The Rainforest Hideaway was divine.  It was live jazz night with a trombonist and trumpeter playing mellow old traditional songs and made a suitable accompaniment to the delicious amuse bouche, the little something from the chef, the delicious scallops and crab cake, the sorbet, the delicious melt in your mouth fish and the sublime puds, panacotta for me and Bob the coconut mousse.  This was contemporary cooking using local ingredients at its best.  It all passed ina bit of a blur because in my eagerness to get there I forgot to put on my specs. 

In the morning we arose surrounded by mangroves, waving palms and a very close neighbouring huge catamaran noisily spurting water, bedecked with an even huger American couple who crouched in their climate controlled cabin away from the Caribbean sun.  Bob phoned Ulrich who promised us a berth of some kind at Rodney Bay, phew!  We said we would be there between 3 and 4.   We went and checked in, only three different forms in triplicate including one invented for Marigot Bay that they don’t require up the coast in Rodney Bay, but at least we didn’t have to visit the Health Office as threatened at Rodney Bay.  We were a bit concerned that the big fat lady’s (no, not me the one behind me on the plane) horrible cough might be misdiagnosed as Ebola.

Bob manfully manhandled a whole pack of water to the boat where we prepared to set sail.  Lovely Michael, who had taxied us girls around in May dropped by and passed on his best to my sisters, whom he obviously remembered most fondly, and then we were off.  We pootled along with a full mainsail, close hauled but so little wind that we kept the motor on too.  We were most content watching the coast go by and drifted into Rodney Bay so early that we decided to put down the anchor for a bite of lunch before proceeding in.  It also gave Bob a chance to check out why the macerator pump hadn’t worked when tried out a day or so ago and also to check out why the bow thruster wasn’t thrusting merely nudging. Unfortunately I happened to choose the worst, rolly spot in a vast bay.   Doh.  Another call to Ulrich established our berth and we wafted in.  Finding our place we turned in to find a rope stretched out across the berth, aargh.  Fortunately Ulrich suddenly popped up and removed it just as I was wondering what to do.  I don’t think either Ulrich or Bob noticed my little panicky moment, Bob was too busy moving all the mooring ropes to the other side because I had parked on the wrong side of the berth.

Another boat has arrived to park where I was actually meant to.  Our neighbours are the Royle family, just as they are at home!  It is a small world because they live in Littlestone on Sea and young Caitlin Royle goes to Ashford School in Kent, my alma mater.  For old girls reading this blog, they still call the fields alongside the river Lower and Upper Nightingale and the day girls still have house called Knights, Merchants and Pilgrims after the Canterbury Tales.  Not everything changes in life.