Just for a change, we opted for rum and coke rather than G&Ts, getting into the spirit of the Caribbean, and the rum came from the factory up the road from St Pierre.  It didn’t seem as strong as we’d remembered.  Deciding that we really ought to eat somewhere else for a change from Le Tamaya, we opted for the Hotel de Vague looking out to sea so that we could spot WIndy from our table, Roxanne (refreshed with new batteries) shining extremely brightly and probably easily mistaken for a navigation buoy.  Dinner, and the menu, was simple and in order to avoid the dreaded boudin, Bob opted for a mushroom omelette and I, avoiding the salty accra balls, chose fish “cooked” in lemon.  Both were tasty.  We both then went for the entrecote steak (when in France...) and after some hand waving discussion worked out that if you want your steak really red you ask for it to be bleu.  We then finished with a flaming banana flambe with a hefty slug of rum.  All most satisfactory.  As we wended our way back, we discovered that there was a song and dance celebration of Indian culture in the main square, in honour of the many Indians that came to work on the plantations after emancipation dispersed the workforce.  It was very jolly with a very enthusiastic, smiley male lead aged about 13 and a troupe of girls and a couple of very intense older ladies who wiggled away in full Bollywood style.  Ones eye was drawn to a gorgeous chubby girl also, of about 13, who was flirting like a pro with the audience and jiggling her fulsome belly with enormous gusto.  A real treat to participate in local culture.

It rained a lot in the night so we leapt about madly closing windows but not before a mosquito had found shelter in our cabin.  Bob is now sporting an ankle bracelet of bites round each foot.  We arose to a flat calm, not a breath of wind, raised the anchor and headed out hoping that there might be at least some wind once we were out of the lee.  There wasn’t.  We puttled along as if we were on an inland lake and just kept puttling all the way to Anse a l’ane.  We were so relaxed in our puttling that we forgot to have breakfast.  On our arrival I had to pay careful attention because of a scary reef, not marked on the Garmin chart, making anchoring accurately essential.  Bob was distracted by a nice French woman gaily waving a welcome, topless.  As we had lunch on deck he very politely swapped seats so that he had his back to her so as to give me his full attention.  I studiously admired the pretty scenery.

We pottered ashore, had a stroll but found a very boring row of holiday cabins, a very high dinghy dock that the old and frail found a bit of a struggle, a rather grainy sanded beach and yet more boudin, accra and langoustine on offer in some rather lacklustre establishments, those that were actually open on a Sunday.  We are therefore planning on eating on board tonight and looking forward to an evening with Katie Mellua, the Christmas candles and we might even sneak out our Kindles.