Barbados – derrickjknight

Travel Challenge Reveal

The 10 day travel challenge required no explanation of the chosen pictures. Now is the time to elaborate a bit.

Day 1 featured a splendid toyshop in, I believe, Monpazier, one of southwest France’s Bastide towns, which I visited with friends Maggie and Mike in September 2003. More about such towns, with photographs, appears in https://derrickjknight.com/2018/01/13/more-bastides/

The woman in the red cardigan clutching her handbag appeared on Day 2. In September 1982 she paddled in the seawater on Bréhec beach in Brittany during a holiday Jessica, Sam, Louisa, and I took with friends Ann and Don. More can be see here: https://derrickjknight.com/2016/09/26/going-for-a-paddle-2/

On Day 3, Jessica stands on Place Fell in Cumbria on 18th August 1992. More images of this trip are found in https://derrickjknight.com/2017/03/12/i-felt-more-than-somewhat-queasy/ with evidence of the reason for my title.

The sunset appearing on Day 4 lit the Atlantic Ocean off Barbados in March 2004 while Sam was completing his epic row. A group of us were following Kilcullen, a support boat for the Ocean Rowing Society’s annual race, first featured in https://derrickjknight.com/2016/02/22/atlantic-sunset/

Further images from that trip and something about the race appear in https://derrickjknight.com/2015/12/02/the-young-gun-and-the-old-grey-wolf/

While on holiday at Instow in Devon in the summer of 1985 we took https://derrickjknight.com/2016/09/04/a-day-trip-to-mousehole/ where the photograph appearing on Day 5 was produced. Sam leads Louisa and Jessica up stone wall steps.

Day 6 features a disused slate mine outside Cerrigydrudion in North Wales where Matthew, Becky, Jessica, Sam, Louisa and I stayed in the summer of 1983. There is more on https://derrickjknight.com/2016/05/21/before-gaeddren/

My uncertainty about Monpazier mentioned at Day 1 shows that my knowledge about where I’ve been can become a bit hazy when I haven’t kept notes. My Day 7 picture is a case in point. I needed an alert reader to point out that this was my first visit to Mousehole, made on honeymoon with Vivien in March 1963. The significance of this photograph is explained in https://derrickjknight.com/2014/05/02/not-lost-after-all/

Day 8 features Port St Charles, Barbados, in March 2004, where Sam is mooring his boat, Pacific Pete. In the background can be seen building work. This is the relevant original post: https://derrickjknight.com/2016/01/22/port-st-charles/

During the years I travelled to London to visit my friend Norman I regularly walked across Westminster Bridge where, in July 2013, I was approached by the five women who were on holiday at Day 9. The encounter, and others, is described in https://derrickjknight.com/2013/07/17/that-was-worth-fighting-for/

Jackie and I enjoyed our honeymoon in Ockley in March 1968. In Day 10’s photograph she looks down on the Surrey countryside from the top of https://derrickjknight.com/2015/02/16/leith-hill/

I am aware that this series may present some confusion to more recent readers who may not have read https://derrickjknight.com/2014/01/05/my-branch-of-the-family-tree/

Walking To Bridgetown

On this drizzly day, Jackie did a great deal of planting and composting. We then carried off to the dump two more bags of the griselinia cuttings that Aaron and Robin had filled for us on Sunday. We only came back with a hoe.

After completing the scanning of the March 2004 colour slides of Barbados, i discovered some negative film I used when walking around the island before Sam arrived. The first dozen of these are of a ten mile walk from our first hotel at the southern tip to the capital, Bridgetown. It was a bit hot, and this was when I earned the epithet ‘the white man who walks’.

This street scene shows the sign for a roadside bar; a well cared-for church, and typical chattel houses,

one with some kind of lean-to constructed of weathered corrugated iron, which was a common roofing material.

The gardens of some of these houses contained car wrecks.

Other owners preferred shrubs,

such as this bougainvillea trained around a porch behind a little picket fence.

Chickens, some having been instructed in the art of deportment, strutted around with the apparent freedom of a New Forest pony.

Coconuts

and breadfruit hung over the road which lacked a footpath,

and along which rampant buses tore. There were not many stops, but local people kept telling me I should use one.

The children who emerged from these simply constructed homes were clad in crisp, clean, uniforms and certainly were not ‘creeping like snail, unwillingly to school’ (William Shakespeare).

This evening we dined on Tesco’s fluffy fish pie; cauliflower, mushrooms, tomatoes, and peas. Jackie drank lemon squash, and I drank merlot. Jackie is still carrying a cough from the virus, although I am not.

Pirates Of The Caribbean

Aaron finished painting the landing doors this rainy morning, whilst I, through the medium of scanning further colour slides from March 2004, took a virtual trip to sunny Barbados.

Beginning with a continuation of my perambulations along the sheltered coastline in the vicinity of Port St Charles,

there was a fling of what I think we decided were some kind of sandpiper.

The golden shoreline blended well with the blue sea, over which a solitary gull flew low.

Penetrating the sands, levitating, long-dead, lizard-like limbs defied gravity.

The bridge at top left of the second and third of these pictures is one that Sam had navigated when he arrived in Barbados a few days earlier. I wish I could remember what the factory was. Perhaps a cane sugar plant?

On a sailing trip on one of the race organisers’ yachts, we observed a shipload of piratical tourists. I rather hoped that all those in the water before the black flag set off for the open sea, had been picked up to enjoy the rest of their trip.

Jackie, over dinner, observed that the onions in the savoury rice that accompanied her delicious chili carne were very finely chopped. That made me feel rather chuffed. She drank Hoegaarden and I finished the graves.

The Young Gun And The Old Grey Wolf

Now that the prunus Subhirtella Autumnalis has shed virtually all its leaves, the blossom remains to clothe the branches, heavily pruned last year;

whilst on the other side of the front garden bergenia blooms.

Today was again warm, but the wind still blustered. I scanned more of the colour slides from the trip to Barbados in May 2004.

Here is a typical road along which I walked for up to ten miles at a time. Chattel houses line the thoroughfares lacking footpaths, and requiring me to be very vigilant when traffic tore past.

Palms punctuated the landscape, and

colourful shrubs, like the ubiquitous bougainvillea, bordered the gardens.

We stayed in Port St Charles for several days after Sam’s arrival at the island. This was because we had had to guess at his arrival time. It was also helpful for us to see some of the other competitors into the harbour.

Sam, in particular, wanted to be at the docking area to welcome Pavel Rezvoy, who had become a friend. In the event, this meant a night-time vigil as the 65 year old Russian disembarked during the night. Sam had, in fact, stopped rowing before coming in, so that he could arrive in daylight.

Sam, the youngest, and Pavel, the oldest, had been almost neck and neck across the Atlantic. Because of the distances involved, they were unaware of each other’s progress, but we had been able to follow them on the internet. Suddenly, for two days, Pavel’s boat was stationary. His satellite phone was not working so the trackers could not even be sure he was still in his boat. This became quite a worry.

In fact, my son completed his journey two days before his friend. Pavel, a most resourceful gentleman, had lost his rudder, and spent two days making a new one out of bits of his boat.

The pair came in first and second places of the solo rowers. Each evening, fuelled with with rum punches that certainly packed one, we joined the Ocean Rowing Society’s administrative team celebrating in the hotel bar.

Tatiania, Pavel’s ex-wife, had kept the Russian Press supplied with reports on the race. Their take on the story was a contest between The Young Gun and The Old Grey Wolf. The rowers themselves hadn’t even known they were competing. They were just happy to complete the challenge.

Here they are with Tatania and another man called Micha, whose role I cannot remember.

An interesting fact which should be apparent from these photographs is that these two rowers, both in very good shape, were the only ones who had allowed themselves a full night’s sleep. All the others, who arrived in pretty sore, tired, condition, had operated on a two hours on, two hours basis, thus, I imagine, ensuring that they were always tired.

Mr Pink’s fish chips and pea fritters were accompanied by pickled cornichons and onions for our dinner tonight, with which I finished the merlot.

Sir Clive Woodward In Holetown

We shared an ironing project this morning. This had become rather pressing because we hadn’t done any for the last three weeks.

This afternoon I continued scanning the colour slides from the Barbados trip of May 2004.

Incidentally, one Barbados story celebrating Sam’s epic row is told in ‘Crossword Setters’ Pseudonyms’.

We were staying at the friendly and hospitable Sugar Cane Club, nestling on palm-girt hills above the sea.

the lush hotel grounds

were invaded each evening by thieving green monkeys,

while enormous cane toads lurked in the grasses.

Soon after Sam’s arrival, he, Dixie, and I took a bus to Holetown, where, in a crowded bar we watched, on an overhead screen, a rugby match between England and Wales. I think this must have been a recording of that year’s March Six Nations match which was won by England 31 – 21.

Sir Clive Woodward, England’s knighted coach, appeared on the wavering screen.

Whilst I was writing this post, our Broadband connection disappeared. Three hours were then occupied waiting to be answered, in conversations with two women in India, then in waiting for calls back. Obviously we are back on line now. I won’t bore you with the details.

This evening we dined on Jackie’s classic sausage casserole. new potatoes, cauliflower, and broccoli, followed by Cornish dairy ice cream and jam tart. Jackie drank Hoegaarden, and I drank Lidl Cote du Rhone 2014.

The Official Welcome

It is clear that William Shakespeare was an Englishman if only because of his song, ‘When That I Was And a Little Tiny Boy’ from ‘Twelfth Night’, the refrain of which is: ‘For the rain it raineth every day’. He knew our weather.

Becky and Ian returned home this afternoon, managing safely to negotiate the still disrupted A27.

Afterwards I scanned more slides from Barbados, March 2004.

Sam successfully brings his boat into dock.

He sits aboard for a while, preparing himself for his first touch of land for two months.

Then comes the official welcome of Ken Crutchlow, Secretary of the Ocean Rowing Society, filmed by Dixie,

Before doing anything else Sam was required to report to border control. This involved walking along a narrow quayside to present his passport to a man in a little office. As he was rather wobbly, he needed my assistance to reach this point. It was, of course, a great privilege to be selected to provide such support.

After this we lined up for group photographs. Here Jessica, Louisa, and I join Sam and Ken.

Before repairing to the bar, Sam caught up with me, his mother and his sister.

Here he is in the beach bar.

Each evening for the rest of our stay, we began with potent rum punches in the main dining area upstairs. After a few of these, Ken would always cry: ‘Samson Knight. Who named that boy?’

This evening there was plenty of last night’s Spice of India takeaway left over to feed Jackie and me. I finished the cabernet sauvignon, and Jackie abstained.

Landfall In Sight

Today’s weather was slightly less wet than yesterday. Scanning was still in order, so I returned to my colour slides from May 2004 in Barbados.

Two days ago, we left Sam coming into sight of the watchers on the yacht. He was soon to experience his first land for 59 days on the wide, dark, deep, Atlantic Ocean. Jessica, Louisa, Chris, Frances, Fiona, and I were privileged to be there to share the moments.

We watched him make his way from the calmer, but still choppy, Caribbean Sea to the more sheltered Western side of Barbados.

He paused to film us,

before taking in the surrounding buildings and vegetation, and navigating these pier struts.

Louisa, Jessica, and Dixie, were making their own record.

Louisa seems to have spotted something overhead.

Sam continues on his way,

encouraged by local residents,

until he nears the windsock which marks the finish line.

Excitement mounted.

Meanwhile, on 27th August 2015, we enjoyed Jackie’s scrumptious cottage pie, Becky’s pasta bake, and crisp carrots, with which Ian drank San Miguel; Jackie, Hoegaarden; and Becky and I finished the Teroldego Rotaliano.

Around The Island

On yet another rain-slashed August day, I spared a thought for those holidaymakers who had come to the forest and the seaside for their long-awaited summer break. The last ten days hasn’t bothered me, because my chest infection has kept me indoors anyway, but they can’t have had much fun.

Needless to say this was another day for scanning colour slides, this time from Barbados in May 2004. If nothing else they remind me of sunshine. This set of photographs was made a day or two before Sam was expected to reach the island, having rowed The Atlantic solo from the Canaries.

Both Jackie and I think we ought to recognise this plant, but we don’t. Fortunately Mary Tang has identified it as frangipani.

Bougainvillea brightens every landscape.

A golden sunset is almost a cliche. Not in Port St Charles.

Jessica watches as Louisa shows her photographs to another member of the waiting group.

Birds like the Yellow breasted Sunbury,

and the Barbados Bullfinch, the only indigenous species, which is found nowhere else, take advantage of nature’s camouflage,

as does the land crab.

The grackle

and the sanderling don’t seem to need it.

This gentleman demonstrates the method of releasing milk from a coconut.

Just before the expected arrival time even the previously bright blue Caribbean Sea darkened,

and a rainbow arced over Port St Charles.

I was regularly in touch with Radio Nottingham to deliver live updates from my mobile phone. That night, I opened our balcony doors so that listeners could hear the deafening waves crashing in from the Atlantic.

This evening we dined on barbecue pork ribs, savoury rice, and green beans. Jam tart and custard was to follow. Ian drank Heritage de Calvet cotes du Rhone 2014; Becky drank lime cordial; Jackie, sparkling water; and I, another glass of the pinot noir.

The Caribbean Sea

Today was another rainswept blustery day, so I returned to my photographic archives and scanned a dozen slides from May 2004. This was the month in which Sam completed his Atlantic Row, which I have featured from time to time. During the few days waiting for him to arrive in Port St Charles, Barbados, and afterwards, I took the opportunity to roam the Island with my camera. There are many more in this set.

Jessica, Louisa, and I began our stay in an hotel some miles from the finishing point, but soon transferred to join Chris, Frances, and Fiona in one in the luxurious developing holiday playground.

This area presented a stark contrast to how the rest of the inhabitants of Barbados lived. Our hotel was surrounded by a compound patrolled by armed guards to keep out people like a coconut seller seated on the wall outside. His produce looked unappetising and he charged fairly optimistic prices.

Some distance away, a young woman, seated on a rugged outcrop gazing out to sea, was persuaded to rise to her feet.

Port St Charles (Speightstown on the map) lies on the Caribbean Sea to the north west of the Island. To the east storms the Atlantic ocean. The two bodies of water meet at the northern tip of the Island. Rowers need to navigate this point with precision. Too wide and the current would would carry them to Cuba, too near and they would be smashed on these rocks. The competitors rowed in pairs or solo. One of the pairs hit the rocks, and had to be rescued.

These seascapes are of the more gentle Caribbean.

Much less inviting was the dark, violent, Atlantic that, on the last couple of days, swept my son so fast towards his final destination that he dropped his anchor to slow himself down in order to arrive in daylight. Not for him, Cuba or the rocks.

Late this afternoon the rain desisted and the sun put in a brief appearance.

The red hot pokers were not extinguished,

and raindrops glistened on day lilies,

dahlias,

the clematis Duchess of Albany,

Priscilla, the gladiolus,

the Absolutely Fabulous rose,

and any others you care to imagine.

This evening we dined on a rack of pork ribs in barbecue sauce, and Jackie’s chicken in black bean sauce, stir fry vegetable noodles, and rice noodles, followed by rice pudding. I drank more of the cabernet sauvignon, and Jackie abstained.

A Ring Of Truth

Early this morning Jackie, Don and I shopped in Acres Down Farm shop and went on to All Saints Church, first described on 24th December last year. While Jackie diverted to Minstead Village Shop, Don and I wandered around the churchyard in bright sunshine, before we all three explored the inside.

Particularly interesting to our friend was the ‘blasted’ yew, a seven hundred year old tree that fell apart some years ago and regenerated itself. The wild flowers now in evidence include clover , dandelions, daisies, and buttercups.

When we returned, I decided to tackle the problem of a rejected e-mail password. This time I got BT’s representative on the telephone to reset a completely new code. As usual, Jackie being the primary account holder, he needed to speak to her first. Unfortunately he got the wrong end of the stick and changed her password. This required putting right and involved a box filled with ‘funny writing I can’t read’. All this took time and I had to interpret the ‘funny writing’, fortunately getting it right. The man kept having to put us on hold and check with his supervisor. Eventually he returned to me and reset the replacement password. It worked. For about an hour. Then the new one was rejected. I have now come to the conclusion that my BT Yahoo account has been well and truly hacked. I can’t face it any more at the moment. So don’t send me any e-mails.

My head still full of the computer problem, I sat in the garden watching the birds with Don, whilst Jackie prepared the evening’s barbecue. The company and avian interest helped calm me. Don is one of three friends I have who are pretty knowledgable about birds. He helped me distinguish between the various tits who visit the feeder. I observed that it was becoming possible to identify birds some distance away on the lawn by their outline shape, their posture, their gait, and how they hold their tail-feathers. Apart from the pied wagtails, the blackbirds brought me to this conclusion.

Talking birds with Don, it was natural for me to mention my friend bo Beolens, who has written a number of bird books and who, as Fatbirder, runs an international birding website. This turns out to be one of Don’s favourites on his computer. I proudly brought the site up on screen and showed him the Lesser Antillean Bullfinch which illustrates bo’s Barbados page. The photograph was taken by me in Barbados in 2004, when I was there to see Sam arrive at the end of his Atlantic row.

Late in the afternoon Becky, Ian, and Flo arrived with Scooby and Oddie. We then enjoyed the various sausages, chicken tikka masala and array of salads Jackie had produced in the kitchen. That seems to me to be the sensible way of preparing a barbecue.

On 28th March I described how Matthew’s dog, Oddie, always dives into my chair whenever he has the chance. Because Mat and Tess are on their way to visit Sam and Holly and their children in Croatia, Becky is looking after Oddie and therefore brought him with them today. Would you believe it? Even in the garden he nicks my seat.

It was natural that with Becky and Don together, we should tell some Lindum House stories. One of today’s was of the intruder. One balmy evening as we sat in the snug watching television, about twenty years ago, we heard someone coming down the stairs. As usual in the summer, we had left open the double doors at the front of the house. A young man was then seen to walk past the window, making his way to the bottom of the garden. I set off in pursuit. He started running. So did I. After him. He began to climb the fence between us and the Parletts in Lindum Street. I grabbed him, pulled him down, and frogmarched him into the house. Calling out to Jessica to telephone the police, I sat on him at the foot of the stairs.

I soon realised he was drunk. He kept going on about a fishing contest with the Working Men’s Club. After the event, he and his friends from Grimsby had gone off drinking in Newark. He was making his way back to the Club. His team coach was parked outside in the road. It dawned on me that all this had a ring of truth. It would be easy enough for me to take him out to check on the coach. I asked Jessica to cancel the emergency call. She attempted to do so, but it was not possible. It stands to reason, really. The uninvited guest could have been standing with a gun to my head. Actually he was lying between the bottom step and my embrace. For the whole forty five minutes it took for the officers to arrive.

As, after satisfactory explanations, I took him up the drive to the open gates, down the path towards us walked about five of his mates. They had made the same mistake. And sure enough, there, on the road between us and the Club, was a coach. Lindum House, you see, was a Victorian reproduction of the former grand Georgian house next door that now hosted social activities of the town’s working men.