Arriving at the restaurant, Plum Rose, that we had carefully booked, we found that we were the only people there.  This could be because there is something wrong with their phone which appears to be answered by an alien, hence the trickiness in booking yesterday.  It was a nice enough place, right on a marina, (there was some anxiety over the boat moored five feet from our table until we had ascertained that it did have enough fenders to cope with the severe hammering it was getting from the surprisingly vicious little waves) with a straightforward menu, served by a happy waitress.  As we companionably chatted, a fellow was singing an eclectic range of songs along to one of those key boards where the electronically produced beat is always too lumpy and heavy.  We both plumped for calamari salad, tasty, and then Bob had salmon and I had grouper stuffed with crab, served with crisp vegetables and the fried plantains that we like.  Bob’s mashed potato was served, rather oddly, as two pert mounds.  He couldn’t resist the temptation of adding just a spot of sauce to the top of each.  The wine was pretty grim, an acidic sauvignon blanc served lukewarm, but fortunately only one glass at a time.   Not very memorable but a pleasant dining experience.

We arose at a leisurely pace this morning, puttered over to the marina to meet Simeon.  Simeon was apologetically late because he had been helping to pack a “cantina” which we didn’t understand but felt must be very important.  Fortunately we soon passed by these “cantinas” which turned out to be containers that were being packed with supplies for the many people made homeless in St VIncent in the Christmas Eve rains. A nice gesture.  Our tour of the island then progressed.  We went up a steep hill, admired the view across to Norman Island.  Went down and up another steep hill and admired the view across to Virgin Gorda.  We drove slowly through Cane Garden Bay to admire the churches (mostly enormous by Caribbean standards), the schools (very modern, large and pristine), taking a detour to visit the Community Centre, also enormous and brand spanking new.  We took a detour to visit the mansion that the corrupt politician, who was voted out of power two years ago, had built and later admired his commercial properties in town.  We tried to visit the Botanical Gardens but they were closed, no cruise ships in.  And that was basically it.  Simeon was an interesting guide in his own way and we learnt that Tortola appeared to be a wealthy island, main industries tourism and finance, and that the multitude of grand houses were owned by white people, drug dealers and immigrants from all over the world who had started up their businesses from scratch and “made good” (such as the Said brothers from Afghanistan).  An island of opportunity it seems and all carefully brought back from the brink of corruption by the reintroduction of a Governor from England, a British chief of police and Prison Governor when it was all going horribly wrong.  We also learnt to be wary if someone invites you round to eat a goat, it might be yours and by eating it yourself, you can no longer claim that is was stolen, according to St VIncent law.  Our short but sweet tour ended up at The Pub where we had a full lunch before retiring, very full, to hang around lazily making the most of a sunny afternoon, reading Kindles and relaxing ready for our busy day tomorrow when we prepare for blast off.