Clint Eastwood or Jimmy Clithero?

We took the hire car, a particularly nasty but almost brand new Suzuki Swift (obviously the Suzuki designers were having a laugh because it is anything but swift) over to the Sunbury Plantation House somewhere in the centre of the island of Barbados. That Nice Lady Decorator had set her sights on seeing the interior of this house, that has recently been restored after being badly damaged by fire, after we had seen the exterior a few days before. I have to say that my enthusiasm for going to see old relics (something I had done twice in previous days at the Kensington Oval where England were being soundly beaten) was not very well developed, but as Brainy Wag, the beautiful and saintly Rowena, wife of Steve “trouble up t ‘mill” Jackson also wanted to see some old relics – something that I suggested she may be able to see most evenings in the intimacy of their bedroom – and as I was the only person insured to drive, I was chauffeur for the day.

Eventually the girls tired of the collection of old junk at the house and we decided to drive on to show them Foul Bay, Crane Beach, Harrismith Bay (or Cave Beach as it is sometimes known) and then on to Bathsheba, where a light lunch was taken at the wonderful Round House.

Foul Bay, not so foul

I was wearing my rather dashing Panama hat and after Trouble had has his usual jolly jape about flat caps being the only acceptable head wear, he expressed the opinion that, should he ever have occasion to wear a proper hat, it might be in he style of Clint Eastwood, in a spaghetti western . He objected most strongly to my response that him wearing a hat would look more like Jimmy Clithero, not in the grounds of sartorial good taste, but because Mr Clithero was from Lancashire, and as a Yorkshire lad he really did not want to be associate with anything from the “wrong” side of the Pennines.

As we sat enjoying some fabulous coconut prawns and gougons of flying fish, Brainy Wag noticed that sitting below us was one of the villains of the second defeat of England by West Indies in the 20:20 cricket tournament, one Tim Bresnan, coincidentally vilified in this column yesterday. I invited Trouble to stand up and chant “Yorkshire, Yorkshire” as he had done the day before at the Kensington Oval, when Mr Bresnan, a Yorkshire born player, had actually done something notable. For some reason he declined, and as a result, I was denied an opening to discuss his foreign currency needs and how he could benefit from opening an account with Currencies Direct.

Last night was the first of our big nights out. We went to Cin Cin, a modern restaurant with a terrace from where you can look down on the waves breaking on the beach while you eat. The food was good, the service attentive but for me the whole experience lacking something. Perhaps it was charm. Being so modern, especially in the lounge area, seemed to dampen spirits rather than raise them. Anyway, a few glasses of wine and we were quickly back in our stride. Rachael “Lady in Waiting” Surtees was talking about the appearance at my birthday of Wild Willy Barrett. She is a real fan to the extent that she announced loudly in the restaurant, during one of those curious quiet moments that sometimes happen, that she loved Willy. I have to report that there were a few surreptitious looks in her direction and an elderly chap close by dropped his fork in shock. It was OK though, the waiter brought me another.

Chris France
@Valbonne_News