Last night turned out to be a very jolly evening with the Jelleys, Jane and Rob, who happened to be on holiday in Bequia, live just 4 miles up the road from us and are both St Margaret’s and Dauntsey’s parents and happened to be at Princess Margaret’s beach at the same time as Fran and Pop earlier in the day.  We have known them for years.  It is a very small world indeed. 

The barbeque was excellent, and there was heaps of every vegetable you can imagine as well as juicy fat ribs and luscious steak cooked to a crisp on the outside and juicy inside.  The live band was brilliant and placed every cheesy song you can imagine including requests.  One request was from a man who looked so old he resembled a tortoise who jumped up enthusiastically from his all male table of equally ancient old chaps and started dancing enthusiastically in a semaphore style.  He couldn’t be allowed to look foolish on his own so I did the decent thing and joined him at which point one of his compatriots (German we think) joined in with his best interpretation of a double jointed stork.  We had clearly started something and were joined by an attractive woman who came out of nowhere (although it turned out later that she was Brazilian).  I calmed down sufficiently to return to the table for pud (a boring crumble but delicious passion fruit ice cream) but when Blurred Lines came on, and the singer decided to come and perform right by us, who could not resist the urge to re-enact the video?   A very jolly evening indeed and soon after 11pm, and hoarse from trying to talk to Jane and Rob above the band, Bob and I tottered back to the boat.  Fran and Pop had a second wind and decided to stay on.  The next time we saw them was at roughly 2am when they were dropped off to our doorstep and explained rather slurringly that they had been having drinks on the Black Pearl (confusing having just been at Wallilabou in pirate ship of the same name territory) but apparently the Black Pearl is the boat belonging to the aforesaid dancing Brazilian woman, her husband and only son who are their new best friends.  (Are you still following this?)

This morning we dispensed paracetamol, had a late breakfast (with Gerry humming contentedly along as an accompaniment), headed ashore and sought out the ATM to feed Bob’s habit.  We then took the first taxi driver that called out, such a lottery for them and us, called Brinsley Olliviere (a very typical Bequian name) and started on our tour.  He was an excellent guide and gave us a good lecture on the history and roots of Bequia (although Bob thought he went on rather probably because he was being paid by the hour), took us up to the fort for the canon shots, to the turtle sanctuary where the ever defensively aggressive Orson explained how he was saving the turtle world while I snuck off and scratched the back of the turtle who finds this such ecstasy that she flaps her flippers splashily and then took a break for lunch at Sugar Reef which looks out, quintessentially Caribbean style, over the Atlantic side of the island towards Mustique.  Brinsley propped up at the bar with a drink and had some difficulty persuading the staff that Bob was not the local Mr Big who owns half the island, called Mr Bent and apparently Bob’s doppelganger.   (Bob’s very quick and slightly indignant response was that he was actually Mr Straight).  The tour became somewhat soporific after a very tasty lunch (lobsters are in season so how could Pop, Fran and I resist while Bob went for a conservative beetroot salad) and we wandered up hill and down dale admiring the spectacular views returning to Port Elizabeth at tea time.  We fell into the dinghy, clambered aboard and the girls have gone for a nap.  We think that last night has caught up with them.