Tuesday 27th July
1056h:
We were out of the house by 7.30 this morning, and drove up to the west coast, the most exclusive, opulent part of Barbados. The beaches here are all next to the Caribbean Sea, and the water is the clearest, blue-green colour I have ever seen. There are no waves here- instead the water laps the shore gently, and the sea is so flat you could almost snort a line off it.
Which conveniently brings me to tell you that this is the area where the stars come for their holidays, and it’s not hard to see why. Let me tell you though, if I see Wayne Rooney (who is a regular visitor) or any of the other so called footballers who performed so abjectly at the world cup this year, I shall force feed them the apples from the manchineel tree that grows along the shore here. It’s a tree so poisonous that even standing under it in a rainstorm will cause your skin to blister if water drips from it onto you. Sensibly the trees are marked with red paint on their trunks as a warning. Mrs Muck has warned me that if I don’t behave myself I will find myself being served a very special Bajan apple pie for my pudding one day. Or should that be my just desserts?
We drove up to Speightstown first for some breakfast, and then parked up a mile or so south of there, at Gibbs beach. This is a little known, and often overlooked beach next to the busier Mullins beach. The houses here back directly onto the beach, and are the epitome of dream homes. They are big, beautiful, and eye wateringly expensive. I’m not materialistic, but Mrs Muck turned a strange envious shade of emerald green as we strolled past them. I have to admit that they were amazing, and seemed to fit in perfectly to the location, without being vulgar or too extravagant.
We found a lovely spot partly shaded by the trees overlooking the beach (not manchineels) and Mrs Muck chattered about the lifestyles of the rich and famous. My mind was elsewhere though, namely deep in a daydream about the slightly more mature, elegant lady who came and sat near us, and kept glancing at me (or was it at Mrs Muck? Even better!!!) before returning through the gate into the back garden of what can only be described as a colonial masterpiece of a house.
All it would take would be to strike up a conversation, to remark what a lovely house she has, to be invited in for a drink and…. well, we can dream can’t we?
Mrs Muck said she had no problem with me being a toyboy, as long as the pay was good. I didn’t tell her I would gladly do it for free…
As it happened, my daydream was rudely shattered by my potential sugar mummy (no, you’re right, it doesn’t sound right, and in fact sounds quite wrong) when she returned a while later with a young bronzed guy who I hoped was her son. I certainly hope it wasn’t, given the way they started canoodling in the water. Get a mansion for fucks sake!
The plan is to chill here until about two o clock, then drive a few miles down the coast to Sandy Lane, one of the most famous, and expensive hotels in the world. Well, to the beach there anyway. In the high season there’s a very good chance of seeing famous people on their holidays, if that’s your thing.
Trouble is, it isn’t the high season, it’s the rainy season, and despite us being lucky with the weather over the last few days, there are some threatening clouds bubbling up to the south at the moment, and we may have to implement our contingency plan, which is to visit Harrison’s Cave, a spectacular tour of stalagtite filled caverns, and secret subterranean waterfalls. Fingers crossed though we’ll be lucky and the rain won’t materialise.
1612h:
It started raining as I finshed writing the sentence above, and hasn’t stopped since. Our trip to Sandy Lane was cancelled, and instead we headed to Harrison’s Cave, which it has to be said was pretty impressive. The caverns and waterfalls were beautiful, but the stalagmites and stalactites stole the show. The stalactites were huge and rather phallic, and in the half light I’m sure I saw Mrs Muck blushing a little. I showed Handy the pictures when we got home, and for once he was speechless, although a little bit of drool did escape from the side of his mouth.
Yesterday we drove up the east coast, which is the opposite to the west in more than just it’s outlook. It’s battered by the Atlantic, not the sleepy Caribbean, and is wild and rugged. The waves are big, the currents dangerous, and the scenery amazing. It’s a surfers’ paradise, and we ate a fabulous lunch at Bathsheba, which every autumn hosts a world renowned surfing contest. We kept our feet firmly on dry land though, although we had no qualms about watching the lithe young ladies heading out with their boards. A little bit of drool escaped from my mouth too.
Let’s hope the weather is better tomorrow so we can finish our tour of the west coast, especially as it’s the last day we have the car. I’ve got a nasty feeling that this rain is here to stay for a couple of days though, so I’m switching to contingency plan B- start drinking heavily.
Cheers!
