I really was looking forward to Grenada; I couldn’t wait. I remember a former work colleague claiming that it was his favourite island in the Caribbean, so it came highly recommended. Sadly, the weather did not play ball.

It rained on and off all morning and, in the end, we gave it up as a bad lot, saying that we would return another time. Who knows? Maybe we will, maybe we won’t.

Last week I promised you that I would take a peek at why the US threw its mighty military power into invading the tropical delight that is Grenada. Looking at it now, you cannot imagine how this tiniest of countries could upset such a world power.

When we scratch the surface, however, it is pretty amazing what we find. Let me take you back to March 1979, when the incumbent Prime Minister, Eric Gairy, was ousted by Maurice Bishop and his cohort of revolutionaries.

No election, no democracy and no hope followed. Bishop was seen as an unstable influence in the region and, when you realise the names of his children, Vladimir Lenin and Nadia, it is not a massive leap to conclude where his loyalties rested.

He very quickly established a friendship with Cuba, the main Soviet ally in the Caribbean, which did little to endear him to the Republican-run United States. US politicians soon christened him “Marxist Bishop”, which sounds rather Trumpian, doesn’t it?

A Cold War Island

Things did not end well for Maurice. In 1983 his government was itself overthrown by an even more hardline group led by Hudson Austin. He did not mess about.

When Bishop took refuge in Fort George, Austin led a short siege before capturing the poorly defended bastion with overwhelming force. Bishop was taken prisoner and, without further ado, executed by firing squad alongside several ministers.

No arrest, no trial and no hope. Britain and the United States had not cared greatly for Bishop, yet the new leadership was viewed as an even bigger threat. Grenada’s Marxist government appeared firmly in the pocket of the USSR and its Cuban proxy.

The official reason for the US-led invasion on 25 October 1983 was to protect more than 600 American medical students at St George’s University. Unofficially, many believed concern centred on the construction of a 10,000-foot airport runway capable of handling Soviet warplanes.

Grenadian officials insisted the runway was purely for tourism, yet American troops reportedly discovered Cuban soldiers posing as construction workers, along with Soviet military equipment. Tanks and helicopters, it seems, were not typical builder’s tools after all.

An interesting aside is that the UK did not initially offer wholehearted support, despite the close relationship between Thatcher and Reagan. Britain condemned the action at the UN, mindful that Grenada remained a member of the British Commonwealth.

Later, however, Thatcher conceded that intervention was probably the right decision. Perhaps she was merely miffed that Reagan had not shared his innermost thoughts beforehand. A woman scorned, and all that sort of thing. Some women, perhaps, are best left unscorned.

Taxi Dramas, Forts and Heavenly Discoveries

Now onto what we actually did, which was, it has to be said, not an awful lot. Before that, though, I must return briefly to Diamond Botanic Garden. Jane pointed out that I failed to mention our apparent abandonment by the taxi driver.

At our agreed meeting point, we could not find him and had foolishly neglected to note either the vehicle type or registration number. Jane feared he had done a runner, leaving us stranded.

Staff gathered near the gate kindly invited us to sit in the shade while everyone, except me, kept watch. Jane asked about my contingency plan; truthfully, I did not have one. After all, Brian still needed paying.

As time passed, my confidence began to waver. A helpful lady offered to drive us back to Castries if Brian failed to appear, while Jane imagined our ship sailing away without us, fellow passengers cheering from the deck.

My plan, apart from not panicking, involved staying overnight in St Lucia and flying to St Vincent the next morning. I have always believed in crossing bridges only when you reach them, rather than exhausting brain cells with unnecessary worry.

Eventually Brian reappeared, having taken a nap with his seat fully reclined and himself invisible to passers-by. Our taxi-driving gigolo clearly needed rest between admiring the ladies. All’s well that ends well — moral learned: photograph the chauffeur’s car.

This was our first weekend port call. The day began gloriously sunny and blissfully free of traffic, though neither condition lasted long. I was particularly eager to visit Fort George after reading about it somewhere in a historical tome.

On arrival we discovered the fort closed for renovation. At the time I knew nothing of Bishop’s grisly execution within its walls. Perhaps the improvements even covered seven bullet holes — or perhaps they now highlight them.

Nothing excites me more than feeling my way around an old cannon, and Fort George did not disappoint. I enjoyed a marvellous embrace with a fine example before raindrops the size of tennis balls began exploding around us.

As quickly as we became soaked, we were dry again. Walking through the slightly undulating — East Anglian translation: bloody steep — streets, Jane noticed deep roadside gullies capable of swallowing a dog or small child whole.

She worried about my wellbeing, though I insisted I was too large to disappear into a gutter. “No, you blithering idiot, you’re not too big to turn an ankle or break a neck.” Point taken.

Heavy rainfall clearly demands substantial drainage, but the occasional grating would not go amiss. Continuing downhill, we discovered an unassuming church entrance that resembled someone’s front door rather than a grand place of worship.

Inside, however, it was breathtakingly vast and filled with blinding light from enormous windows. If any building could have persuaded me to embrace religion wholeheartedly, this would have been it — though, realistically, that remains unlikely.

The Roman Catholic cathedral, like many in the West Indies, is named the Cathedral of the Immaculate Conception, yet is also dedicated to St James. I confess I do not entirely understand the reasoning behind that combination.

Curious about saints, I consulted a fellow diner who claimed sainthood applied only to those born after Jesus. Mr Google quickly disproved that theory: even Joseph, Christ’s foster father, is recognised as a saint.

Many saints pre-date the Messiah, including figures from the Old Testament, older disciples and, of course, Mary, Mother of God, regarded as the highest-ranking saint and often asked to intercede for Christians everywhere. Sadly, no cannon cuddles occurred here.

By the time we left, rain hammered down, sending us in search of refuge at the Queen Vic. Later, as we departed the island, bright sunshine created a humid mist rising from the lush vegetation.

Blue seas lapped white-fringed shores while verdant forests climbed towards Mount St Catherine and Mount Qua Qua, all crowned with a halo of cloud. Fresh, beautiful and, really, quite spiritual.

Find Out More
Fort George: https://www.puregrenada.com
Cathedral of the Immaculate Conception: https://grenadacic.wixsite.com/grenadacic

White Cane Ratings ©
Fort George: not open so cannot judge
Cathedral of the Immaculate Conception: good, some challenging steps - 🦯 🦯 🦯 (3)