St Maarten · BVI · St Kitts & Nevis · At Sea · Martinique · Bequia · Mustique · St Vincent & The Grenadines · Grenada · Barbados

Dearest Reader,

 A Troubled Start

The first week of this odyssey is over, and I enter the second with renewed vigour.

During that first week, I must admit to having suffered from the vapors and memories that were not convivial to good times. In addition, the fact that I leave the US permanently in less than a month has hit home rather harder than anticipated. It’s the closure of an era that has been both brilliant and terrible. But, hopefully, closed it will stay.

As this second week begins, the vapors have settled and those memories are back, mostly, where they belong.

So now I can recount my escapades in the style of Bridgerton. Why? Because I love Mrs. Julie Andrews.

On the Matter of Weather

The wind has been, in a word, persistent. The British contingent aboard – dominant in number, hailing predominantly from Scotland and, mysteriously, Airdrie – responded to the bracing trade winds with the quiet satisfaction of people who have been training for exactly this their entire lives. There has also been some rain. We considered it refreshing.

The British Virgin Islands: A Study in Scenic Futility

The British Virgin Islands appeared on the horizon precisely as advertised — luminous, turquoise, the very archetype of Caribbean splendour. The tenders were readied. And then the wind made its position abundantly clear.

We could not tender. The sea state had opinions.

The BVI remained exactly where they were – visible, tantalising, and entirely inaccessible. We watched them from the ship. They were beautiful. We went to lunch.

St Kitts & Nevis: The Caviar I Did Not Eat (Yet)

St Kitts and Nevis offers, I am reliably informed, a caviar and lobster experience of considerable local renown. Reader, I did not go. This was not negligence. This was due to the vapors, etc. We return in a few days’ time, and I intend to address the caviar situation then, at leisure, with the serene superiority of a man who has already done the reconnaissance.

St Pierre, Martinique: Magnificently, Gloriously Decrepit

We tendered ashore at St Pierre, a town obliterated in 1902 by the eruption of Mount Pelée and rebuilding ever since, apparently without undue haste. It is a French island, after all.

The result is crumbling colonial architecture in various states of dignified decay, cats occupying doorsteps as though they own them (they do), and the atmosphere of a place that has made its peace with the fact that the volcano is still, technically, there.

What it does have, and I cannot stress this enough, is coffee. Proper French coffee, with a pastry of considerable buttery consequence.

Bequia & Mustique: The Rich, The Famous, and Basil’s Bar

Bequia. We tendered into Port Elizabeth, which is the kind of small Caribbean harbour that makes one immediately want to own a sailboat, a linen shirt, and significantly fewer responsibilities. From there, a catamaran carried us across to Mustique, a private island of such conspicuous exclusivity that the air itself seems to carry a faint whiff of old money and sun cream.

And no smell of Epstein files whatsoever.

A beach stroll followed, as one does when one has arrived on an island frequented by people whose names appear in gossip columns and on superyacht registries. The weather was, let us say, mixed, which is a diplomatic way of saying it was a bit wet, but one does not permit Caribbean hi drizzle to dampen one’s sense of occasion on Mustique. One simply carries on.

Lunch was at Basil’s Bar. Basil’s Bar is, in the great tradition of legendary Caribbean establishments, the sort of place where you sit down expecting a sandwich and emerge three hours later having spoken to people you could not have anticipated meeting, eaten considerably better than you planned, and felt, briefly, as though life is very good indeed. The rich and the famous were apparently present, though I confess I did not recognise them.

That evening, back aboard, dinner at Sushi. I must pause here to properly acknowledge Carla and June – two individuals of such warmth, skill, and unerring instinct for what a person actually needs to eat that I can only report I am now slightly larger than I was in Sint Maarten. They made me fat. I am grateful. I would do it again without hesitation.

Grenada: An Early Start, a Bus, and the Reward of Great Heights

Grenada demanded an early start, which I managed with the grim, determined civility of a man who knows that what awaits is worth it – a five hour guided tour of the best views and herb and spice gardens.

The bus delivered us first to Fort George (not the one near Inverness!) for views….

…..and then onto Laura’s Herb & Spice Garden. We tasted and smelled our way through cocoa, tarragon, bay, anise, supremely hot baby peppers, mango, lemon grass, ginger root, etc. as well as the marvelous aromas were beautiful plants and flowers. A truly enchanting experience. I see a wee herb and spice garden in Glasgow…

We were then delivered to a fresh water lake in a volcano’s caldera …..

….that then led to the beginning of a short hike in the rain forest. The hike delivered me (but no one else in the group) – breathless, slightly dishevelled, and entirely vindicated – to views of the sort that make one forget one ever complained about the early alarm. Thankfully, given my history of bites from monkeys (and dogs), the Mona Monkeys did not appear. Little brutes.

Grenada is green, dramatic, and rather magnificent. It rewards effort. One departs feeling that one has earned the view, which is the best kind of view there is.

One further pleasure deserves its proper mention: dinner in The Restaurant with Kieran and Moyra – an Irish and English coupling of considerable charm, excellent conversation, and the kind of sharp, generous humour that makes three hours disappear in what feels like twenty minutes. The sort of people you hope to find on a ship and usually don’t. I found them. The evening was a delight. I miss them already.

Barbados: New Arrivals, Same Vintage

We are now docked in Barbados.

We are sharing the docks with a Star Clipper, P&O’s Arvia, Viking’s Viking Sea and Emerald’s Sakara- and some dirty container and tug boats.

Oh, and I just noticed that Noble. Caledonia’s Hebridean Sky is tucked to the stern of Arvia; I saw her in Martinique.

The majority of our fellow Seabourn passengers – the Scots, the Airdrie contingent, Tom and Robin from North Carolina, Kieran and Moyra and others – the assembled magnificent and opinionated – are disembarking. The ship, like a very elegant theatre, turns over its audience.

The newer guests are already boarding. I have observed them from the deck with the quiet authority of a man who has been here a week and therefore knows everything. They are, I can confirm, equally old. Different faces. Same vintage. The average age of this vessel remains, as it should, robustly seasoned.

We sail on into our second week.