This week, we shall finish off in St Lucia before taking the short sail to Grenada.

You will remember that you left us in the queue waiting to get into Diamond Botanic Gardens and Waterfall, with an unfortunate couple who had suffered a currency malfunction. That’s right, someone had told them that Barbadian dollars would be accepted tender all over the Caribbean.

The moral to that tale is that you never trust a Barbadian dollar salesman. I often wonder what they did with their surfeit of Barbadian dollars; I don’t reckon they are easy to shift for a fair price.

Once inside, we went our separate ways… or so we thought.

“You know what I’m like with names,” said Jane. “Just remind me, they were Rebecca and who?”

“Rachel and Richard,” came the reply from the other side of the hedge.

Now Jane has history in muddling up names starting with the same letter or sound. When we lived in Suffolk, we knew three girls with, to be fair, pretty similar names: Kiely, Kylie and Carly.

She would be forever calling Kiely Kylie, Carly Kiely, and so on and so forth. I have to say, this is getting on for twenty years ago now, and I don’t remember which was which.
I think Kylie was a hairdresser, Carly was one of our daughters’ friends, and Kiely was a dog. Or was it…? Well, you see what I mean.

It was treated as a bit of fun by all concerned, except for the dog. She used to emit a guttural growl if Jane used the hairdresser’s name when addressing her. Understandable, I guess!

The precarious drive to Diamond was worth every cent and every minute. It was incredibly tranquil, and it would have been very easy to wander around for hours, with time passing in a flash.

There is no doubt about it: any weight pushing down on your shoulders evaporates like the water from the volcanic pools. A slight sulphuric scent masks the powerful perfumes of the flora, but it does not detract from the tropical paradise.

Can you imagine coming ashore here and standing in these exotic surroundings, when the last time you walked through a wooded glade might have been in the middle of an English winter? It was sublime.

The falls were captivating, not as torrential as we have seen in the past, but more akin to a delicate summer shower hydrating the shrubs within its reach. The health-benefitting phytoncide chemicals were taken to another level.

We mounted a bridge that carried us across steaming mud pools, an odour not dissimilar to freshly made egg sandwiches reaching for the nostrils. I didn’t want it to end.

We thought to pose for some photographs in the vicinity. We waited while a German family struggled with the old selfie routine—something that is not my forte, it has to be said.

Jane stepped up and offered to take their photos for them. Strictly speaking, not selfies, I suspect. In return, of course, etiquette dictates that the model turns snapper and reciprocates.

They did this, and we got chatting, as you do. Mum and Dad, along with their three children, had sailed across the whole Atlantic Ocean. What an experience, what a challenge, what a tale to tell.

An Atlantic Adventure and Island History

Imagine show-and-tell for the children when they returned to school. They hadn’t quite got away with it, though—the couple had taken on the school syllabus and were teaching the children as they travelled.

The eldest, a daughter, was even enjoying an extra-curricular activity: learning English. I am not sure how British education authorities would respond to such a request for time out of school. Not very well, I suspect.

There would be risk assessments, health and safety policies to read and, most of all, jealousy forms to fill in. How dare the middle classes give their children something out of reach to others?

And, of course, we mustn’t forget the fines for unauthorised absences. Alternatively, you could claim to be self-educating—good luck to inspectors checking curriculum adherence in the middle of the ocean.

The family had moored their vessel in the beautiful coastal resort of Soufrière, only a short stroll from the estate where we had met. I just wish I had got their names. I am very envious that we never did this for our children.

Alas, it was time for us to say our goodbyes. I could have talked all day. “Have a nice day,” said the daughter. A little way to go with the English, but the American seemed to be coming along splendidly!

When we continued on our way, we stumbled across the ancient aqueduct that used to bring water from the nearby Soufrière River. Standing nearby was a gardener, who proved to be a tremendous source of information.

He told us about the history of the estate and what was produced there before it became a research centre for local and worldwide flora. The French governor granted 2,000 acres to three Devaux brothers in 1713.

This was for services rendered to King Louis XIV, to develop a sugar cane plantation. The French craving for the sweet stuff was certainly a match for the English.
A water mill was added in 1765 to crush the cane. It is remarkable that the mill is still in operation 260 years later, albeit producing hydroelectricity instead. Incredible repurposing.

The mineral springs were later discovered and used by the French garrison as restorative baths. They fell into disrepair for a time, until being renovated in the 1930s for private family use.

Joan Devaux, in the 1980s, recognised their tourist potential and brought them back into use. The Soufrière and Diamond estates were amalgamated to create this world-class visitor attraction.

Can you imagine the joy experienced at the baths, supplemented by wine and lively company? A small piece of paradise transplanted into the Caribbean.

However, I am not convinced they always kept their eyes on the horizon, as English ships occasionally caught them unaware. Many West Indian islands changed hands frequently during the Napoleonic Wars.

None more so than St Lucia, which holds the record at fourteen times. A remarkable and turbulent history for such a serene location today.

While we were enjoying our educational chat, we were cast aside as a group of visitors came barrelling through. They paid little attention to the carefully curated exhibits.
They rushed along like sheep being herded from one pen to another. The sad thing was that they were from our ship, and I doubt they stayed longer than forty-five minutes.

For this half-experience, they each paid the princely sum of US$129. We paid $47 each. I think it is clear who got the better value.

I make no apology for advocating self-guided tours. Official excursions often feel far too restrictive for my liking.

We will land in Grenada next time. My strongest memory of this island is the American invasion of the 1980s, though I can’t quite recall what prompted it.

Perhaps it was weapons of mass destruction, or a communist government—reds under the beds and all that sort of thing. Surely not a case of misguided leadership? I will investigate before next week.

Find Out More
Diamond Botanic Gardens and Waterfall: https://www.diamondstlucia.com

White Cane Ratings ©
Diamond Botanic Gardens and Waterfall: good, some tricky steps – 🦯 🦯 🦯 (3)

Norwich Parkrun

Spring has sprung so let’s get into a bit of Parkrun tourism again. It’s been a while.

During the winter months we have stayed fairly local, predominantly Sandringham. Having spent five weeks bobbing around the Atlantic Ocean and the Caribbean Sea, we missed quite a bit of activity whilst away.

Firstly, and probably the highlight, was that the King turned up one parkrun morning to take on a volunteer’s role as a marshal. Secondly, and probably the lowlight, if any light at all, was that the whilom royal formerly known as Prince Andrew has taken up residence at the royal estate.

Never mind, we can’t have everything and he has to live somewhere. I must admit, I do have a soft spot for Mr Mountbatten-Windsor… it is a quicksand mire off the North Norfolk coast.

It was a peculiar start to the morning, one of Jane’s keep-fit buddies heard that we were heading off to Eaton Park, the Parkrun location, and asked if we would take a box of cakes across and pass to a fella named Big Tom. Had we been about to board a plane and someone asked us to take a package of cakes onboard I might have refused, but this seemed innocent enough. I didn’t think we were getting involved in some sort of County Lines drug dealing caper, although you never know do you.

There was me, walking around with a Tupperware box full of cakes and Big Tom was nowhere to be seen and, rather worryingly, the Run Director had never heard of Big Tom. My creative mind started to run riot, and I expected armed police to descend at any time. In the end, Big Tom showed up and we handed over the contraband. No idea what the ingredients consisted of, but they added them to a cake stall to raise money for charity. Don’t ask questions.

Onto the actual event itself. We were newbies here so, along with Jane, VI Guide, Nik, son, William and grandchildren, Alice and Bobby, we strolled over for the first timers’ briefing.

Usual stuff, really, including the warning to children under eleven that they must stay with a responsible adult. Our grandchildren, I am afraid to say, have previous in this regard. Once, when placed in Nanna Jane’s care, they realised that they could run off ahead and there was nothing Nanna could do about it! Even though Jane has made significant strides as a parkrunner, she is not a match for the two sproglets who have PBs of around 30 and 25 minutes respectively, not too shabby for eight and six. At the end of the announcement, Bobby, shall we say he is a cocksure individual, gave the thumbs up sign and said, “Okay, got it!”

The audience laughed so I had to say, “Please don’t encourage him.”

Truth be told, I hope he never loses it.

It was a very bright morning, although there was a biting wind, so I was glad of the peak on my baseball cap to shade what sight I have. Over 600 participants lined up for the start. If I am super-critical, I think this is too many. Trouble is, you see, Nik and I have to run side-by-side, we are tethered to one another, and when we come up behind other groups bunched together, usually having a good chat, it is difficult to get past. We managed pretty well, though, and achieved a respectable enough time.

The course was fairly level, I hate the word flat used to describe Parkrun circuits, as flat can equally apply to something that has a 45° incline but is consistently in the same plane, which made the going very acceptable. There was one spot, where some construction had been going on, where the path was slightly churned up and rutted, but we stayed upright.

That was not the case for everyone, we did pass a poor lady who had taken a tumble and, apparently, was badly dazed. I am not sure, looking back, whether this was in the work zone or not. I don’t know if she finished her run, I suspect not, but I really hope she is alright and makes a full recovery.

I have to say, for an urban event, it was a delight. Town and city courses don’t really do it for me, mainly down to the numbers, but there is, unmistakably, an atmosphere that can’t be matched at less populated locations. Would I go back? Maybe, but it is a fair trip and probably too many runners.

I also felt a little bullied by the fast boys and girls, mainly the boys, as they charged through at such a gallop, making the ground shake in their wake, I do wonder if this contributes to accidents as it takes away your concentration for the briefest of moments, just enough to go base over apex.

Organisers and volunteers, as is usually the case, were top drawer and made us all feel very welcome.

White Cane Ratings* ©
Car Park: very good; not free, except to us fortunate to hold a blue badge - 🦯 🦯 🦯 🦯 (4)
Welcome and Briefing: good; first timer briefing a little quiet - 🦯 🦯 🦯 (3)
Atmosphere: good - 🦯 🦯 🦯 (3)
Course: good; temporary works – 🦯 🦯 🦯 (3)
Marshalling: very good - 🦯 🦯 🦯 🦯 (4)

*These ratings are how the event suits a blind person, and are my opinion only; they are not scientific. Whatever happens no-one must be put off by me. The best way to learn about something is to try it for yourself.