St. Lucia Day 9: the finale

Having been told Soufriere market was worth a look around, we thought we’d head out and spend our last morning in St. Lucia having a mooch about. You’ll remember that we went to Castries on the basis that it was ‘worth a look around’? We should have been much more cynical about this than we were, but we weren’t. So, we went to Soufriere market to have a browse, and low and behold – there was nothing to browse. Sigh. It was really just a tiny market for people in the town and it wasn’t even a market in the recognisable sense of the word. It was mainly just people selling things from the doorsteps of their homes, be it second hand clothes or mysterious bric-a-brac, but ‘people selling stuff they no longer want from the doorstep’ is a bit of a mouthful in comparison to ‘market’, so I can see why they went with it.

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Soufriere from above

Other than that, there was a slightly more bustling area of market, where fish were being sold out of a wheel barrow and you took home your decapitated fish in a bin liner… each to their own, I guess. Perhaps you’d call that character? Personally, I’d just call it horrifying, but it depends on your opinion on wheelbarrow/ bin liner fish. Perhaps our opinions on those differ?

We began our drive back to the airport and with a bit of time to kill, stopped off at the Choiseul Art Gallery on our way. They have loads of different things there, from baskets woven by local people, to earrings made out of sea plastic, pots and ceramics made there on the island, to paintings and drawings done by the owner herself. They are a husband and wife team – he spends his time turning interesting materials in to jewellery-worthy states and she crafts, creates and paints, ending up with some completely different pieces of art that are quite unlike other bits and pieces I’ve seen.

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Final view from the hotel

She took us on a tour of the place when we arrived (once we had been greeted by their friendly dog Rock, and a couple of not so friendly dogs) and she took time explaining how everything was made, about the people who were making it and the materials they were using. One of the materials she’s using is the hard shell of the calabash, which is a big, round gourd type thing. Everyone we had spoken to who had mentioned the calabash, had been quite vociferous about how horrible it was to eat, and how they did their best to avoid it at all costs. She asked us what we knew about the calabash, clearly knowing that this would be the only thing we knew about it. In full knowledge that I was being set up, but with very little I could do about it, I told her that we know it isn’t very nice to eat.

A gleeful look in her eye told me she was primed and ready to inform me otherwise (I can only assume this is how she gets her kicks). Looking very pleased with herself, she told me that it was in fact, edible (not that I’d said that it wasn’t, being well aware of the game that was afoot). According to her, you could live off of it on a desert island, which is hardly a ringing endorsement, considering that you would literally eat anything half-edible if you were stranded on a desert island, would you not? With an awkward smile and a nod from me, she took this as further encouragement to sing the praises of the calabash. I’m wondering where we are about to go with this. Is she about to tell me that the Queen ate a slice of calabash and deemed it edible? Is she about to tell me that Prince Charles at a slice of calabash and deemed it edible, because that certainly would not hint toward edibility in my eyes. No, no, it wasn’t the Royal Family she used as advocacy for the calabash, oh no. it was none other than her dogs. Her dogs had been eating the calabash for years and they were still alive… this is how she tried to sell this idea to us! Well, this certainly explains why those dogs looked so angry…

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Not my calabash pic

Nearing the airport, we need to fill up the car, following the directions to the nearest fuel station, we promptly take a wrong turning and end up on the business side of the airport in front of a police officer. We stop to ask her the way to the fuel station (turns out you can literally see it from where we were) and she very kindly gives us directions – such a nice lady! We turn the car around to leave and my companion here, attempting to indicate to pull back out onto the road, instead turns on all of the windscreen wipers, starts spraying the windscreen, causing the windscreen wiper to emit an almighty squeal against the window, as it was so dry. The poor police officer is standing behind us having been spritzed with the windscreen wash, looking rather quizzical and I’m now laughing hysterically, practically in the footwell having lost all control of myself. I still cannot think about this without laughing, it just sets me off, the look on that poor woman’s face as we drove away.

We’re on the plane, getting seated and it comes to light that I’m seated next to the longest man in the world. He’s more legs and arms than I have ever seen. It feels like all of his limbs are on my side, I no longer have any armrest because his stupidly lengthy arm has commandeered the entire thing and his knee is protruding half way across my seating area. Fortunately, I’m not that tall, but I’m still not appreciating having half the space I am supposed to be provided with. I give him secret evils through the back of my head. I’m after a sip of water, so I take a glug of water before my companion promptly makes me laugh, causing water to come pouring out of my mouth, only to be sprayed all over him. The longest man in the world was not amused, watching from his vantage point of my seat.

The flight was generally uneventful, apart from the member of cabin crew who looked incredibly uncomfortable for the entire flight – I can only assume he was terribly constipated, based on the face he was making. On one hand, I’m happy to be going home because I like being at home, but on the other hand, I’m sad to be leaving, because I’ve had such an epic time, it’s been so eventful and I’m going to miss it when I get back, but I think that has a lot to do with the company and much less to do with the place, coupled with the fact that I do seem to be quite eventful.

Bonnie

Fave pics from the holiday:

St. Lucia Day 8: Prince Charles’ choice

It turns out that having a hotel room open to the elements isn’t necessarily such a great idea in practice. It turns out that the elements not only keep you awake, but they wake you up as well. And not only are you at the mercy of said elements, you are also at the mercy (so it turns out) of the wildlife. The wind is insane up here, which makes sense, as you’re essentially half way up a mountain, but it makes SO MUCH NOISE. And don’t forget the sun – that little sun does insist on rising before 7 am and that little sun does insist on forcing you to wake. As does the bird who comes in at some ungodly hour to peck at the choux bun the hotel left on your pillow last night. Grrrrrrrr.

As much as I like to moan, we did wake up to a rainbow arcing over the Pitons, so I really shouldn’t complain too much. We’re off for some more whale watching and we head down to the town of Soufriere, where we park up outside the place and meet a man who introduces himself as ‘Usually Darren’. Now, I can’t say if this is his given name, whether he isn’t always Darren or whether there’s a man named ‘Unusually Darren’ and this is the only way he can differentiate himself from said Darren. Usually Darren is very kindly going to look after our car whilst we are on the boat – thanks UD.

The whale watching tour goes off without a hitch, apart from one couple who board the boat and immediately proceed to remove their clothes, until they are sitting there in their swimmers. What? This is all kinds of weird – who goes whale watching with a big group of people you’ve never met, and with speed, decide it’s appropriate to remove your clothes. I was uncomfortable. They were, of course, British.

Once we get out there and I’ve forgotten about the mostly naked British people, we find some pilot whales. I’ve never seen a pilot whale before, but they give the impression of being quite stumpy, round and cute, even though they are about 20ft long. They don’t do a great deal, so there was no jumping and splashing about, but it was good to see something we haven’t seen before, nonetheless.

Back on dry land, Usually Darren is excited to see us back at the car. The car hasn’t been stolen or broken into, so it goes without saying that we must part with our cash and Usually Darren must receive it. Back at Ladera resort, we take the opportunity to go and watch the hummingbirds. They have a seating area with feeders around it, so you can watch the birds come and go. It still amazes me how quick they are – here one moment and gone the next – you don’t even see them go. I get a few decent snaps of their comings and goings, but it’s particularly tricky to capture these speedy creatures.

That afternoon we head to Fond Doux Plantation and Resort, where you can take a tour of their plantation. This is apparently Prince Charles’ resort (or the eccentric Prince Charlesy version of a resort) of choice on the island and if you know anything about Prince Charles, this should tell you all you need to know about this place. Boy oh boy, was this an experience. It started off with us booking in for the tour, assisted by a man with THE longest fingernails I have ever seen in my life. They are well over an inch long and I cannot stop staring at them whilst he’s booking us in – I cannot focus on anything else. Booking completed and fingernail staring time over, we both need the loo, so we head to the respective male and female bathrooms, which are quite literally the same room, just with what appears to be a piece of cardboard to separate them from one another. But at least you can chat to one another whilst you are doing your business. Weird? Yes.

We’re greeted by our tour guide – Clinton. Clinton appears to have sprinted here as he’s dripping in sweat. My suspicions are swiftly confirmed by his greeting of “Hi guys, I’m Clinton, I ran here”. Well, with that settled, we begin our tour of the plantation. He starts off pointing out a few of his favourite plants and giving us some info about the banana plants. He tells us that this plantation used to supply Hershey’s (who apparently own Hotel Chocolat) with cocoa but they had started growing their own cocoa and no longer had any need for Fond Doux. Clinton clearly harboured some ill-feelings towards Hershey’s and loudly and frequently proclaimed that Hershey’s would no longer have the best chocolate in the world now they were growing their own cacao, ensuring us that Fond Doux would soon be giving them a run for their money and that they were going to ‘show them’… K hun.

Clinton was now bounding around in the bushes, plucking off flowers for us to sniff and admire, each time assuring us that this was his favourite plant and informing us of its various qualities and uses, half of which seemed to be hangover cures, the other half of which were ‘to make you big and strong’, which involved him flexing his arm muscles each time he said so (I think we may have even caught a glimpse of abs at one point). Clinton then spots a cinnamon tree, gleefully eyeing it up before springing over there to cut us off a piece of bark to nibble. He stood there beaming at us. This was another one of his favourite plants.

With a sideways glance at one another and a questioning widening of the eyes, it dawned on us that Clinton may not just be simply high on the spice of life. Clinton may, in fact, simply be high on spice. This guy was something else – floating through the plantation, practically giddy with ecstasy (hopefully not the pill kind) giggling along to his own jokes and wafting through the undergrowth – it was tricky to keep up with him at times, as he’d get so excited about the next cocoa pod to look at, he’d flounce off, leaving us in his dust, hurrying to catch up.

I don’t know what Clinton had been smoking, but it was certainly some potent stuff and would probably have taken out a whole herd of cattle with one whiff. Never have I seen a man quite so high in charge of a tour of a plantation. In fact, never have I ever seen a man quite so high in charge of a tour. Or, for that matter, quite so high.

Despite the vehement protestations against Hershey’s we’d been hearing from Clinton all afternoon, we went to Hotel Chocolat’s restaurant in St. Lucia, Boucan for dinner, which is on their plantation. Now, it’s worth mentioning that everything on the menu contains chocolate. I genuinely did not think this was possible, but it is, and they have done it. Chocolate in your dinner may sound like a weird concept (and it is) but it worked. The same cannot be said, however, for the cocoa nibs (which I will hereon refer to as ‘nibs’). NIBS ARE THE WORST. I’m not even overexaggerating here, nibs are legit the worst things to have happened to the world, since forever. They are crunchy and yucky and bitter and weird, and they seem to increase in your mouth as you are chewing them instead of reducing. They defy the laws of chewing.

Not only that, but they would sneak up on you! You would take a bite out of something, 100% sure that it contained no nibs, in fact, you would bet your life saving on it and then out of nowhere, you would find yourself chewing on something akin to a splintered table leg. THE WORST! The fish had nibs in, the meat had nibs in, the sauce had nibs in, the butter had nibs in… even the drinks had nibs in. EVERYTHING HAD NIBS IN. Honestly, I thought I had died, woken up and found myself in nib hell. Were the pillows of the hotel stuffed with nibs? Did boiling hot nibs rain down upon you from the shower head? Where does it end? I feel it only ends when you spontaneously combust, exploding into a sea of nibs… nibs cascading across the floor, because you are no longer made of flesh, you are made of nibs. You are nibs.

Bonnie

St. Lucia Day 7: low-flying bananas

Today we check out of Sugar Beach resort, leaving behind any chance of meeting and befriending The Cloon. We didn’t make much use of our 24-hour butler service, but I’m going to miss Dwight The Butler very much. It was nice to have the option of not having to do anything yourself, ya know? If I’d wanted to, I could have called “Dwight Dwight Dwight” and had him come and run me a bath, had I been so inclined, or called him to come and rescue me from that wall I got stuck on the other day, or even to climb the wall for me. But I didn’t, mainly just because I feel awkward about getting people to do things for me that I can defs do myself… where do you look when they’re doing these things for you? If someone’s running a bath for you, do you just sit there on your phone, not making eye contact? Because that seems rude? Or do you engage them in conversation whilst they’re running your bath for you? Will they get annoyed because you’re interrupting their work? Who knows?

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A couple of evenings ago I got myself in to a situation with the other butler (not Dwight). She’d come to do something inside – no idea what it was, I think it may have been to turn down the bed. Anyway, she was inside, we were outside on the balcony, and I was discussing with my companion how awful it must be if you get people staying here who are madly racist and make racist comments. She let us know she was leaving and I, still making my point about the fictitious wild racists, continue proving my point, by verbalising racist comments that a racist may make, just as she was exiting our place downstairs. Great timing! Now, it has been recently drawn to my attention that I can be quite a loud person (this came as a huge shock to me as I’ve never identified as a loud person) and I’m still not 100% convinced of the truth of this, but everyone else I’ve subsequently spoken to has agreed that I can, on the odd occasion, be a tad on the loud side. So, that means she definitely heard me. And that means she definitely thinks I’m wildly racist.

We’re going to the capital city of St. Lucia today – Castries. Apparently, there is a market there and a few bits to do, so we hop in the car. We’re in a Suzuki Jimny which doesn’t seem to be the biggest fan of the steep and winding roads of St. Lucia (either that or its the driver who isn’t a big fan). Either way, there were some points where I think we could’ve been easily out-paced by a tortoise, as we were juddering up the hill, violently jerking between first and second gear, the engine whining constantly in protest (which I don’t blame it for at all, as I’d have been exactly the same, in fact I probably was).

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We’ve noticed that if you know someone in St. Lucia, when you pass them in the car, you give them a little toot of the horn and a wave, so we decide to do a little experiment. Our aim is to find out whether people just wave when they hear the horn toot, assuming they know the tooter and the tooter knows the tootee, or, whether they actually recognise who is tooting and will only wave if the tootee knows the tooter. You get me?

We give it a try and the first attempt falls flat on its face – we drive past someone, realise we have our first opportunity, scrabble for a toot on the horn and make precisely no sound. There is no toot. Okay, we’ll put that one down to experience. Our next opportunity arises; we pass a woman walking up the hill and give her what we think is going to be a toot. It is, in fact, a loud blast of the horn. I think we over-compensated on account of our last failed attempt and instead managed to give the poor woman a heart attack. Attempt two ends in failure. It’s time for round three. Attempt three is the one for us, we can feel it. We pass a guy on the side of the road, execute what can only be referred to as the ‘perfect St. Lucian toot’, we wait, expectant of the turn and wave from the man. We get nothing. NOTHING. Wow. Well, it seems as if the tooter and tootee do need to know one another. Interesting.

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We eventually make it to Castries after what seems like an absolute eternity. It takes an oddly long time to get there, I will say that much. I’ll be honest with you, because I’m clearly not here to rose-tint my holidays; Castries was not worth the drive. As much as I would have loved it to be, it really wasn’t. There wasn’t much there, the market was full of souvenirs (and a particularly amusing set of ‘Bob Marly’ merch), there wasn’t much to look at and there seemed to be a lot of homeless people. We tried our best, but there just wasn’t anything going on there, unless we missed the great attractions of Castries… but I don’t think we did.

On the way back we stopped at Marigot Bay – supposedly one of the beauty spots of St. Lucia. Again, I felt it left something to be desired. It was essentially a bay populated by stonkingly rich people with yachts. Yachts so posh, that the fenders had little jackets on to keep them looking smart. Yes, it was pretty, but it wasn’t THAT pretty, and I fail to understand why it is rated quite so highly. We are on our way out of the Marigot Bay area when we come across a man selling fruit – we are getting peckish at this point, so we think we will grab some bananas. A couple of bunches of fairly battered looking bananas greet us – suspiciously battered bananas. But what have we got to lose? I’m convinced that they’ve been stolen from the neighbouring banana plantation, but you have to do something to make a living and I’m happy to reward resourcefulness.

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Marigot Bay

These are HANDS DOWN THE BEST BANANAS I HAVE EVER EATEN. They were SO good. So sweet, so ripe, so yummy. YASSS! There’s nothing worse than the smell of sweating banana skin in the car, so as we pass a bit of rainforest, I chuck my banana skins out of the window and in to the greenery. The driver thinks this is an excellent game to play and insists on me winding up the window most of the way, as he’s 100% sure he can get his out of this small crack of window. I on the other hand, am 100% sure he will not be able to get his out of this small crack of window. He winds up for the throw, keeping one eye and one hand on the wheel. I see the banana skin come sailing by, almost as if in slow motion. I turn to watch it as it hits the inside of the window, rebounds and promptly smacks me in the face. This was quickly responded to with booming laughter from the driver’s seat, as the banana skin slides off my face and into my lap. I just took a banana skin to the face. A BANANA SKIN TO THE FACE. Am I actually a character in a cartoon and I just don’t know about it?????

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We arrive at our final hotel – Ladera resort. Ladera is situated between the two pitons, with a great view between the two. Our room is open to the elements, so we’re never without the amazing view. We have our very own pool, complete with a very Instagrammable swing chair and we’re greeted with a bottle of bubbles on arrival. It didn’t take me long to polish this off and start swimming tipsy circuits around the pool. I had to do something to help me recover from the banana skin to the face.

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Bonnie

St. Lucia Day 6: wet Wednesday

Last night we attended the manager’s cocktails on the veranda at the hotel. You essentially meet the main members of staff at the hotel, from the manager (obvs) to the head of hospitality etc etc. The one who particularly caught our eye, was the sommelier. Reason being, was that we were attempting to figure out his nationality based entirely on the way he looked and miserably failing, that and the fact he was clearly trying to breathe in so he looked thinner, but kept letting his tummy go when he thought no one was watching. It was impossible – he definitely didn’t look French and that would be WAY too obvious, considering his job, but where could he be from? There are so many other wine nations. In the end, we reduced ourselves to checking the hotel website for his name and then stalking him on LinkedIn (low, I know).

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Double parked hun?

We eventually settled on him being either South African or Argentinian. Our research informed us that he’d attended multiple wine schools in France, but we simply put this down to the best wine schools being there, so he probably travelled to learn, right? We also found out that he went to Uni in Lyon, but again, he was probably an expat kid (on account of him either being Argentinian or South African) so that made sense. He just can’t be French, because he doesn’t look French. The French have a certain look about them, don’t they? You know what I mean – you always know when someone is French before you speak to them. He came over to speak to us. It was time to find out whether it was South Africa or Argentina. Well, turns out he was French. Who saw that coming?!

There’s another waterfall just down the road from the Sugar Beach resort, called the Piton Falls. It has hot baths where you can relax, listening to the sound of the waterfall and it’s quiet and peaceful. It took us about six attempts to get there, which was less relaxing and peaceful – each time we left the hotel, we realised we’d forgotten something else. The guy manning the gate clearly thought we were a pair of complete loons. It got so awkward as well, because each time you go back through the gate you feel like you have to justify why you’re going back in and make some kind of amusing light-hearted joke about having forgotten your wallet, or your swimsuit, or your towel… it got to the point where we no longer had anything to say to the man on the gate, and just resorted to hanging our heads in shame and avoiding eye contact – this is the appropriately British thing to do, once all banter has been exhausted.

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It’s fashion, look it up

Back at the resort, it’s beach time. We’ve kind of had enough of chilling on the beach, so we opt for an activity – namely, the banana boat. Now, I haven’t been on one of these in years and this is essentially an inflatable sofa being towed around at high speed, attached by a piece of string, to the back of a speed boat. We get on without too much trouble (this is usually where I literally and figuratively fall down) and we are away, only after having signed a form saying the resort isn’t liable if we drown or get our heads cut by the propeller. It’s all good at first, we’re merrily bobbing along, making our way to open water and nothing too dramatic is happening – I’m feeling a bit nervy, but I think anyone would be in this situation, don’t you?

So chill

We’re speeding up. We’re whizzing across the waves at high speed, and then I see the turn coming – the boat has turned right but the inflatable sofa hasn’t caught on to that yet, so we are swinging wildly out to the left, AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH – the scream has come out and I can’t stop it now, I’ve broken the seal. Each time we swing out to the side and get whipped back in, I am screaming, SCREAMING at the top of my lungs like nothing you’ve ever heard before – like a banshee on steroids. Apparently this is all too funny and my companion is falling about laughing (as much as you can fall about on an inflatable sofa). I can’t even hear his guffaws over my screaming, but I can see the belly laughs happening. I want to say something to him, tell him to shut up, but each time I open my mouth to speak, a shriek just comes out. The guy driving the boat is looking back at us, clearly concerned there is something wrong with me (which there is) and attempting to decipher whether he should be stopping or continuing.

By now, the laughter has infected me and I’m exhibiting an impressive combination of laughing uproariously until we swing out, then seamlessly slipping into a long, drawn out scream as we head off in the opposite direction to the boat. We’re now at the point where I’ve been laughing, screaming and bumping over waves for such a long time, that I’m desperate for a wee. Each time I scream it makes me laugh and each time I laugh it’s making me need to wee – we’re hurtling over waves, getting splashed left right and centre. I’m laughing so much that I can no longer see and I can’t say for sure whether the water on the inflatable sofa is sea spray or wee. I have no control over myself. None. After 10 whole minutes of screaming, laughing and (maybe) weeing, we are back on dry land. My tummy hurts from laughing so much and I can barely walk in a straight line. I am drunk on laughter.

The rest of the day seems to continue in a similar fashion. We’re chilling in our plunge pool with some music on and I’ve treated myself to a Piton beer (super lady-like). I’m looking at the wall next to the plunge pool and I’m pretty sure that it’s possible to climb on to the wall, run along it and scoot up the incline, onto the railings and over on to our balcony (I’ve had a few drinks at this point). I decide that we simply must try, so I set about scrambling on to the wall from the pool. I can’t imagine what this looked like from behind, other than a giant sausage with arms and legs, trying to heave itself up an on to what was a surprisingly high wall, with absolutely no grace whatsoever. I eventually flop on to the wall, where I realise how high up the balcony is, how steep the incline is on this bit of wall and how smooth it is.

Such a lady

Try as I might, this is not happening – there is no way I’m managing to clamber up this bit of wall and leap over on to our balcony – the wall is soaking wet from the pool water, it’s too slippery and I can’t get any purchase… someone else seems to manage this with complete ease, however and I’m left, crouched on the wall. It’s at this point I realise that I can’t get down either. It’s too far to jump and I can’t climb down either, as my feet are nowhere near the floor if I hang over the edge. HELP! Because I’ve had a few drinks, I start to find this pretty amusing, and soon enough I’m laughing to myself, crouched on the wall alone, soaking wet from the pool. I’ve laughed so much now, that I need a wee again and I’m very much struggling to hold it in, in my current position – crouched on a high wall, in fits of laughter, whilst feeling nervous about never being able to get down and dying on top of this wall.

My companion offers to lift me down, which I abjectly refuse to go along with because A) I don’t want him to have any idea how heavy I am, B) I’m not actually sure if he’s going to be able to lift me down, and I really don’t want to hear him grunt as he takes me weight (because that would be terribly upsetting would most definitely ruin my day) and C) I’m a bit tipsy and I don’t want to fall on him and squash him. After refusing for what was probably around 30 minutes, I’m eventually persuaded that I won’t flatten him into a pancake and I awkwardly half fall/ half jump on to him, clinging to him like one of those little koalas you used to get attached to the pull-cords of lights back in the day. Always glamorous.

Bonnie  

St. Lucia Day 5: the high-light of the holiday

Today we leave Anse Chastanet resort and move on. I’ve enjoyed staying here a lot – it’s fun, it’s vibrant and it’s lively. There’s been music each night to entertain the guests (some of it particularly entertaining – renditions of the Bee Gees with a St. Lucian accent are certainly interesting). The beach is great, and you can walk over to another beach as well, if you get tired of the main one. It has a really chilled and relaxed vibe to it, it’s got a traditional feel to it, which is something I really like, and it has plenty of character. I would defs recommend staying here.

We’re leaving the resort and we have a car to take us back to the car park, the guy taking us back greets us with a “hi guys” and helps us put our stuff in the back. Now, I’ll admit I’ve played that description mad cool, because his “hi guys” was squeaked in literally the highest voice I have ever heard in my entire life. So high, in fact, that I’m surprised it hasn’t resulted in the dogs of St. Lucia following him around like he was the Pied Piper, because it was THAT high. What made this even more shocking/ unexpected/ hilarious/ incredible, was that the voice categorically did not match the owner of said voice. This guy was so tall and plenty broad making the amusingly high voice even more amusing. He’s now affectionately known to us as Long Marv and he’s quite impossible to forget – it just seemed to defy all logic and biology.

As we are heading along in the car, he’s diving deeper and deeper in to conversation with us and it’s becoming quite impossible for me not to giggle. A couple of sideways glances at one another, a stifled smirk and me furiously pressing my lips together in a bid not to allow my laughter to escape (resulting only in me emitting a Mutley-esque noise) and I cannot cope. Yes, I know you shouldn’t laugh. But I cannot cope in these situations – there is no way on earth (without quite exhausting human effort) that I can keep my lols inside me – and you all know that as soon as you try to stop laughing, it becomes progressively more impossible until you actually explode. I was trying my absolute best not to laugh but that all went to pot when we went over a bumpy bit and his voice cracked, sending it EVEN HIGHER. I was weak by the end of it. I was hysterical for the next hour. It made my life, no word of a lie.

The Cloon’s room? Maybe?

We make our way over to the next place we are staying: Sugar Beach resort (which I insisted on calling ‘Palm Beach’ or ‘Palm Springs’ for the entirety of our stay). Sugar Beach is supposedly The Cloon’s resort of preference in St. Lucia, so I am expecting a Nespresso machine at least. We arrive and are greeted with a cooling lavender towel – a cooling lavender towel is actually cooling, whereas a cooling mint towel is really not cooling and actually burns your sinuses out – so that made for a change. It felt very calm here and we had our very own butler (Dwight) to show us to our room, taking us past some cool art, through the door to our very own plunge pool and into what I would definitely call a villa, not even close to being a hotel room. By the way, there was a Nespresso machine, of course – called it.

Room with a view… and a plunge pool

We decided we would head to the Diamond Falls Botanical Gardens for a mooch around as they looked pretty and there’s a waterfall there. As we arrived we were accosted by a man selling beaded necklaces in the car park; he was clearly very keen on us making a purchase right there and then, because he wanted to get home, so he could go and watch the cricket… so a couple of minutes later, armed with a necklace made from beads that we really didn’t need, we head in to the gardens, fairly sure that the car wasn’t going to get broken into or stolen.

Werk it gurl

There were lots of cool flowers and plants there, but to be honest, plant pics make me feel a bit uncomfortable when I look at them – they feel way to specific and detailed to make for comfortable viewing. The waterfall left something to be desired considering we’d been able to go under the waterfall the other day, but it’s still worth a look.

There’s also a sweet little Japanese bridge which is perfect for a pic or two and there are lots of hummingbirds buzzing around – which are nigh on impossible to get a good picture of because they are literally the fastest things in the world and they NEVER STOP MOVING. I did, however, manage to get a pretty epic pic of one chilling on a stalk, and when I say ‘epic’ I just mean in focus and not ridiculously blurry.

As you may, or may not know (and if not, then I don’t blame you) St. Lucia has a volcano – the Sulphur Springs volcano and it’s the ‘world’s only drive in volcano’… apparently. I’m not too sure why it’s known as this, seeing as all you can actually do is drive up to a parking spot on the volcano, you don’t actually get to drive inside an actual bit of volcano, so I feel this is somewhat misleading.

Let me tell you something, it’s known as ‘Sulphur Springs’ for a very good reason, on account of it smelling like rotten eggs, very strongly. Despite the strong smell of an egg sandwich, one you’ve had it sitting in your lunch box all day, ya know? Before finally opening it (having been getting progressively warmer throughout the day) and you get that strong whiff of pungent egg. Despite that, it’s a pretty neat place. You used to be able to walk on the crust of the volcano, until a tour guide named Gabriel (ironically) jumped up and down on the crust to prove its strength, and swiftly disproved his point by falling through a hole and burning himself up to his waist. Now, understandably, you have to view the volcano from a viewing platform, which is a shame, but I would much rather not have a singed bottom half. They did name the hole after him though, so silver linings and all that.

Once we had our fill of the eggy smell, we thought we would take advantage of the mud baths, which supposedly have medicinal properties (I’ll be honest and tell you that our main attraction was painting one another in mud and swimming around in the baths like muddy ducks). We don our cozzies and head to the mud. We set about daubing one another in the good stuff, going straight for the face, so we look like we are part of some kind of racist comedy.

I’m a child, and I can’t help myself, so I draw a penis on my companions back (because why wouldn’t you? It would genuinely almost be rude not to). He has no idea, so he’s merrily going about his mud bath experience with a phallus on his back. A few dirty looks get thrown his way, as do some amused glances. I can barely contain myself and I have to expend a huge amount of effort holding in my laughs along with my intense desire to blurt it out. I manage to hold it in until the last moment, when I can no longer contain my amusement and I tell him about his back penis amid gales of laughter.

Remember when I said we got sunburnt? So, it turns out, if you apply mud to a sunburnt back, it becomes pretty adherent. To the point where we had been through 4 separate baths and it was still standing firm, as it were. The only way to rid oneself of a back penis in this situation, is to give it a good scrub. However, given the fact that one is exceptionally sunburnt, as you can imagine, scrubbing is a tad on the painful side. I did my best to rid him of the back penis, but my scrubbing was only tolerated for so long. It really did stick there. For ages. Days in fact.

Bonnie

St Lucia Day 4: it’s alright once you’re in

Today is the day we go whale watching (we went with Mystic Man Ocean Adventures) – I’m now no longer allowed to set the alarm, so we get up and away without any hassle whatsoever, which is fine, but distinctly less fun, don’t you think? We head down to the boat and wait around for the guy to come and pick us up, forgetting that everything is on Caribbean time here, in the Caribbean, meaning that 9.30 doesn’t really mean 9.30, it actually means “when I get there, somewhere in the realms of 9.30, because there’s no rush”. We eventually leave, having had to make awkward conversation with some Canadian people in hats, and when I say ‘hat’, I don’t mean like a cap to keep the sun off of your face, I mean like a proper brimmed hat; the kind you would use if you were a horse rancher, which I don’t think either of them were… but Canadians.

We pop on to the boat and head around to the next bit of cove, where we jump on a catamaran with a bunch of other people (I think we are the only culture who pops and jumps anywhere). There’s quite a few of us on there, so we opt to go and sit on the nets at the front of the boat. We think this will make an excellent vantage point (which it did, and I could tell everyone wanted to be sitting where we were sitting, but “you snooze, you lose” in my opinion) but we fail to consider the fact that: A) there is nothing to lean against, so we had to engage the abs the entire boat ride (or in my case, just roll around each time we hit a big wave and then struggle back up) and B) nets have holes in them, holes let things through, boats go on water, meaning bottoms get wet.

I managed to avoid the worst of the splash, probably only because I was rolling around like an empty Coke can in the breeze each time we went over a wave, in comparison to my companion who has distinctly better core than I do, who managed to stay in place, getting decidedly soaked.

We were on the lookout the entire time for whales (we both love whales and any chance to see them we will be taking it) unfortunately we didn’t see any whales (wah) but we did see dolphins! All the dolphins in fact; we saw spinner dolphins and common dolphins and there were absolutely loads of them – the whole family had come out to play. The guy doing the tour estimated that there were about 100 dolphins around us!

They were leaping out of the water, circling around the boat and swimming right underneath us. They were splashing around and playing, doing somersaults and all sorts – it was like the dolphin gymnastics! Some of the height these guys got was incredible, if you’d spun around at the right moment you would have sworn you’d just seen a flying dolphin. The spinner dolphins are the ones doing all the acrobatics and the pan-tropical dolphins are the ones who are mooching along more sensibly.

The rare hover dolphin

Once we were back on dry land again, it was time to head up to Jade Mountain hotel, which is just behind the one we were staying in (Anse Chastanet) and owned by the same guy (I’ll come on to him later – not physically of course – perhaps in a later post, as I don’t feel that a few sentences about this will do him and the situation any justice). We went for lunch in their restaurant which has a view over the pitons across the water. It would have been lovely up there if it wasn’t a complete wind trap. Each time you put something down on the table, it slowly started making its way across, before catching a gust and plunging to the floor. My sunglasses, napkin and menu all suffered the same fate. The loo was also really nice here, if you are interested (which I am), because nothing beats a good loo and it’s not at all weird that I’ve included a photo of it.

The food was good, but I have to say, the service felt a little uncomfortable. It was all very quiet and I felt as if I had to be on my best behaviour, which soon slipped, but nonetheless… we got asked about 8 times whether our food was okay, and it got to the point where we were replying to questions more than we were eating.

After that, we asked if there was a room available for us to look at – the architecture here is supposed to be really cool (it looked a bit communist for my liking… so many pillars… but each to their own). The rooms at the front are open to the elements and we were shown a room which had two out of the usual four walls. We asked what you would do if there was a hurricane, seeing as you are missing half your walls and there is no way to block said hurricane, and were told that you should hide in the bath… there weren’t two baths, so I only assume that one of you had to sacrifice yourself to the wind.

Excuse the terrible hair

I’m on board with interesting architecture (despite the hotel looking a tad like a fit-flop if you go for the aerial view) and making the most of the view you have and all that jazz, but I do feel somewhat as if missing half of your room is a bit much, especially seeing as you have paid an extortionate amount of money for this room, only to be provided with a mere fraction of it. But maybe that’s just me.

What else is there to do in the afternoon in St. Lucia than spend it on the beach? So, down we head. We are sitting there chilling, managing not to steal anyone’s water,  chatting our usual rubbish and making an extra-ordinary amount of noise laughing, when a guy spots us and comes over on his way down to the water. He asks us if we have been for a swim yet and we tell him that we’ve been snorkelling a couple of times and where the best spots we’ve found are. He asks if we are going to come in to the water, “we might in a bit” we reply, and away he goes, donning his inflatable life jacket on his way – this was entirely amusing, but 100% expected if you’d have met this guy – he was super cute and super, super camp.

Anyway, he’s plunging into the water and messing about with his other half (also super cute) and they are yelping and shouting and having an all-round great time, before looking back at us where we are sat on our sun-loungers and exclaiming “it’s alright once you’re in”. I mean, have you even been on holiday if someone doesn’t say that? I think not. This phrase is literally the most ridiculous thing you can say to anyone about the water, but we still all insist on saying it to everyone when we are in the water and they are thinking about it. I swear to God that someone would plunge into the icy waters of the Arctic, be in the throes of contracting hypothermia and still proclaim that it’s “alright once you’re in”, simply because we, as British people, cannot help ourselves.

Bonnie

St. Lucia Day 3: alarmingly tricky hike

Day 3 was the day we were going for a hike to a waterfall. I was supposed to set an alarm to wake us up well in advance of said hike to the waterfall, so we could take our time and get breakfast. I did set the alarm, honest to God I did, it just turns out that I actually accidentally set it for a weekday and this was the weekend. So, whilst I technically did set it and no one can say that I can’t, it didn’t exactly go off because I didn’t exactly do it quite right. But it’s all fine, because we woke up in time… it was just that it was 3 minutes before we needed to be there waiting for transport. Oops!

We missed breakfast, but fortunately we were given a box of fruit to keep us sustained on our hike, so I inhaled most of that during the drive there. The fruit is great in St Lucia everything is so fresh and juicy and yummy and tasty and I could genuinely have just lived off all the fruity yumminess whilst I was there, but I don’t think my tummy would have liked me for that. We were on this hike with a couple named Deborah and Pete and the guide decided it would be the right thing to do, to shorten their name to ‘DP’, which we both thought was tres amusant, especially as they clearly didn’t get the reference. The guides name was Smith and if you put that together with his DP-related humour, I’m sure you can imagine exactly what he was like.

Smith was possibly the most pants guide I have ever experienced, but in all of the best ways. He was much more interested in chatting about his life, telling us what an excellent person he was, as well as providing us with Shaggy-esque renditions of his own rap lyrics. In fact, I’m pretty sure that he didn’t have any idea about any of the nature and wildlife we were wandering past. At one point we heard the call of the rarely seen St Lucian parrot, in all fairness he drew our attention to the call of said parrot, but then promptly dragged us down the path so we couldn’t spend any time looking for it in the trees (clearly he had something better waiting for him at home).

Some of the journey down was a bit on the perilous side, and I’d chosen to wear white trainers and the hike turned out to be exceptionally muddy, leaving my trainers in a rather sorry state – no one told me it would be muddy, you see. After some half-hearted facts about some of the native trees and a less than satisfactory answer to my questions about why bamboo was brought to St Lucia (‘just cos’ was about the essence of it) we arrived at the waterfall. Considering I’m now sweating profusely, it seems like a sensible idea to throw myself under the waterfall to cool off. So that’s exactly what I do. Smith was particularly insistent that he should take some photos of us under the waterfall (despite my protestations that I was only going to look like a slightly rotund drowned rat wearing trousers).

It turns out that he spent most of his time not taking photos of us under the waterfall, but taking selfies of himself with the waterfall in the background. There was precisely one photo, ONE photo that he’d taken selfie-style where we were even in it. ONE!! And even in that one, we are completely not in focus and clearly not the focus of the photo even slightly. Cool. I look like a chubby drowned rat and I’m not even in half of the photos on my own phone. Thanks a bunch Smith.

Now the real fun begins, and when I say ‘real fun’ I actually mean ‘not fun at all’ because it wasn’t even remotely fun, not even a bit ever slightly. We had to walk back up to the top. Now, walking isn’t my favourite thing at the best of times, walking up a hill is worse, walking up what is definitely a mountain is worser and walking up what is definitely a mountain, in a rainforest which is practically dripping it is so humid, in 30-degree heat, is the worst of the absolutely worser worstest.

The trek back up this mountain was so unbelievably difficult that I thought I was going to die, or worse, vomit. It took all my worldly effort to not throw up down my front. This was so strenuous, that genuinely wouldn’t have minded if meteor had struck me right there and then because I was that desperate to put out of my misery. I honestly wouldn’t have minded. What made it even worse, was that DP were finding the whole thing impossibly easy. They were bounding up this mountain like mountain goats, in their weird open sandal hiking shoes. We eventually get to the top and I am literally gasping for air, clearly the altitude is getting to me (nothing to do with me being a bit unfit). We still have a sludgy road to trudge down and I’m sulking, walking on my own whilst Smith is trying to sell a private bird watching tour to my companion on the down low (I can only imagine this would involve precisely no bird watching).

I throw myself into the back of the transport, absolutely shattered and very ready to get back to the hotel and get out of the clothes I am in which are soaked with a mixture of waterfall water and sweat. DP leap into the back with us and I can just about hear them say (over my heavy breathing) that they were ‘glad that the hike wasn’t too hard’ and that it was ‘just the right amount of difficulty for the heat’. At this point I internally lose my shit. How is this even a thing? I literally thought I was going to die on the walk back up this bastard mountain and here you are, HERE YOU ARE saying that it wasn’t even that difficult. There are literally no words for these thin, thin people whose knees are wider than their thighs. NO WORDS.

Once I was over the mental destruction caused by the comments of the thin people, we made it down to the beach for a chilled afternoon on the beach and went snorkelling again (but plastered in sun-cream this time to avoid any further burning). We had dinner at the beach bar of the hotel, which attracted an extraordinary number of cats. I’ve no idea where all these kitties were coming from, seeing as we weren’t anywhere near anything residential, so I can only assume they came together via boat.

We went to the bar for a nightcap where they had a band and a load of people were dancing. We pulled up a pew, because there is no better way to pass the time than by watching slightly drunk people attempt to dance with one another whilst wearing flip-flops. Our eyes soon came to this slightly older man who had a rather interesting dancing technique. By ‘interesting’ I mean that he was literally humping about the dance floor. Any woman who passed by him got gyrated in the direction of. It was not a pretty sight. Watching woman skirt around and away from this man thrusting towards them was the absolutely highlight of the day. There is no better viewing, than the viewing of an exceedingly uncomfortable situation.

Bonnie

St. Lucia Day 2: source of the mysterious rustling noise

So, day 2 is the first proper day that we have in St. Lucia and needless to say we achieved literally zero. I woke up annoyingly early, so I sat in bed and read my book for a bit – I had planned to rinse through it on the plane, but I got distracted, got to talking and read approximately one sentence of it during the 9-hour flight. So, I finally get to reading my book (something about something political in Nigeria… Maybe?) and I’m ploughing through the paragraphs quite merrily until I hear a rustling nearby. I think it might be my roomie stirring, so I dive back into the political hemispheres of maybe-Nigeria and get back to my read.

And then there’s that rustling again… I’ve got my meerkat on and I’m searching around the room for the source of the mysterious rustling noise, but I can’t see anything that looks even remotely like it might be making a sound. So, back to what I think is possibly politics in I’m-not-too-sure-if-it-was-Nigeria. AND THEN THERE’S THE RUSTLING SOUND AGAIN! I’m up and out of bed now, having wrestled with the mosquito net, getting my foot stuck in it and nearly hanging myself in the swathes of fabric, I’m scouring the room for the source of the mysterious rustling noise.

Needless to say, I find absolutely zilch and come to the conclusion that whatever it was, probably got frightened away as I was doing 10 rounds with the mosquito net. Back in bed, reading about what may no longer be about politics in perhaps-but-I-don’t-remember-now-anyway-but-might-be-Nigeria. Rustle-rustle, rustle-rustle. What the heck is this?! I’m just going to ignore it. I don’t even care anyway. It can’t be anything sinister. Rustle-rustle, rustle-rustle. Oh my life, this is so annoying, what on earth can it… CHRIST – BIRD!!!!! Not going to lie, I nearly shat myself in bed. My heart was SLAMMING and I got a proper jitter on. A little bird had made its way into the room and was mooching about looking for something to eat – the source of the mysterious rustling noise! Who knew a miniature bird could cause SUCH drama.

Little shite…

We officially decided we would have a lazy day (not that it was ever really in question) and we headed down to the beach. Many steps later we arrive on the burning hot sand and find ourselves a couple of sun loungers. We are soon greeted by an attendant who says ‘can I set you up’. I have literally no idea what this means, because as far as I am aware, getting ‘set up’ means either you are getting the blame for some sort of criminal enterprise or you are being forced to go on a horrendous blind date with one of your friend’s colleagues who they assure you ‘isn’t that bad looking’. Anyway, it turns out that ‘set you up’ actually meant sort you out with towels and the like, which was of course, fine, but somewhat less interesting than being blamed for a crime you didn’t commit.

Bird for breakfast anyone?

We’re lounging on the beach chatting our general shit and probably annoying everyone around us with our general loudness, when we decide that it would be remiss of us not to go snorkelling on such a nice day. The sun is shining, the sea is shimmering and the snorkel awaits. Equipped with our snorkels and flippers, we head to the water to see some under-sea scenery. I’d forgotten how impossibly hard it is to put flippers on when you are tasked with doing so on the sand, getting sloshed by waves and generally have pretty limited balance.

The real fight, however, begins when you have your flippers on and then have to walk further into the sea. This, it has to be said, is literally an impossible task. This cannot be done effectively and it cannot be done gracefully – there are no two ways about it. Tottering from side to side and spending an extraordinary amount of time with my legs splayed like Bambi, trying to regain control of my flippered feet, I made it in, relatively unscathed (though I couldn’t say the same for anyone watching – I imagine they came of plenty scathed).

We flopped about in the sea for a while, chasing after fish with particularly limited success (it’s almost like they can see you coming) and I’m almost pretty sure I saw the arse end of a turtle! It turns out that after taking on much sea water through the top of my snorkel, we’d been splashing about for more than an hour, so the snork back was pretty arduous and my ankles were feeling the arduousness.

Having worked up quite the thirst, we head to the bar for a bite to eat and something to drink. I forget what we had, but it was definitely nice. Having secured ourselves a bottle of water in preparation for the rest of the afternoon on the beach, I nip to the loo quick. I go about my business and return, water in hand, ready for the beach, only to find that there is already a bottle of water on our table… What? How has that happened? How are there now two bottles of water?????? It turns out that I managed to steal someone else’s bottle of water from the loo after they had left. I stole. Someone else’s. TOILET WATER. Obviously this was uproariously funny, resulting in it being brought up continuously for the rest of the day/ rest of the holiday/ rest of my life, never to be let go. Each time we walked past a table with a drink on it, I was firmly warned not to go stealing other people’s liquid refreshment. HAR HAR HAR.

I maintain that it was an easy mistake to make and that it was quite simple to accidentally exit the loo with a drink which didn’t belong to you, but apparently that isn’t the case.

Photo credit to someone who managed to clear the beach better than I did

After an afternoon spent on the beach, interspersed with laughing attacks related to the water stealing saga, back to the room we go for a sluice off and a change of clothes before dinner, where we both realise we are ridiculously burnt from our snorkelling. Our backs are quite literally bright red – we are human lobsters. Lobsters, in fact, are possibly less red. The front of me was white and the back of me was red; I looked like a Swizzels drumstick. What horror has befallen us! I’m sure we put on practically a whole bottle of sun-cream, but clearly it was not enough – this is skin cancer central. Wah. Dinner was interesting… you soon realise how often your back comes into use when it feels like the top layer of the skin is being scraped off each time you lean on it.

Bonnie

St. Lucia, Day 1: fire towels

There’s nothing like a holiday to get you back on the blog post hype, right? I’ve been silent, I know, and I’m sorry… kind of. Like, I’m going to apologise for it because that’s what you’re supposed to do and all that, but I’m not even really sure why we bother to do it. Life happens or you just don’t feel like writing anything, or you literally just forget that your blog even exists until you get that reminder from WordPress about making a payment to renew your domain. All I’m saying, is that I don’t feel like anyone really cares for the apology, ya know? So, I’ll say soz, but I’m not even sure I mean it, or that you really want me to say it.

Anyway, so I went on holiday and I wanted to tell you about it. I went to St Lucia which isn’t a place I had even remotely considered going, but when the offer came up, I thought ‘why on earth not’, because you might as well go to these places, even if you don’t actually have any idea where they are or what there is to do there, or even why you might want to go there at all. So off I went. Off I went at the crack of dawn.

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View from the hotel

I had to get up before the birds had even started to sing (it was THAT early) and lugging your suitcase down 2 flights of stairs is not the one at any point of the day, let alone at daybreak. After clanging my way down the stairs with a suitcase which was 100% at least twice as heavy as when I had packed it the night before, I was in my Uber away to the airport. I was incredibly pleased to hear the camp-as-you-like voice of Steve Allen wafting towards me from the LBC breakfast show. In case you weren’t aware (which you most definitely won’t be, on account of me never having told you) I am a huge Steve Allen fan and it causes me great pain that his show is on unfortunately early in the morning, meaning I rarely get to listen to him on the radio, unless I want to be rising with the morning sun (which I really do not).

We’re making haste in the Uber when I begin to develop a rather unfortunate-feeling tummy ache, and by ‘unfortunate-feeling’ I mean that I feel as if my bum hole is about to explosively disconnect itself from the rest of my body. I shouldn’t have eaten those 20 chillies with my lunch yesterday, but I did, so there. We’re trotting along the motorway at a fair clip now, which would be fine, if the Uber driver didn’t keep getting perilously close to the van in front of us, then braking hard and swerving to avoid the impending collision. It would literally have been easier to drive inside the back of the van and ponce a lift all the way there. I don’t know if he was trying to slipstream or what, but it would have been much better for my explodey-bum-hole situation if he wasn’t doing whatever he was trying to do.

We landed in St Lucia a while later. Oh, and when I say ‘we’, I don’t mean myself and the Uber driver, in case you were worrying. I went on holiday with someone I actually know, I didn’t just strike up an incredible and intense relationship with my Uber man and whisk him away to a Caribbean island. I do however accept that something like that happening is always a possibility and I would never put it past myself – the feelings between a girl and her 5-star Uber driver are not something to be sniffed at.

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A moodier view from the hotel

We arrive at the airport and set about procuring our hire car, which takes an exceptionally long time and is mainly down to the fact that there were so many people trying to help at the car rental desk, that they actually began to hinder one another’s progress. To the point where I think that there were actually 2 of them working at one computer. But we make it out of the airport unscathed, if a little sweaty, and begin to make our way to the hotel. I’m very excited by this point, not about the fact that I am on holiday as such, but mainly due to the density of goats (hands down best farm animal and I will accept no argument) on the street AND the fact that there are actual real life bananas growing by the side of the road. Did you hear me? REAL LIFE BANANAS!

We make it to the hotel in one piece, but only just. The fancy-ass hotel we are going to is down a road which I can only describe to you as being the most ridiculous (not fancy-ass) road I have ever had the misfortune to travel along in my entire life. This road (if you could even call it that) is the lumpiest and bumpiest thing I have ever experienced. It was so ridiculous that it caused uncontrollable laughter to be expelled from my face. It was so ridiculous that at one point, I think I actually got hit in the face with my own boob, and I’m not even over-exaggerating. There is no lower point in life, than the point where you get pelted in the face by your own chest appendages. I don’t know how the physics of the earth managed it, because this should definitely be a thing which is physically impossible (like licking your own elbow, or doing the splits) but I can only assume that I am some sort of exception to the rule… You might even say I was the 8thwonder of the world, but obviously I will leave that for you to decide.

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Such a cute room

We arrive at the Anse Chastanet hotel in Soufriere (after a complete boob bashing) and we are greeted with a ‘cooling’ peppermint towel. I don’t know if any of you have applied peppermint directly to your face, but it’s not an experience I would describe as particularly ‘cooling’. In fact, it was rather fierce and much like setting fire to a Polo mint and then shoving it up your nose; that’s the kind of experience we are talking about here. My face was burning, my nose was burning, my throat was burning, and I even think my lungs were burning. My very existence was burning. I wouldn’t have been surprised if smoke started billowing out of my arse, resulting in my becoming the muse for the next How to Train Your Dragon film.

Bonnie