We went where the wind took us and it wasn’t to Canouan.  We decided to drop into Salt Whistle Bay rather than fight our way into the wind and it was a good choice.  An enterprising young chap got us roped up to a mooring buoy and we were settled in.  We don’t mind paying for mooring balls because we feel it is our way of giving back to the economy of the islands that we visit in return for their beauty.  It drives us mad that a French tourist company run catamarans around St Vincent and the Grenadines barge their way to the front to anchor, chuck their passengers into the sea for a swim, feed them with French-bought food on board and give them French-bought drinks and then bugger off having taken their fill.  It makes us think of parasites.

We dinghied ashore (once Bob had returned from a little drift into the distance, it is very wise to tie your dinghy on to your boat while bailing it out) and walked hand in hand along the beach, which was very romantic except that Bob hates (really, really HATES) getting sand in his shoes, and crossed the narrow spit to look across to Tobago Cays accompanied by a friendly dog, where we admired the kite surfers zipping along.

We dropped into one of the beach bars that have sprung up along the shore line and met our boat boy with whom we had to hand bump and beat our hearts, as you do.  As we sipped a beer the rain it poured like cats and dogs.  When the sailors trousers appeared we made a dash back to the boat getting very wet bottoms in the process.

We had booked in for a bbq at the beach bar so pootled over at 7:30pm to find the bar’s generator was malfunctioning (deja vu?) so we supped our beer by the light of a candle, held firm by sand inside a water bottle.  The bar’s dog had 9 pups who kept appearing under the table demanding a tickle.  The Bbq arrived, circa 8:30pm, and it was the most absolutely delicious chicken, moist and tasty, served with salad (which I think included christophenes), baked spuds with garlicky fruity topping and the compulsory West Indian rice. (Why, when they don’t grow it here?)  As a side dish, I was joined by the bar’s cat a pretty delicate little thing who competed for tickles with the puppies.  Another guest happened to be an engineer who got the generator going briefly, at least until it rained when, as Black Boy the bar owner remarked, it was hard to see him in the dark.  It poured again but when it had died down we made a dash for it, inevitable wet bottoms once I had managed to get into the dinghy despite the dog on the dock trying to wrap itself round my legs.

We will try for Mustique tomorrow.