Plymouth.  Again, we had stayed there earlier in the year and had enjoyed being there very much.  It had good facilities ashore, including good grocery shops and a stunning stretch of white beach, but was quiet and sheltered.  Thus we spent Christmas in glorious but somewhat sad isolation in Plymouth Bay….with our battery-operated lit tree, copious amounts of sherry and fizz, turkey and most of the trimmings, a proper Christmas pud with custard and  (I hesitate to confess) two series of Downton Abbey (everyone has their guilty secrets!).

After a full recovery programme of swimming in the bay and enjoying the pelicans and terns fighting over the ample supplies of fish, we reluctantly left Plymouth once again.  Our reluctance was not just because Christmas was behind us, or that Plymouth was indeed a very good place to while away days on end….but because it was soon time for us to part for a fortnight.  Ridiculous as it seems to hardened married couples who have spent their married lives considerably apart ,we were not looking forward to this separation.  It was much easier to face for Gilly who was excited to be going back to UK to see all their Best Beloveds, but much more difficult for Skipper who was being left in Tobago at anchor to do some chores aboard and count the days.  To add insult to injury, just two days before Gilly’s departure in the strong swells which had still to abate, Gilly was unceremoniously dumped by the dinghy into the waters at Store Bay….thankfully quite close to the beach.  Drenched and unimpressed she sent Skipper back to the boat to get fresh clothes before they proceeded on their not-so-merry way by taxi to Scarborough to, yes, you have already guessed, hand over the letter given to us in Charlotteville by the Immigration officer!  Definitely not a mission worth getting unceremoniously soaked for!  (Perhaps we should add, if you have missed previous entries, that Scarborough itself adds very little to the sum of civilised society and is therefore a pretty unattractive destination).

So braving life and limb once more – as the swell on the beach at Store Bay was still a formidable enemy – Gilly left with her massive suitcase for Blighty leaving Skipper fairly forlornly behind.

Resolute in the Bay at Charlotteville, Tobago

A tad North

We decided on a night time crossing from Trinidad to Grenada.  At about 90 miles with light winds we expected it to take us about 18 hours and therefore left Chaguaramas (a rare departure with light, not heavy, hearts) just after lunch.  As Chaguaramas is extremely sheltered, there is little indication in the Bay what the wind and swell are doing off shore so despite having poured over weather charts and information for days beforehand we came out to sea with a little trepidation…only to find we had a preposterous westerly wind.  Let me explain.  The trade winds always blow from east to west so the wind hardly ever comes from the west, but for the first hour or so there we were with a north easterly swell of about 5 feet and steady westerly winds at about Force 4….not unpleasant but just inconceivable for the Caribbean.  Sure enough, the wind started to nudge round slowly, as if trying to’ style out’ its mistake imperceptibly so we wouldn’t notice, until at last it was back in the east which is only right and proper.  We continued on, straight up the rum line on our chart, enjoying a beautiful sunset and moonrise with millions of stars studding the heavens.  We felt truly liberated from the ties that had held us captive in Trinidad for rather too long.  As we took turns at watches we both experienced that ‘great to be alive’ feeling.  But hang on…don’t get too carried away in the moment!  At about 2 a.m. we realised with some alarm that blissful and swift though this sail was, we were going to arrive in Grenada before dawn which was not in our plans.  The entrance to Le Phare Bleu – the marina into which we were booked – was tricky due to the encircling coral reefs.  There is a buoyed channel but we could not ascertain whether these buoys were lit at night.  We tried to waste some time by reefing the sails rather unnecessarily but still found ourselves off the entrance at 0430 with no sign yet of Mr Sun making an appearance.  Gingerly we picked our way through the little channel through the reef with our bright search light trying to pick out the buoys as we went and relying on way-points from our pilot book.  Then it was fenders and lines on and by 5 we were safely tied up alongside in Le Phare Bleu and tucking ourselves up in bed for some well-earned and very contented sleep.

We had last visited Le Phare Bleu in May and had promised ourselves a return visit – so impressed were we by the resort.  It is comprised of separate individual self-catering guest chalets close to the beach and marina.  Centrally, there is a complex including a laundry, little shop, swimming pool, bar and restaurant.  There is also, wonder of wonders, a customs and immigration office just there on the boardwalk!  You will be aware by now, dear Valiant Regular Reader, how much of a pain the clearing in and clearing out process can be.  In Trinidad and Tobago it is especially onerous -about 6 forms with carbon paper usually complimented by a particularly surly and draconian service.  What a difference here in Grenada!  A smiley, friendly efficient customs man apologising profusely that his immigration colleague had been caught up in another yachtie haven, Prickly Bay, down the coast.  He told us that he would bring our clearance papers and stamped passports back to the boat when everything was completed – an overwhelmingly gracious gesture in the circumstances.  This set the tone for the whole of our stay in Le Phare Blue:  outstanding service and attention to detail.

All good things must come to an end however, so having made contact with some of our co-Chaguaramas inmates who had also made the break to Grenada we sailed west along the Grenadian coast to the aforementioned Prickly Bay to meet them.  Again, we had visited the Bay during our previous visit in May so were familiar with this massive protected Bay which is a favourite yachtie haunt, buzzing with social events and happenings in the local bars and hostelries – not to mention between the boats themselves.  We availed ourselves of the shopping opportunity organised by the local bar to the massive European-style shopping Mall near the capital St. Georges which was new territory to us.  There we were excitedly able to buy most of our Christmas grocery supplies including a turkey breast for our tiny freezer.  We also spent our time in Prickly Bay having a daily walk along the rocky, indented coast with our friends to different bars and resorts, thereby getting a much better feel for Grenadian geography, wildlife and culture, including some of the extensive damage caused by their last hurricane – Ivan – still visible 10 years on.

Our drive to leave the Bay and our friends behind us (although they were shortly to follow us), was driven by our urge to see Carriacou – a Grenadian island about 45 miles north east of Grenada itself.  Back in May, when we were last in the area we had been forced to miss Carriacou as we were then hot-footing south with eldest son and his wife who had limited time to sail with us between St. Lucia and Grenada.  Since then many fellow cruisers had mentioned the delights of Carriacou which had served to strengthen our resolve to go there with some time to enjoy it.  I should perhaps mention at this juncture that our undue haste had been prompted by a decision made back in Trinidad for Gill to fly back to Blighty at the end of December, early January to see parents and family and especially to attend her Sister’s 60^th birthday celebrations.  All very well, I hear you concur….except that the flight she had booked, with her eye always on a bargain, was a cheaper Thompson charter flight from TOBAGO…..yes, Tobago!  A glance at your handy Caribbean map will show you that Tobago is back down south-east from Grenada by about 100 miles!   Bonkers!  So, from the promised delights of Carriacou we were all too aware that we would then need to find a suitable weather window for the 18 hour or so trip back down to Tobago (thence heading back up on her return of course!).

Our wonderful trip up from Trinidad had perhaps made us a little complacent as our 40-mile sail north-east from Grenada to Carriacou was far from comfortable with more confused chop than swell and fairly strong winds right on our bow.  Once round the southern corner of Grenada at St. Georges, we managed to keep our destination, Tyrrel Bay, Carriacou, just about on the nose, but not without sailing close hauled all the way.  Once off the shelter of the lea-shore of the Grenadian coast we met the full force of the Atlantic winds and swells but just about managed to keep our course without having to beat (tacking backwards and forwards).  The one hazard between the two islands is an exclusion zone round a still active underwater volcano marked by a rock descriptively called ‘Kick ‘em Jenny’.  We obviously gave this the wide berth it deserved, but by so doing it gave us even less freedom of movement until well clear.  By sundown and rather frazzled we were gratefully approaching the south-westerly coast of Carriacou at last and could see through our binoculars that Tyrrel Bay was choc-a-bloc full of masts so decided to plod on another mile or so to the beautiful anchorage just off a coral reef called Sandy Island.  To our delight we found and picked up a mooring buoy off the beautiful palm-fringed, blonde-beached island.  Once settled we sat on the back of the boat listening to the waves lapping on the nearby beach and sipping our wine with the self-satisfaction that only the accomplishing of yet another tricky sail can muster.

We spent a glorious few days in splendid isolation off tiny, uninhabited Sandy Island.  It is part of a Protected Area so our only visitors were the park wardens wanting a few Eastern Caribbean dollars for using their buoy.  We were able to beach our dingy on the perfect shores of the island, walking along under the palm trees and frequently taking a dip or snorkelling in the azure waters.  The rolling waves were not insignificant at times which made leaving on the dinghy a bit of a challenge but apart from that it was a little capsule of quintessential, perfect Caribbean.

Then it was time to return to reality in Tyrrel Bay.  Colin had been asked to be one of the Radio Controllers for the daily Ocean Cruising Club SSB (Single Side Band)Radio Net….each day (at 0730!).  We have only recently joined the Ocean Cruising Club – the main criteria for membership being the achievement of an over 1000 mile ocean crossing along with a recommendation from an existing member  As such a new boy then, Colin felt it a privilege to be asked to be an active member so soon.  The morning Radio Net is designed to put Ocean Cruising Club members in touch with each other Caribbean-wide.  Single Side Band radio enables this as it is a truly impressive bit of kit allowing communication between vessels over huge swathes of ocean.  The time had come, with the dawn of the new sailing season, for Skipper to take his responsibilities seriously.  It was with some trepidation that he took to the airwaves ridiculously early one Thursday morning but oh how gratifying and rather magical to hear far flung voices reaching us from all over the Caribbean across the white noise of the ether.

Carriacou is only about 10 miles long and 3 miles wide and though a dependency of Grenada, has very much its own character exemplified by its colourful personable inhabitants.  Apart from quite a large ex-pat British population, most of the native people have been on the island for generations  slogging their way out of slavery, first under the French and then the British, on plantations harvesting cotton, sugar and more latterly limes with some not insignificant dabbling in smuggling along the way. The whole island is still no more than a big friendly town where everyone knows everyone else.  After a few days in Tyrell Bay exploring the shops and bars along the beachside highway, we took up an offer of a taxi tour from one of the local chaps called Simon.  He, along with his brother Thomas, plied the waters of the Bay helping yachties on to the mooring buoys they own , selling them fish, lobster and even the wine to accompany these delights.  Simon was able to give us a real insight into Carriacou life and history, explaining how his grandfather had bought part of an old plantation at public auction in 1914 and the ensuing fight his Afro-Caribbean forbears had had to keep the land from British settlers’ hands.  He also showed us the boat yards on the north east tip of the island where wooden boat building is still being done using the same methods as were introduced onto the island by Scottish settlers over a hundred years ago – completely authentic in design with the only manufacturing difference being that power tools are now used.  As we watched, boats were being worked on which would be raced in the Antigua Classics – or so we were told by the proud boat-builders.  The next day we took a local maxi-taxi (small minibuses which constantly buzz round the islands picking up anyone needing a lift at the roadsides for very little fare) to Hillsborough, the capital of Carriacou.  Here, you feel, business carries on as it has for eons with very little change:  there is a market and co-operative shop which still gathers produce from local growers and producers, from straw hats to rum via nutmeg and watermelons – selling direct to the townsfolk and tourists.  Overwhelmingly the atmosphere is welcoming and kind.  As an example, our maxi-taxi took a detour on the way back from Hillsborough to Tyrell Bay, to ensure an elderly lady was taken direct to her door.  Goodness abounded making our stay in Tyrell Bay a really pleasant one.

Now we are contemplating the long sail back to Tobago and trying to identify a weather window for this seeming backwards step.  Our other consideration is where we should spend our self-inflicted, solitary Christmas ….never a dull moment in Paradise….!

Happy Christmas and best wishes for 2015.

view over Whisper Bay, Grenada from hotel ruined by Hurricane Ivan in 2004.

Sandy Island, Carriacou.

The beautiful beach, Sandy Island.

Carriacou (with Union Island in the distance).

Boat building the Scottish way…Windward, Carriacou

(Hand) washing day on Resolute….it’s not all glamorous you know!

Christmas decorations and Grenadian patriotism in our maxi-taxi.

Resolute Empowered

It was as though we had never been away.  We felt we had to keep reminding ourselves and telling others importantly that we had certainly not been in Power Boats marina and boatyard for the whole of the Hurricane season….no, we had sailed south (against wind and current, don’t you know) to South America!  Yet, despite all our courageous talk here we were again amongst the thousands of other boats in the numerous yards, ashore and afloat which line Chaguaramas Bay.  Not the most glamorous place to be; purely functional with scant regard for niceties.  Our allotted berth did not help the dismal outlook, moored as we were (in the only available berth) right next to the boat hoist which lifted boats out and into the water incessantly throughout the working day with great gusto, noise and fumes.  There was no getting away from the fact that Power Boats Yard was not a place to linger unnecessarily but a place in which to get things done.  Everywhere there was a buzz of activity and business and we had come to join the throngs in busy boaty occupation too for the decision had been made:  solar panels were the way forward for Resolute’s power deficit problems.

Perhaps I should explain a little about power on board a 41 foot boat to put you in the picture.  Our diesel engine is our means of propulsion when there is no wind and our primary source of power generation for charging the batteries via 2 large alternators.  The battery bank itself has been more than doubled in size since leaving Norway (from three to seven) but still struggles to keep up with our everyday usage when we are not in a marina and plugged directly into a power source.  At anchor or on a mooring buoy (which is where we are the majority of the time) we need to run the massive engine at least twice a day to keep up with demand from the fridge, freezer, instrumentation, lights etc.  We get some augmentation from Dervish (our wind turbine) but he has problems – not least that he is very noisy which deters us from having him on all the time  – especially at night where he is oft blamed for keeping Gilly awake with his hysterical, screechy hurricane-come-thither manic turns.  Despite being extremely mindful of Resolute’s seemingly insatiable appetite for power it is a constant headache for Skipper who feels the need to check the amps being made and spent on the instruments…..you see the problem?  Of course the answer is nearly always in evidence in the sky hereabouts.  Harness the power from that there sun!  You cannot be in the Caribbean for very long without noticing the ingenious contraptions people have dreamt up on which to secure their solar panels:  arches, canopies, atop of biminies and sun shades and most popular of all, on their guard rails.  The latter idea was the one we were opting for.  Appropriately armed with complicated calculations including dimensions, angle of swivel and energy intake to size ratios….not to mention our meagre budget, we set forth into the chandlery and thence into the complicated morass of information and statistics that solar panel choice and ownership demands.  In actuality we needed very little from this mine of information as thankfully our choices were narrowed considerably by stock issues….to be precise the one and only chandlery only had one pair in stock of the same size…..decision made then!  After haggling about the price and various discounts we made our purchase of two 195 amp big boys.  Help!  We left the shop rather nervously, worrying that in our enthusiasm we had bought two far too ginormous panels which would either not fit in the available space on the already crowded stern rails or would require major reinforcement of the rails on which to secure them.

The answer to our concerns lay with Mervyn (Merv to his friends…and we were soon getting into Merv territory).  He is a welder of some renown in Power Boats, running his own little welding shop out of a couple of corrugated iron lean-to’s  His youth and rather shy demeanour betray his wealth of ideas and flare for anything that needs welding to anything else, alongside his eye for knowing how his creations should be best supported and their load best spread.  Merv though has a problem….he hates being on boats –  beginning to appear green and anxious as soon as he sets foot aboard.  He alone was grateful then, that Resolute was alongside the concrete-railed travel hoist, thus enabling him to lend his expertise to our aft guard rails and solar panel conundrum without setting foot on board.  In Merv’s unquestionable opinion all would be well.  Phew! His little team would weld a frame for the panels which would be secured here and here with supports here and here.  No problem…have it done in a few days.  True to his word the frames were made for a pittance and secured as required, just leaving Skipper and Mate to manhandle the panels into place.  Bish Bosh!     Looking the business as they did, it was easy to forget their purpose in life for which it was necessary to wire them into the boat’s power systems.  Cables had to be fed through impossible spaces at the back of lockers and head-linings to find their way with sweaty cursing and groaning to the Smart Box (which was actually more expensive than the panels themselves).  Once the potential for power had been established it was just a matter of positioning the massive panels to the sun to see if they actually worked.  To enable this Skipper had devised a supporting pole which would hold the panels at right angles and clip in to the toe rail.  After many adjustments and holding jobs by Gilly, not to mention numerous jubilee clips, cable ties and yards of self-amalgamating tape (the whole boat seems to be held together with those three essentials) the panels were able to hold themselves at right angles as required, making Resolute look as though she was preparing to take flight.

Being on our tight mooring we were unable to give the panels a proper trial so decided to take a long-weekend trip to our favourite Trinidadian anchorage at Chacachacare.  With some relief we left the madding crowds at Chaguaramas and found ourselves an hour or so later in the peace and tranquillity of the huge deserted bay at Chacachacare.  The weather then played a blinder, deciding to blow and rain for the next 24 hours, thus preventing us from testing the panels in typical Caribbean conditions already described whilst the batteries slowly drained.  At last on day three….ta-dah!  Glorious sunshine made glorious amps and Resolute’s Skipper was a Very Happy Man!  I am pleased to report that all expectations from the panels have been met and 3 days into our experiment we have not had to run the engine at all.  Result!  An unexpected (by Gilly anyway) consequence, however:  no hot water.  The engine makes our water hot….ergo   no engine running=no hot water……a small price to pay I suppose, but once the experiment has been written up and the excited Skipper has stopped peering lovingly at his Smart Box every two minutes, we may well be allowed to indulge ourselves by turning on the engine for a while to once again have water akin to warm in which to wash dishes, clothes and selves.

We have mentioned Chacachacare in previous blogs…it was a former leper colony run by Dominican nuns.  On previous visits we had anchored near the Doctor’s houses which, like all other buildings, are just sat there on the hillsides, rotting away with only their marvellous views across the bay and back to the mainland still intact.  We were anchored in another part of the bay this time and went ashore to explore the Nun’s side of the island: their living quarters, the hospital itself, chapel and, most poignantly, their little grave yard.  Wandering round these atmospheric ruins, populated these days only with sinister vultures, on

Resolute (pre-solar panels) in Chacachacare Bay.

Vulture on railings of ruined hospital building, Chacachacare, Trinidad.

Plague in Nuns’ Graveyard, Chacachacare

View from Convent, Chacachacare.

Solar panels out…ready for take-off!

e can easily imagine how life was both for those nuns and for the patients themselves.  To walk the corridors of the hospital and to stand in the chapel is to step back in time and marvel.  The saving grace of what must have been a grim and heart wrenching caring challenge would have been the amazing venue in which they all lived and worked – those incredible views from every aspect must surely have made their wounded hearts soar.

Our other consideration whilst in Trinidad is our plan for the sailing season ahead.  Sailing seasons here begin at the end of the hurricane season which is at the end of November and run until the end of May when the hurricane risk is deemed too great (by boat insurers at least) to be lingering north of Grenada and south of Cape Heterras in the United States.  Our plan for the 14/15 season had been ambitious:  to sail hurriedly north from Grenada to Puerto Rico; explore the north Caribbean (Dominican Republic, Turks and Caicos and perhaps a little bit of Cuba) then head for the Bahamas, then Florida and up the Eastern seaboard of the US ending up north of Cape Heterras in Chesapeake Bay for the summer but safely out of the Hurricane Zone.  This plan was scuppered however from a most unexpected quarter – our UK health/travel insurance provider.  When we renewed our policy and outlined our plans they shocked us by saying they would only give us medical cover for 89 days in the United States.  They further explained that this was due to the new Obamacare legislation which insisted all non-immigrant visa holders (we had already equipped ourselves with 10 year non-immigrant visas) must move onto the Obamacare system after 89 days – providing only the bare bones of treatment options and definitely no repatriation back to Blighty.  After doing much more research into the legislation and demanding more answers from our insurers we had to admit defeat.  We simply could not risk going to the States without adequate medical cover in place and therefore decided with much regret to change our plans.  Thus our revised plan for 14/15 could best be described as a bimble….bimbling back up the Caribbean chain in slow time; visiting places we missed the first time and re-visiting places we loved.  To enrich the new plan we have had much interest from friends and family to meet us along the way which will ensure that wherever we are there will be much merriment ….and the giving and receiving of merriment is, after all, what this Caribbean idyll is supposed to be all about.

Ruined chapel, Chacachacare, Trinidad.

Goodbye To All That

Careless sunburn….”scorched”!

Baganara Resort, British Guyana

Resolute at anchor, Baganara River Resort, British Guyana

The sub-title of our blog, you may have noticed, is ‘cutting loose’. Nereid’s Rally having finished, leaving us in French Ghiana, we were keen to ‘cut loose’ and find ourselves again.  Of course that meant we had to make decisions about where we wanted to head next and those of you who know us understand that decision making is not our strongest suit.  The first suggestion was from Skipper who suggested we should head further south to windward to Brazil a suggestion which swiftly got kicked into the long grass!  Good thing then that some of our fellow ralliers had a clear idea of how their trip back into the Caribbean should play out and we eventually decided to tag along with our American catamaran ralliers (called Aces 4 ) back to British Guyana, but this time heading up the Essequibo a bit further than Bartica – to the Baganara resort.  We had briefly visited Baganara when we had flown up for our day trip to the Kaieteur Falls.  Our little plane had touched down on the resort’s landing strip and we were rather overwhelmed by the welcome we had there considering we were only in transit – being met by a speed boat to take us back to their rival Hurakabra resort.  We had then been invited to return to the anchorage off the resort but time and other pressures during the rally had not permitted this indulgence….perhaps now was the time to reply in person to that gracious invitation.  Some of our other ralliers aboard Orion 1 had got stuck in Surinam after the water pump in their engine failed.  They too had agreed Baganara was a good idea so we were looking forward to rendez-vousing with them there too.

So with feelings of regret for leaving our fellow  South American adventurers behind tinged with excitement for at last embarking on a passage that would ensure the wind and current behind us again, we departed from St. Laurent, heading back out to sea, contemplating  a trip of about 2.5 days or 260 nautical miles.  Back out into the clear blue waters, leaving the fairway buoy behind us it did indeed feel as though we were ‘cutting loose’ again.  Resolute loves having the wind aft of the beam and was soon pulling away from Aces 4 (much to their twin-hulled disgust!), well and truly into her and our comfort zones.

I won’t bore you with the ins and outs of a passage that was blissfully uneventful – our only concern being the fishing boats which as always teased us with their nets and lack of meaningful lights at night…we were becoming used to these escapades by now and just continued our course keeping a keen look out and remaining well-lit ourselves.  By late afternoon on the third day our course plotter told us we were nearing our destination; the river mouth of the Essequibo is actually indistinguishable from the rest of the ocean except for the brown tinge of the water and the accumulation of withy sticks on the horizon.  The river estuary is nearly 40 miles wide (third only to the Orinoco and the Amazon in South America) which means seeing the banks is impossible from the middle.  We wove our way through the fishing stakes which at first seems an impossibility as they are dense and seemingly impenetrable from a distance but trusting to the waypoints we had used when exiting the river we knew there must be a way through.  Eventually, as the sun was setting we reached a clearer area and found ourselves at last close to the bank.  Longing to free ourselves from the 4 hours watch system and have a decent night’s sleep we tucked ourselves well into a slight bay and illuminated ourselves brightly in the hope no-one would accidently ram us…..so ill-used are the Guyanians to visiting anchored  yachts littering their river…..and fell into a blissful sleep.

With no pressing deadlines, we had decided to take the trip up the river more slowly than we had on the Rally, giving us time to enjoy its wide, majestic extremities and have time to observe all the river-side habitations and activities which so epitomised normal, everyday Guyana.  We passed the ruins of the Dutch fortress which had provided the first Dutch settlers some security from river-bound invaders in the 1600’s.  Quite why this mighty fort had been so far up the river is rather a mystery but there it still stands brooding over the waters.  We moored for our first night a little way further up from Fort Island again tucking ourselves as close to the shore as we dared hoping we would be well out of the way of passing boats and barges.  There was a constant traffic of gravel and sand up the river – usually on huge metal platforms seemingly guided precariously by a separate tug boat alone.   The next day saw us continuing our upriver drift, waving at people on the shoreline who were going about their daily chores – washing or fishing on the water’s edge or speeding past us on the frequent water taxis.  All seemed pleased to see a tourist yacht in their midst.  According to our pilot book a good place for our second night at anchor in the river was Shanklands resort, dominated by an imposing colonnaded plantation house high on the hill overlooking the river and surrounded by green lawns.  Although currently closed the Shanklands beaches were too tempting for us not to take advantage of – even though the browny-tinged water looked a little unwelcoming.  It was a wonderful break in our journey – so good to get off the boat to swim and picnic.  Ill-used as we were to beach life, the sun was hot and all too soon we were hunting out some shade on the beach but not before Gilly had turned her now familiar shade of beetroot.  As promised in our guide book the holding was good.  With the pier to shelter us and and with a plethora of rocks near the shore which no-one in their right mind would venture near we settled down for the evening content that no vessels would come this close to Shanklands.

I did not feel the jolt, but was aware of Colin diving out of bed in panic.  When I followed the commotion I saw Colin on the dark deck shouting at someone and then realised that the someone he was shouting at was on a massive sand barge platform and fellow tug alongside our hull!  How the 50 foot plus vessel had managed to wedge himself between us and the rocks and pier off Shanklands we could not begin to understand.  When questioned, the nonchalant skipper said, cooly that he had lost steerage coming round the corner.  We could only think that must have been some miscalculation on his part.  Without further explanation he extricated himself off our side whilst we tried to examine our hull in the dark to see what damage he had done.  All we could see was a long horizontal gouge, but thankfully not too deep.  Colin immediately got on the radio and asked the skipper for his name, and got a rather abusive reply which did not contain the name of the vessel.  Barge skipper garbled that if there was no damage we had no reason to know his details.  Despite our pleadings that in the dark conditions we could not be sure there was no other damage we were given a stiff ignoring as the stern lights of the barge disappeared into the distance.  We were stunned and rather shaken.  How could this have happened again when we had taken every precaution possible?  There being no coastguard on hand or anyone who would respond to us in Guyana we instead sat up in turn on anchor watch until day break.  At dawn we examined the damage which was thankfully no more than the long scratch we had seen with our torch.  Suffice to say, in Guyana, Suriname and French Ghiana they are so unfamiliar with having visiting yachts in their midst that they show no caution.  The usual mast-head anchor light is far too high above their eye-level to be of any help, so contrary to all sailing protocols it is wise to have deck lights – possibly strobing – to make yourself as visible, at eye level as possible, to anything approaching along the rivers.

Cruising chute up!

Up with the Trinidadian courtesy flag again.

Ruined Dutch Fort, Fort Island, Guyana.

The Essequibo River

Local river taxi, Guyana

Une Petite Piece de la France (Nereid’s Rally III)

Our sail to French Guiana, like our previous southerly voyages on the Nereid’s Rally was a challenge of the perpendicular kind….there being few occasions where we were at a comfortable angle. Saying fond farewells in Waterland to Noel and his fantastic team, we motored to the mouth of the Surinam River where we anchored overnight safely tucked in amongst all the fishing sticks and withies. Early next morning we headed out to the fairway buoy and turned to starboard into the wind, parallel with the coast.  We scooted along close hauled in generally a NE Force 4-5 (becoming 6 in the few squalls), dodging fishing boats and their nets, finding ourselves after about 24 hours at the Maroni river entrance, French Guiana.  We had been warned that the buoys in the entrance channel could not be trusted as apparently the fishermen used them, helpfully, to hang their massive seine nets causing them to drag, so it was with much caution, watching the depth and sticking strictly to our pre-programmed waypoints, that we proceeded gingerly up the river.  Having already experienced two such river entrances we found ourselves becoming a little blasé this time.  Once more the banks were low and mangrove-lined and the water dun-coloured and opaque.  Unlike with the vast, wide Essequibo entrance, both banks of the Maroni could soon be clearly seen and a sense of proportion was restored.  The Maroni marks the border between Surinam and French Guiana.  There were small villages visible on the Surinam side and long, thin pirogues dashing up, down and across the river.  We had agreed to meet up with the other Rally boats in a creek inlet a little way up-river.  Sure enough as we rounded the final bend, there they already were.  As we were welcoming into the fold once more, we gratefully put down our anchor and focused on getting some sleep.

The town of St. Laurent, our final destination on the rally is about 15 miles up the Maroni. The organiser of our rally, David calls St. Laurent his home (although born in Australia and raised in Europe) and it is here that he is currently project managing the construction of a marina.  As yachts are still such a rare visitor to the area, this is hailed as a wonderfully innovative project.  Thus David is a local hero and his rally bringing said yachts to his soon-to-be-realised marina is occasioned with superstardom and celebration each year.  Which was why, the next day, suitably refreshed, with our boats dressed with flags and bunting we processed up river and were met with music, fanfares, flares and a huge welcoming committee ashore.  We had been told to accept the proffered adulation by doing a loop around Edith Cavell (more about her later), drop our anchors and dinghy ashore in swift time in order not to hold up the official welcome proceedings ashore.  This for us was where it all started to go peek-tong:  could we get the anchor to find purchase?….no.  Our neighbours were all scrambling into their dinghies and we could not get the anchor to bite.  On the VHF radio we were being hectored to come ashore “tres vite” but we obviously could not leave the boat without ensuring she was going to stay put on her anchor amongst lots of other boats and in a fast-flowing current.  The public address system ashore was loud enough for us to hear that the official proceedings had indeed begun and a long, French bienvenue was being rendered.  Eventually, marginally satisfied that the anchor was safely embedded we got ourselves into our glad-rags and got in the dinghy…but….it would not start no matter how many times and how aggressively the pull cord was tugged!  Further investigation poured petrol all over the newly groomed skipper….something was definitely not right with the outboard.  Meanwhile ashore we could hear our colleagues being feted and interviewed.  We realised it was no good getting on the VHF and asking for a tow or lift ashore as all-and-sundry were pre-occupied at the welcome festivities.  Petrol-soaked Skipper therefore set-to to repair said outboard…..replacing the fuel line which looked as if it may have perished.  Gilly, passing Skipper tools like the operating theatre sister she never was, fizzing with pent-up anger at the situation which had caused her to miss (yet again!) the main event.  Another stage debut and reward for all this hard sailing thwarted! Unbelievable!

Eventually, outboard decided it was just about being fed enough fuel through its new tubing to putter uncertainly ashore. We joined the happy throng explaining our plight.  Feeling so fraught we were relieved to learn that the speeches and on-stage interviews were over and the reception for the chosen few had begun in a shady courtyard behind some official looking buildings.  This being France the eats were of course canapés – bite-size pretty little morsels the like of which we have not seen since leaving Lille.  We felt rather mis-matched in such genteel company as we were rather grubby and reeking of petrol.  One nearby cigarette would have sent us to Kingdom Come!  Our fellow Ralliers sympathised with our trials and tribulations and blamed themselves for not being on hand to help as we all tried to be for each other……but we actually learnt that they had had an ordeal of another kind….being feted and interviewed in turn on stage was cringe-worthy in the extreme to some of them who thus viewed our mishaps as nothing more than a lucky escape!

Poor St Laurent is infamous rather than famous. Its claim to infamy is its vast, ugly penitentiary – or, more correctly, Transportation Camp.  One soon gets the impression this is something that it would rather play down as it represents a dire part of French history.  Much to their chagrin there is no hiding place as a chap called Henri Charriere successfully resurrected its notoriety by writing a book about his time there which was turned into the famous film starring Steve McQueen and Dustin Hoffman no less.  He was nicknamed ‘Papillon’ as the one and only prisoner to have escaped from the camp and his book and the film are so entitled.  We were ‘treated’ to a tour of the place and what a gruesome story it has to tell….if it must.  During the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries prisoners were transported to the camp from France and thence onto other prisons situated on various French Guianan islands round about.  Needless to say the regime was brutal and cruel in the extreme to the extent that the oft-used guillotine could have been considered a welcome escape from the place.  Our tour guide, in his very rather broken English, explained every sordid detail of the prisoners’ existence in the Camp.  What seemed most cruel was that after their sentence had been served the convicts were not free to return to France but had to stay in St Laurent to try to earn their ticket home which was of course impossibly expensive.  The last convicts did not leave the prison until the 1950’s.

Our time in St. Laurent was not all gloom and doom however. We were treated to a day trip up the river in genuine long, wooden, dug-out, leaky pirogues to a delightful eco-resort run by an amazing Brazilian fellow who adored socialising and entertaining us all.  We swam in the river pool, ate a huge outdoor lunch along al-fresco trestle table, washed down with some of the finest French wines we have tasted in a long time.  We then played boule and relaxed in hammocks, enjoying the riverside views.  Singing along loudly to U2 in the minibus which took us back to St. Laurent that evening it was obvious that a good time was had by all.

Having suddenly found itself an important place when the Transportation Camp was built in the mid 1800’s, there had to be of course much important bureaucratic infrastructure around about to support it. Nobody does ‘important bureaucratic infrastructure’ better than the French.  In what would be a diminutive little town there are edifices and architecture worthy of any grand French town housing the Sous-Prefecture, the Palais de Justice and of course the Mairie – all still in use.  Other grand buildings- intact but now put to other use – had housed the banks which grew up to service the salaries of the prison officers and guards and apparently even the former convicts themselves as they squirreled away their francs in the vain hope that they may save enough francs to return home to France.  The rows of prison officers’ houses were still in use lining the main street making it very easy to imagine how it must have been a century and more ago in this proud French outpost.

By the way, I mentioned Edith Cavell earlier and promised an explanation of her attachment to St. Laurent. She is in fact a wrecked British steam ship who sits rather proudly smack bang in the middle of the harbour.  She apparently went aground in 1924 and before help could come to her aid broke in two and there she remains – now a rusty hulk covered in trees which are slowly turning her in to an island.  Poor Edith came to a sticky end much like her brave namesake.

As in every French town, the market place is the centre of commercial life and so it is in St. Laurent du Maroni. Each Wednesday and Saturday the market place buzzes with colourful life and energy and displays the true nature and resources of the area.  The stall holders are many and varied:  Chinese, Afro-Caribbean, Indonesian and South American, but many of the customers were white Europeans complete with their typical French shopping baskets – who live and work in French Guiana – forming ,just as in colonial times, the backbone of the administration so far away from home.  The fresh fruit and vegetables on display were second to none and we soon became engrossed with buying more than we could probably eat before they succumbed to the heat and humidity:  pineapples, oranges (with the green-tinged skins with which we are now accustomed) , bananas (also green-skinned), papaya and vegetables galore – long stringy green beans, pak choi, and of course, tomatoes!  At the centre of the market place was a building set up with long tables where traders and customers alike were tucking in to huge bowls of Chinese soup or plates of noodles….rather a bizarre sight and smell once attuned to the typical French marketplace and a swift reminder that despite the euros we were paying in, this was only thinly disguised France.

The supermarkets too did not fail to disappoint our solidly European appetites for cheese, wine and baguettes. The massive ‘Super U’ just outside town had been plucked straight from Europe and everything was main-stream French …but not cheap.  It was also very exclusive as we learnt there was no public transport to bring people here, in fact no bus and taxi service at all in St. Laurent except a bus which left daily for the next big town…providing it had enough passengers to make it viable.  To shop outside town one had to have a car which in itself maintained a certain class of clientele.  David had provided us with mini-bus transport to ensure we had our fill of Super U whilst we were there…for which we were very grateful.

I should explain that French Guiana and particularly the town further along the coast called Kourou is very important to the French as it houses the European Space Centre from which, every month or so there is a launch of an Ariane rocket taking yet another satellite into space. It would have been a wonderful thing to witness but unfortunately we had just missed a launch and anyway the procedure to glimpse one – being French – involved writing several weeks beforehand to obtain the necessary pass.  Despite this, several of our fellow Ralliers did manage to get a pass to see the October launch somehow managing to circumvent the system and staying on the St Laurent anchorage an extra week.  It would have been tempting to do the same, but we were anxious to head back to British Guyana, especially to the Baganara resort which had given us such a warm welcome when we briefly visited several weeks beforehand.  Additionally, we had been invited to the 50^th birthday party of one of our new-found friends which was organised as a surprise at Baganara which it would have been a shame to miss.  Thus we decided to forego the possible chance to see the rocket launch and head off down river again…leaving this obscure corner of the French Republic.  The end of the

Our procession into St. Laurent.

Statue of a forlorn convict outside Transportation Camp, St. Laurent.

The Transportation Camp, St. Laurent.

final chapter of Nereid’s Rally.

Close Encounters (Nereid’s Rally II)

I suppose had Surinam kept its name as Dutch Guiana (as it was until 1954) it would not have seemed such an exciting place in which to find ourselves. Surinam sounds so exotic and other-worldly and does not betray its European roots, which, to us fellow Europeans at least, adds a little lack-lustre to our expectations.  We were certainly feeling deserving of a little reward for our pretty diabolical sail from British Guyana.  It was not the distance (although 2-3 days does not give one much opportunity to adjust to the watch system and only serves to render one desperately tired) but the state of the seas (lumpy); wind (firmly on the nose) and current (against us) which determined that the voyage was far from pleasurable.

The detail is worth recording. We exited the Essequibo River via the Eastern passage this time, past the bustling town of Parika which, if local global warming predictions can be believed, will be the next capital of British Guyana when vulnerable low-lying Georgetown gets eventually overwhelmed by the ocean.  Despite all the hustle and bustle and quite substantial shipping going hither and thither the main obstructions in the broad river entrance are the small withy sticks – helpfully marking the mud banks I suppose, but also making it a game of dodgems to find our way out to sea again.  We were relieved to see the back of them and have the ocean ahead of us again….initially still tinged with the browny river waters and slowly turning into the blue we have come to expect as our right in these parts.  Initially the wind and current had been quite kind to us and we made fair progress but as we neared the mouth of the Surinam River the wind decided to gust up to 20-25 knots and come directly from the east which was exactly where we wanted to be.  The waves and swell also got excited by the windy conditions and we soon found ourselves reefed down and motor-sailing slowly into it all.  We had maintained contact with a small group of our fellow Nereid’s participants so as dawn broke after our second night a radio committee formed to try to work out the best strategy for Getting There….and, needless to say we eventually did!

The Surinam River is narrower than the Essequibo and instead of little withy sticks we felt over-indulged by a green and red buoyed channel. We soon came to realise though that this channel was not just for the likes of us as other barges and largish cargo ships passed us.  As with the Essequibo the banks are deep-greenly mangroved and the land is flat.  A perfect former Dutch territory then….grossly, bicyclably flat!  Our assigned anchorage was off the capital Paramaribo –just off the very posh-looking Torarico Hotel.  As our little huddle of rally boats expanded as more relieved yachts and their yachties dropped their weary anchors we began to feel a little uneasy as we seemed to be in the way.  As the sun went down on our first Surinam day we saw search lights from astounded vessels illuminate us and the other boats.  This was supposedly a safe place to anchor; the rally organiser had assured us that he had permission for us all to be there (although as he was in the smallest boat and he had not yet arrived!).  With all such assurances resounding in our heads we were able to sleep soundly for the first time in 3 days.

The next day found us much more lively but we were faced with a second difficulty: getting ashore.  Again, assurances had been given that we would be able to use a dinghy dock a little way from our anchorage but this turned out to be unavailable to us after all.  Problem.  The adventurous amongst us found a way by mooring up against the guest boat owned by the hotel and clambering across it and up over the balustrade to the safety of the hotel pontoon.  Desperate for a cold beer many tried that route too but Gilly for one found it a tough clamber.  No amount of Thinking Gazelle afforded her the agility to make the ascent with any dignity intact.  This was not the expected welcome we had presumed awaited us. We had high hopes that when the rally organiser eventually arrived, this would be sorted out.  Certainly we remembered that he had said there was a plan for clearing us in en masse through an agent and until then we should not venture further than the hotel bar.  Once ensconced at the aforementioned pool-side bar this restriction proved to be no problem at all as the celebratory drinks for our arrival easily slipped down and massaged any reservations we had held.  We were soon joined by our rally leader and were able to put to him our reservations about the place which he duly noted and promised to try to sort out once he had had some sleep.  It was the Rally’s first time in Surinam so nothing was tried and tested…we were the guinea pigs.

The loud shout came on the radio at 2a.m. It woke us immediately and Colin looked out to see what was causing the commotion.  A huge barge was in our midst and had missed Resolute by a few feet.  On the radio we heard more shouts and learned that the barge had actually hit two of our fellow rally boats:  a catamaran with two children on board and another yacht sailed by our two Swiss friends.  The barge was soon nowhere to be seen. Thankfully no-one had been hurt and all vessels were still afloat but obviously everyone was rather shaken by the incident.  What had made matters worse was that the Harbour Authorities took 20 minutes to acknowledge our situation and only responded once we reported the barge clear.  Following the incident the committee set an anchor watch for the rest of the night.  In the morning Colin informed the rally leader that he did not consider the anchorage safe – even with the best will in the world there is a huge difference, in a river not used to yachts, between having permission to anchor somewhere and being in a safe location.  During the morning written statements were requested and made – serving to re-live the whole experience without contributing one jot to identifying the perpetrator and there seemed to be one delay after another in clearing us in.  In reality all we wanted to do was move on.  We had heard there was a resort with a small marina about 16 miles further up the river and mid-afternoon, formalities nearly complete, we along with the catamaran departed.  As dusk descended on what had been a pretty difficult day we arrived in Waterland.  Noel, the Dutch Proprietor, was there to take our lines and invited us all to the bar where we found him preparing a free supper for us with cold wine and beers on tap to soothe our frayed nerves.  We felt safe, secure, valued, fed and well-watered – all of which ensured we had a wonderful night’s sleep.

Waterland, we discovered is an isolated, peaceful but very comfortable marina and resort. The owner Noel is constantly improving and augmenting what is already a wonderfully tranquil riverside haven.  We soon found that hiring a car was a pre-requisite but that was easily done through Noel and our old but serviceable Nissan was delivered to us with a 10 Euro/day price tag. Bargain!  Noel kindly took us all on an exploration of the surrounding villages in his van so we were able to explore the area with some idea of the lie of the land.  This was the true Surinam.  To get out of the resort we bumped through a criss-cross of un-made- up and very bumpy roads through the rain-forest.  Noel had told us to keep an eye open for monkeys but they remained elusive – sometimes teasing us as we glimpsed the shake of some high branches or heard their characteristic nearby howls.  Sloths apparently also ‘hang out’ in the forests too…but, much to the dismay of the children especially, remained hidden to us.  Once free of the side roads we hit the main highways.  Along the roadside were large drainage dikes (so very Dutch) filled with lotus flowers and water lilies (not so Dutch).  Quite large, low houses lined the road – some with river-frontages and fabulous views. .. Many shops and businesses including some massive supermarkets were predominantly Chinese.  Facial features showed an amazing mix of Indonesian, Chinese, Afro-Caribbean, native South American and a spattering of white European.  What an unusual and unique place!  As we neared the city, roadside stalls selling water-melons, lychees and pineapples began to appear and then another row selling wriggling hanging bundles of what at first glimpse appeared like some massive crawling reptile but actually turned out to be strings of small crabs.

Noel suggested we took a walking tour of Paramaribo city. Thus our trusty Nissan took us in to the heart of the city early one morning to meet up with our Dutch guide Peta.  We had wondered how come Paramaribo had such a diverse population and he explained its history:  after the abolition of slavery in 1873 the Dutch bought in contract labourers for the flourishing plantations from the Dutch East Indies (Indonesia); India (through an agreement with the British), China and the Middle East.  Surinam remains one of the most ethnically and culturally diverse countries in the world.  Many of the beautiful river-side harbour buildings, owned by rich merchants, have been restored making imaginings of how the busy Paramaribo Harbour looked over a century ago so much easier.  These fine residences with their twin steep, symmetrical staircases leading to the portico could have been plucked straight from an Amsterdam canal-side.  The early government buildings have not fared so well however.  Once the Dutch gave Surinam independence in 1975 there was a period of lack of meaningful government when many Surinamese people headed to the Netherlands.  This concluded in a military coup in 1980 during which many of the government buildings were (perhaps deliberately – in order to destroy sensitive records) burnt to the ground.  The old Police Station was shelled from a ship on the river and only the thick white pillars remaining alongside a monument to that day in February 1980 when Surinam  ‘found its freedom’ once more.  Since the military coup during which 15 dissenters of the new regime were assassinated in the Zeelandia Fortress, relations with the Netherlands have been strained to say the least.  Nonetheless there are memorials to fallen Dutch soldiers in the World Wars and the Korean War in Paramaribo which left us in no doubt where its roots were to be found – not many moons ago.  Peta was not so keen on the Basilica – until recently called the Cathedral but rather grandly re-categorised as a Basilica apparently because Popes only visit Basilicas.  I suppose with Pope Benedict hailing from South America they live in hope that he may pay a visit to Paramaribo at any time.  Peta also disliked the recent change in dress code to enter the Basilica which rendered us seriously under-dressed.  That said it was a remarkable wooden building, especially with its newly painted frontage.  The Dutch Reformed Church however was more to all of our liking in its simplicity and accessibility.  Its floor was lined with 18^th Century tombstones which had been rescued from the adjacent graveyard of the great and the good in Colonial Dutch society.  For a city with such a chequered history Paramaribo seemed a fine place indeed mixing former grandeur with modern mischief caught up in an enormous energetic buzz of present day prosperity in the businesses, colourful market places, restaurants and hotels…whilst the back-drop of the wide river flowed on as it had through all those long centuries.

After making several runs to various supermarkets and markets with our fellow ralliers (we had now been joined by another rally boat to at Waterland) in our trusty, decrepit Nissan, it was time to sail back down the river, past the now infamous anchorage off the Torarica Hotel. After a night at anchor well tucked in to the bank at the outer reaches of the

On passage to Surinam (the Trinidadian wooden stern boxes proving their worth).

The infamous river barges of the Surinam River.

The Basilica Paramaribo

The 1980 Freedom Monument (the former Police Station), Paramaribo.

War memorial, Paramaribo.

Restored Colonial riverside houses.

Former Government building – burnt down in 1980 coup but soon to be restored.

Surinam river estuary, our little convoy made its way back out into the Atlantic for the final push to windward…..100 miles to French Guiana.