Off in the dinghy from our rolly anchorage, then a lift from the dock in our hosts' mule to the Cotton House for drinkie poos.  Mules are the preferred transport on the island.  Big buggies seating 6 or more, good for climbing the steep hills.  Into a parking area, alongside dozens of other mules, then shepherded by a steward to an avenue lit by flaming torches, up some stairs and straight into London SW3, a packed, high-cellinged room containing pretty well all the owners and guests on Mustique, including Cliff Richard – yes folks, your actual Cliff Richard, slim and immaculately preserved.     The noise level from the guests was mega, just a tad below the decibels at a Metallica gig.  So after grabbing a rum punch from the deft bar staff it was outside onto the veranda for a seat, a sip, a cigar, and a quiet chat with a congenial house guest.  Then back in the mule for dindins at our hosts’ opulent and tasteful house, with a view of the neighbouring island of Bequia, either from the open-sided dining area or, on the following day,  from the infinity pool.....

 

 

A day or two earlier was Mr Cooper’s birthday, so the two senior members of the crew now have a combined age of 148 years.  The skipper got a card:

 

 

 

 

We spend 4 nights on the boat, moored in the bay on the jewel-like island of  Mustique.  For all our evening meals and at most other times we were at our hosts’ house doing this and that, with a beach picnic on Thursday - see later blog.  The house is fully staffed, and they even laundered our manky washing.  Jamissimo.  Your blogster, ostensibly the cook on this boat, has rustled up a few breakfasts, and poured a Black Label or two, but it has hardly been backbreaking work.   No doubt things will change after we lift the anchor and we are on our own again.