It's late evening (7:45) and the charterers on the catamaran beside us are having a Bon Temps. There's at least a dozen of them, collected from two buddy boats, and for the second night in a row, they're bopping up and down in the cockpit, clapping and hooting and singing and dancing up a storm. From our vantage point, it looks and sounds like a great party, except that we can't hear the music. The wind she blow pretty good, and for some reason, Bob Marley shreds away, and all the hooting and hollering remains. They're having a great time.
Reminds me of the time that my sister and I were dancing in the living room, giving it all up for Michael Jackson sometime in the early '70s, and her boyfriend was out in our backyard watching us. I'm hoping he still suffers from the hernia he got laughing.
Still in the Saintes. This is a stupendously pretty place, with a neighbourhood feel about it, particularly since ND seems to be a magnet for French boats keen to anchor in such a way so that they don't feel lonely in the night. They come, they go. It's a holiday, weekendy sort of destination for the local sailors and the charterers, so there's not really any extended bother.
We've been hiking. My calves are bulging in a vulgar and painful way. Yesterday, we had a fairly laid-back beach and road stroll with Pat from Pasha (while Larry was banging on their refrigeration problems with heavy tools and, I assume, a growly sort of vocabulary). Our easy hike-du-jour was just to help us recouperate from the hike up to the top of some giant hill that we did the day before.
Today, after a day without vertical challenges, we pondered our options and thought we might try another giant hill, so off we go. We're still futzing around with sorting out the perfect tropical footwear again (a few months in real shoes really does a number on your feet), and bandaids and surgical tape are part of the gear we tote. Flip flops R Me, but there's often a need to protect your toes and have a bit more support on these monster hill climbs, so we compromise by wearing sturdier gear and stopping to stick plasters. It's an excuse to sit down and suck in oxygen.
We didn't leave the boat until about 10 this morning - had to run the engine, once every 3 or 4 days! - so by the time we started to hunt down the trail head, it was getting hot inland. Nice big sign indicating the trail, with one of those nice cartoony maps that bear no resemblance to the local landmarks (do we go up the concrete road? or over the hill on the left? or stop at the big snacky place for a beer and ask directions?). We went straight up the nearly vertical concrete road (calves! bulgerama!), looked around and found no indication that we had found the trail head, so we leaned back, made our way down the incline and decided to attack the trail from the other end.
Found that, no prob, about a half-mile away, and then it was bloody vertical for the next half hour. Man, I'm thinking, was this my idea? Every 30 seconds I'm finding fascinating things to stop and investigate and photograph. Lichen. Leaves. Ah, wait up, Randy, check out this plant! Oooh, look at this bug! Hey, is this the biggest goat dump we've seen this week?
By the time we round the top of the hill and start the downward slither and slip, we're overheated, soaking wet and grumpy (me). Randy's setting the pace, and I'm following these sturdy legs thinking, yeah, you go old guy, but I'm carry the pack (small) with the two bottles of water (diminished) and I'm getting over a migraine (not that bad) and you snored last night.
We exited the trail a few hundred feet from where we had been stumped at the top of the concrete road, though we never, ever would have found it coming the other way. Made our way down the last bits of the hill, turned left and headed for the beach, past some really big cow plops in the middle of the road neatly bisected with scooter tracks, and dragged our dehydrated butts to the beer lady by the beach. Two Caribs, cold, 5 Euros. While we guzzled, we watched a large black pregnant nanny goat attempt to rummage for food in people's packs.
End of day, showered and fed and enjoying the partying from the other boats, we're contemplating a trip 25 miles NE to Pointe a Pitre. We are in serious need of groceries. Sailors cannot live by fabulous bread, cheese, tomatoes and eggs alone. Although I did score a huge handful of basil today - growing in a concrete ditch! I'm ripping out big bunches, all wow, and Randy says, okay, okay, don't be a pig. We have one tomato left. Tomorrow's lunch!
See below for photos. Click on them to the get full splendour.
Reminds me of the time that my sister and I were dancing in the living room, giving it all up for Michael Jackson sometime in the early '70s, and her boyfriend was out in our backyard watching us. I'm hoping he still suffers from the hernia he got laughing.
Still in the Saintes. This is a stupendously pretty place, with a neighbourhood feel about it, particularly since ND seems to be a magnet for French boats keen to anchor in such a way so that they don't feel lonely in the night. They come, they go. It's a holiday, weekendy sort of destination for the local sailors and the charterers, so there's not really any extended bother.
We've been hiking. My calves are bulging in a vulgar and painful way. Yesterday, we had a fairly laid-back beach and road stroll with Pat from Pasha (while Larry was banging on their refrigeration problems with heavy tools and, I assume, a growly sort of vocabulary). Our easy hike-du-jour was just to help us recouperate from the hike up to the top of some giant hill that we did the day before.
Today, after a day without vertical challenges, we pondered our options and thought we might try another giant hill, so off we go. We're still futzing around with sorting out the perfect tropical footwear again (a few months in real shoes really does a number on your feet), and bandaids and surgical tape are part of the gear we tote. Flip flops R Me, but there's often a need to protect your toes and have a bit more support on these monster hill climbs, so we compromise by wearing sturdier gear and stopping to stick plasters. It's an excuse to sit down and suck in oxygen.
We didn't leave the boat until about 10 this morning - had to run the engine, once every 3 or 4 days! - so by the time we started to hunt down the trail head, it was getting hot inland. Nice big sign indicating the trail, with one of those nice cartoony maps that bear no resemblance to the local landmarks (do we go up the concrete road? or over the hill on the left? or stop at the big snacky place for a beer and ask directions?). We went straight up the nearly vertical concrete road (calves! bulgerama!), looked around and found no indication that we had found the trail head, so we leaned back, made our way down the incline and decided to attack the trail from the other end.
Found that, no prob, about a half-mile away, and then it was bloody vertical for the next half hour. Man, I'm thinking, was this my idea? Every 30 seconds I'm finding fascinating things to stop and investigate and photograph. Lichen. Leaves. Ah, wait up, Randy, check out this plant! Oooh, look at this bug! Hey, is this the biggest goat dump we've seen this week?
By the time we round the top of the hill and start the downward slither and slip, we're overheated, soaking wet and grumpy (me). Randy's setting the pace, and I'm following these sturdy legs thinking, yeah, you go old guy, but I'm carry the pack (small) with the two bottles of water (diminished) and I'm getting over a migraine (not that bad) and you snored last night.
We exited the trail a few hundred feet from where we had been stumped at the top of the concrete road, though we never, ever would have found it coming the other way. Made our way down the last bits of the hill, turned left and headed for the beach, past some really big cow plops in the middle of the road neatly bisected with scooter tracks, and dragged our dehydrated butts to the beer lady by the beach. Two Caribs, cold, 5 Euros. While we guzzled, we watched a large black pregnant nanny goat attempt to rummage for food in people's packs.
End of day, showered and fed and enjoying the partying from the other boats, we're contemplating a trip 25 miles NE to Pointe a Pitre. We are in serious need of groceries. Sailors cannot live by fabulous bread, cheese, tomatoes and eggs alone. Although I did score a huge handful of basil today - growing in a concrete ditch! I'm ripping out big bunches, all wow, and Randy says, okay, okay, don't be a pig. We have one tomato left. Tomorrow's lunch!
See below for photos. Click on them to the get full splendour.
posted by Susan at 1:14 PM
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