One legged jockey goes round in circles?
At first I thought it was gone. Withered and dying on the stony ground. When That Nice Lady Decorator had agreed to my going to Cyprus to play cricket in a couple of weeks time with the Sussex Seniors, I had stupidly failed to interpret that yes as a no. I think she must have thought I was going for the day or something, because later on, when I was talking about what time I was planning to leave on the Thursday and what time I might be back on the Monday, she asked incredulously what I expected to be doing with the other days.
She seemed to have no idea of the intensive practice that would have been required to walk out on to the pitch for the first time in my 7th decade, or how acclimatisation to the local surroundings, the local brews and weather are so vital in terms of preparation. I think she thought I would set off in the morning, play cricket and then be back for tea.
Then she began to think about it and realised that I would defiantly being ensuring that I got under her feet whilst my cricketing friends take on the challenge in Cyprus, and she tries to prepare the house for our departure in the second week in April. It was at this stage, only early this morning, that antipathy turned to persuasion. “You must go, I want you to go” she said.
Sunset at Cornucopia in Barbados. I though the sun had gone down on my cricket trip to Cyprus
Last night, after an interesting discussion with a nurse at Arundel Surgery about blood pressure and the detrimental effect of drinking alcohol had it was decreed that we should go out for an early evening pint at the White Hart to discuss her conclusions. The first subject was the number of units of alcohol that I consumed in an average week. The maximum suggested number is 21 and I was able comfortably to claim a maximum. The lovely young nurse did not consider it amusing when I told her that I certainly managed that number as an absolute minimum half way through the week but that after a few sherberts I tended not to count. I think she was in the counting camp.
We were joined in the pub by the lovely flame haired siren, the ginger marvel herself, Carolyn, who then managed to get herself invited for dinner back at ours. Somehow That Nice Lady Decorator was able to make two fishes and five loaves (another biblical reference, the third in three days – The Reverend Jeff will be getting excited. I tell you what Reverend, get your God to sign up for Currencies Direct and I will become a believer) stretch to feed another.
As she is an expert in vintage clothing, and one of my Christmas presents was a subscription to an excellent magazine called The Chap – which extols the virtues of moustaches, tweeds and all things sartorially and quintessentially English – I wanted some advice on how to expand my wardrobe into this area, and where to find such items for sale. “One Legged Jockey” she said. I failed to see why a horse ridden by a one legged jockey, which was probably going around in circles, could be relevant but she explained that it is a retro clothing shop in Chichester. Thus, before the winter, I shall pay them a visit and see what I can find.
I must leave you now, as I must go see if I can still book those flights to Paphos and find a room.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Stony ground may produce result
And some fell on stony ground. That should get the Reverend Jeff’s full attention, a biblical reference in the first line. That was the first reaction I received from that Nice Lady Decorator to the idea that the metaphorical seed I had scattered that I should go to Cyprus for a few days the weekend after next, to play cricket, and that perhaps she might like to join me.
I had discovered that my new bunch of pals of a certain age, connected with the Sussex Seniors, are about to embark on a cricket tour to the island, and had thought it a jolly jape to think about joining them. As I say, stony ground. It appears that there is much work to be done on and around the house prior to our departure to France (via the Isle Of Death Wight) on 11th April. But then it occurred to her that as she does all the work (I reserve myself for the more cerebral activities, such as writing this column, although I accept there are those amongst us that fail to appreciate its full greatness) whilst she is involved in getting the house ready for all the rentals she has taken, which involves decorating as well, that having me out from under her feet for a few days might be a god send (second biblical reference!). As I write I am awaiting confirmation that If I travel I can get a game of cricket, and if I can, permission may be granted. Obviously I would have to wait for that permission to be in writing, in triplicate, and it could be rescinded at anymoment, but at this stage it is not impossible that I shall be on a plane to Paphos courtesy of my friends at Easyjet in the very near future. Perhaps it was the realisation that she could have a few days without me banging on about the benefits of Currencies Direct that changed her mind. Otherwise I can think of no good reason why my absence for a few days might be condoned or even actively encouraged, as it was.
Spotted at a Fisherponds Plantation House in Barbados
This was the only news that lightened yesterday morning. At least I remembered the bike when leaving to take exercise, but it being the first full 5:2 diet day since arriving back from Barbados, and raining by mid afternoon and with hunger, constipation (hence today’s photo) and depression taking a grip, I decided to raise my spirits by starting to write this column for you, dear reader. By 5pm I was back to my sparkling and witty best. The reason, apart from the pure quality of my prose, was that I encountered Nearly Hairless Nick in the Co Op across the road as I was desolately looking at low-calorie fruit options.
Why did this raise my spirits? He revealed that he had seen That Nice Lady Decorator outside with some T-cut, the material one uses to polish out scratches on ones vehicle. She has a shiny new soon -to-be-skip, which I have been predicting will go down hill very quickly due to the actions of a certain catastrophic canine, to which she is unaccountably attached. I thought Banjo the dog had scratched the back sill of it, but she assures me that it was not him but one of his doggy friends. To my mind that is guilt by association. An accessory after the fact. Anyway, it was sufficient to raise my spirits a little ahead of a dry night watching TV. By the way Reverend, how does a dog smell with no nose ?
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Bike required for cycling shock
I am not saying I was vague yesterday morning, after a splendid but rather drunken evening at JAK at the White Hart the evening before, but as I wandered towards the back gate, That Nice Lady Decorator asked where I was going. I replied that I was going for my customary morning bike ride (replacing my walk due to a still slightly dodgy ankle). She said, rather tellingly I thought, “won’t you be needing your bike?”.
So it was a slightly underwhelming start to the day. However a few miles of HIT (high intensity training, where you intersperse ordinary exercise with short periods of intense activity) woke me up and returned me to reality. Invigorated by the exercise and further uplifted by the thoughts of the benefits of opening an account with Currencies Direct for anyone wanting to pay bills abroad or receive money in currencies other than the pound sterling, I prepared for the Sussex Seniors cricket nets at the Arundel Cricket School.
Cricket breeds great characters and that process is driven by the fact that after the game, or in this case after practice, most of the chaps retire to the pub for cricket banter and stories. It seems this is a dying theme as the youngsters coming into the game nowadays do not share our age groups enthusiasm for proper beer and proper discussion. Luckily, I have chanced upon a group of splendid cricketing apologists, but it gets better. Apart from the fact that the practice takes place on my adopted UK home town, and the team members come from all over the county, from as far away as Crawley and Lewes, to a particularly good cricket school, to which I could and sometimes do walk, but the crowning factor is that the pub in which they chose to chew the cricketing cud, as it were, is The White Hart, right next to my house. I could scarcely believe it when I was told. I thought they were having a joke or that I was dreaming. The pub next door to my house, of all the pubs in Sussex, is chosen as the post practice venue. I am a big believer in fate (which does not imply that I believe in god, despite what they fear Reverend Jeff might say) but it appears that my services to this great game are not yet over.
Sunset in Arundel
I shall miss the first part of the season as we shall be enjoying the delights of Valbonne in the south of France for a couple of months from the last week in April. Before that however, we shall have a few days on the Isle Of Wight before taking the ferry to Santander in northern Spain. I have always wanted to visit this rugged surfers coastline, so as it is diametrically opposed in nature to the sedate image of the Isle Of Death, we have decided to take it in on our way to France. The bad news is that we shall be accompanied by the dastardly dog Banjo, whom apparently can be accommodated aboard the ferry for the 24 hour trip. Until then though, it is nose to the grindstone of work and those pesky diet days twice a week. I think my in-house limericists have some ammunition today.
4 pints of beer did play a bit of havoc with the diet day yesterday, as the idea is to limit ones intake to just 600 calories, and at 175 calories per pint of real ale, I was up to my quota, but managed to get by on under 1000 in total, so my slender frame will soon be returning to its whippet like status after the being seriously desecrated by rum punch and Banks beer in Barbados in the last two weeks.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Testiculation and subversion
The floods from last month have had a very serious long lasting effect and I am determined to campaign for the government to do more to protect decent pubs. We had planned to go to The Mill at Elstead, but it was closed until further notice due to flood damage. If ever there was a more distressing example of how destructive flooding can be, I would not like to see it. A great English institution, the pub, is in danger and priorities must be set. Forget the Somerset levels which are expected to be under water part of the year, forget coastal properties being lost to the sea, more money has to go into protecting pubs.
Ok, homily over. Lunch was taken at the very much less agreeable Golden Fleece in Elstead. Now here is a pub that might benefit from a flood. At least the decor would have to be changed, or maybe it has flooded and no one noticed? It could be half decent, it is a nice building but horrid button back benches, a lot of other nasty furniture, and the home made quiche we had was so much worse than any you can buy frozen at Tesco. We asked if it was home made and they said it was. Time to drown the chef.
Last night the return of the prodigal daughter, Sprog 2, from University coincided with an experimental evening at the White Hart as JAK, their usual restaurant set up, which usually only operates from Wednesday to Sunday, agreed with James “Desperate Dan” The Landlord to an offer by try out a variation on their normal fusion menu and to cook some Indian food last night, so in that spirit of neighbourly togetherness we decided to support the chaps and try it out. That and That Nice Lady Decorator did not feel like cooking.
He looks a bit Indian does he not?
It was a very good experiment and one that they should repeat but the upshot was that we drank a great deal of wine and ended up testiculating (waving your arms around whilst talking bollocks) with the Landlord and the Mighty and beautiful Omega. Thus my planned early night was ruined and the lights were out and most of the chairs on the tables before we left.
Today, after a hectic morning dealing with currencies issues with the help of Currencies Direct and oiling the wheels of the music industry, I have been invited to join the Sussex Seniors inner sanctum of net practice at the Arundel Indoor Cricket School for the more serious players. I shall be taking my new KP bat, aware of the dangers in may cause in terms of dressing room friction and undermining team morale, but the fact is that the bat is so good it has to be used (this last sentence will only be understood by followers of cricket). I may also dare to take my new Sussex Seniors cricket sweater, to which I have only the most unconvincing right to wear, but as many people know, I am thick skinned enough not to notice the sly looks and muffled comments of my fellow Seniors, concerned that I have not have earned that right as I have never played for them. However, I have made myself available for much of the latter half of the season when I expect to be back in the UK, surely I must be selected for one of the games at least? I am sure the situation will be discussed at the traditional post practice meeting at The White Hart at around 3 this afternoon. I shall no doubt be offered the chance to settle my tab from last night.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Looking forward to Defibrillator Island
I had expected rain and wind upon my return from Barbados and whilst the wind came from a different source than expected, rather too close to home so to speak, the rain held off and it was even quite pleasant as we emerged into the unexpected sunlight at Gatwick Airport.
It had been quite a pleasant over night flight for me, despite a poor entertainment system, as I had managed to get some sleep, but it seems the manner in which my constitution dealt with the goat curry and other West Indian delicacies I have ingested over the past 11 days made the flight for some others a little less pleasant. I had hoped to be home in time to go to the Sussex Seniors net practice but alas no. That will have to wait until next Monday, dodgy ankle permitting.
The best way to deal with jet lag is to try to stay up as long as possible and return to normal hours as soon as practicable. Finding that the St Patrick’s Day celebrations had in fact already taken place, at least took the pressure off going out, but in order not to collapse in a heap at 6pm, we popped out for couple of pints at the 6 Bells at Lyminster before a dropping into the White Hart to show off our sun tans. It was Monday night so very few were in, but Terribly Tall Timothy Taylor was, so he had to endure the stories about the Bajan trip.
Is he coming after going to the Atlantis restaurant and then the Barbados wild life place? Help me out here Reverend Jeff?
So that is it, no more holidays until mid April, when we shall return to Valbonne via, rather bizarrely, the Isle Of Wight. Now that I am a venerable pensioner, I have decided that I am at last old enough to venture onto the island of the dead or nearly dead. I want to see just how bad it gets before they nail down the coffin lid. I have been told that it is an attractive island, but as I was merely 7 years old when I last went (almost inevitably taken by an elderly grand parent who was probably contemplating the same scenario as I) I remember very little about it. Defibrillator Island, as I think I shall now call it, apparently has some nice bits, so as That Nice Lady Decorator has thoughtfully rented out our house from 11th April, and we don’t get out Valbonne house back in lovely sunny France until 25th, we shall be on the road for two weeks, starting with heart attack island.
Today, after tidying up some loose ends in my music empire, and ensuring a client signs up for his new account with Currencies Direct (you know who you are and I know where you live), we must journey to Elstead in Surrey for distressing family business. Thereafter I shall be ready for a drink, but thought this would be denied because they were rumblings about today being a 5:2 diet day, mostly as a result of the damage wreaked upon my now portly frame due to over indulgence in the culinary and alcoholic delights of the Caribbean, but with a surprise visit from Sprog 2 (she needs her hair doing, or more accurately a doting mother to pay to have her hair done), diet day may be postponed. As I write I am crossing my fingers in hope.
The rest of the week will be spent in quiet contemplation of the infinite and dreaming of owning a chattel house on the beach on Barbados. I feel a lottery win coming on, so shall make an exception this week and buy a ticket.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
A Fisherponds lunch
An excellent final lunch at the fabulous Fisherpond Great House, ridiculously poorly signposted but nevertheless packed for their Sunday buffet lunch, was the perfect last stop before the madness of Bridgetown airport and the trip back to England overnight.
It need not have been madness. Had British Airways, which is fast becoming my least favourite airline, had more than one desk open for the 70 or so customers attempting to check in, the madness might have been lessened somewhat. It is a bad day when one hears and agrees with the comments that Easyjet is more efficient that our world-renowned carrier.
And what a fabulous lunch it was. The options were to be inside the big plantation house or outside under various covered areas in the wonderful old plantation garden, a picture of which I include today. With rain showers floating around as befits a tropical island, we thought we had made the wrong choice of being outside, but when we arrived and found that the interior was like gods waiting room. A piano player was running through a repertoire that would not have been out of place in a Darby and Joan club and there was a distinct feeling that at some stage that defibrillation might be on the menu.
outdoor dining at Fisherponds
After initially expressing satisfaction with the venue chosen for our last lunch on Barbados, the gradually dawning realisation that she was the youngest there was too much for Rachael “Lady In Waiting” Surtees, who began sniffing the air for signs, or rather the smell, of incontinence pants. She decided later on as we dined that she would not return because she did not like eating with old people, which I initially took as a great compliment until, after the briefest of pauses she said “present company excepted”.
I did not know at the time that the place has been frequented by the likes of Prince Harry and Drew Barrymore, but I guess some of the others who have also graced its doors, such as Helen Mirren and Michael Winner, adds fuel to her argument. I shall certainly returning as it was another great dining experience, and I am old enough not to be intimidated by old people. Caribbean chicken curry, corn souffle, macaroni pie, sweet potatoes, a pepper pot, flying fish, deep-fried plantains and an array of deserts were the basis for a fitting finale to our trip. I am hearing that the weather has been fine in the UK, and I shall expect it to remain so, as I ease my way back into working this week. There are still too many people who have yet to open an account with Currencies Direct.
Now a normal person, who has endured an eight-hour overnight flight from a time line some 4 hours different to the arrival time, and trying to mitigate the resultant jet lag, and also having to deal with a very poor in flight entertainment system that rendered the films on offer impossible to hear, would probably want to crawl into bed and rest on the first day back, and here I would consider myself normal. However, That Nice Lady Decorator does not do normal. It is St Patrick’s Day and she is determined to celebrate it. My plaintive cries, that I was now exposed to a debt of 10 euros payable to my Irish friend, due to the inability of the French rugby team to take a golden opportunity to squash the Irish in the 6 Nations because of a forward pass, and the mental strain to which I had been exposed, plus the idea of celebrating anything Irish in the face of recent rugby events fell in dead ears.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
The laws of drinking and rugby
You cannot watch the 6 nations rugby in a bar without a beer. It is the law. The fact that the match between Italy and England was due to kick off at 8.30 Barbados time was unfortunate but the law is the law. Four of us made it down to the Champions Sports Bar at the bottom of the hill down to the beach from the now mercifully peaceful Cornucopia and were waiting outside for the bar to open. One can never be to sure about what might happen in the Caribbean. I had emailed and phoned around the evening before to see if anywhere was showing the game, and the sign outside (which, had it been there yesterday would have ensured a good turnout) was encouraging, but with two minutes to go there was still no sign, and then we suddenly we heard the Italian National Anthem and we knew it was going to be OK.
After a great win for England, and a huge fry up of a breakfast back at the villa, it was back to the bar to watch France versus Italy. I was shouting for the French to win for two reasons. Firstly because had they won then England would have won the 6 Nations tournament, but mostly because I had a bet with John “800 years of repression” O Sullivan (he is Irish as the more perceptive amongst you may have gathered) on who would be the victors. (Note to self; withdraw 10 euros from the bank in one cent coins). The epithet in my head stone should bear the inscription “Magnanimous in victory, surly in defeat”.
Cheeky monkey. One of the charming monkeys that live in the gardens of Corucopia checks out what we are doing
Then to the airport to drop Trouble and Brainy Wag for their trip back to London and suddenly the end is in sight for the trip to Barbados. So many things done, so many that will have to wait until next time. I hear there may be some Test cricket here next March which is an extremely tempting prospect, so the gaps can be filled in then.
Last night we went back down the hill to Karibu for one last go at the goat curry, and to trawl for potential customers for the excellent foreign exchange services of Currencies Direct. The Ginger Chafer had recovered somewhat from his unfortunate sand, sweat and resultant uncomfortable affliction (see yesterday’s column, which incidentally produces some very amusing limericks) and was walking more like John Wayne rather than Buster Gonad. We drank their only bottle of red wine, a rather nasty Merlot, before retiring for a last rum punch, a cigar, and another bout of putting the world to rights.
You may think that after such a full week on this splendid island that we would take it gently today before flying back to ghastly Gatwick this evening, but not a bit of it. I am told that we are going for a last walk along the wonderful beaches of St James this morning followed by lunch at the Fisherponds Plantation House at St Thomas in the centre of the islands. This establishment has apparently been the lucky recipient of a Winners Dinners award, as bestowed by the former Sunday Times the late Michael Winner, and even the Queen has eaten there, so apparently we must also be able to say that we have been there as well.
It seems that we must also drive along the coast past Oistens, as we have not seen it on the way back before leaving the villa for the airport. I shall need a holiday when we get back as I am exhausted by the full itinerary that has been composed by That Nice Lady Decorator..
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
The ginger chafer
Those eyebrows are getting more orange with every passing day. They are now looking distinctly ginger. Perhaps it was seeing him in the direct tropical sunshine here in Barbados, but Currencies Direct client John “Chuckle Brothers” Surtees now looks a natural for any Easyjet advertising campaign. At first I thought that his excuse, that he had mistaken some kind of sun screen for moisturiser was perfectly acceptable, and something any of us might have done, but upon reflection, who would put any kind of cream on ones eyebrows? And judging by the gradually increasing effects, is he doing this regularly? I think questions need to be asked, and I think I am the man to ask them.
We had walked along the beautiful beaches of St James to the Beach House restaurant at Holetown to have lunch at this fabulous beachside eaterie, courtesy of the owners of the owners of the wonderful Cornucopia, who had taken pity on us because of the works going on next door. It is a couple of miles along the coast and after a fabulous lunch, we decided to walk back rather than grab the taxi I had been promised. Manfully, despite a dodgy ankle and the application of a few beers and some Whispering Angel, a Provence wine made just a few miles from our house in Valbonne, I refrained from complaining about the pain this might cause, and here I was different to Chuckle. It appears that whilst walking back, a combination of his legs rubbing together, sweaty shorts and sand lodging in the wedding tackle department, he was chafing badly by the time we were half way home. Had this befallen me, I like to think that I would have stoically and refrained from making the problem public (or should I say pubic?). I am sure that, however painful, I would not have walked like a sumo wrestler with extra large gonads, but each to their own.
The Cliff, Barbados. Simply stunning
Then last night, to the Cliff. I am struggling to think of a nicer setting anywhere in the world. It sits above a tiny beautifully lit turquoise sea with flaming torches all along the ramparts and was quite frankly the most magnificent combination of food, drinks and ambiance I have ever experienced. There is a lot of hype about The Cliff and so with expectation high, there is always a danger that those expectations might not be met. They were. And the know how to charge. For 6 of us, starting with gins and tonic, going through the whole menu, drinking a very nice Rioja, and finishing with either a desert wine or a glass of port, there was very little change out of a grand, but if I tell you it was worth it, you may be able to gauge how good it was.
The occasion was the birthday celebration for gruff northerner Steve “trouble up t’mill” Jackson, who looked contented as soon as we arrived and he was able to put his feet up on a pouffe. I don’t think he was being homophobic, he just considers homosexuals on the same level as all southerners, including myself. Actually, come to think of it, it is southerners to which he really objects.
And so today is our last full day in the paradise that is Barbados. I usually say that given the limited time available to me, and the number of places on my bucket list which have not yet benefited from my company, that I would not readily return to a place far away that I have been before, but I think in the case of this fantastic island I shall be making an exception.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Sex on the rafters?
The last of the three match series between England and West Indies was staged yesterday, after pigeons had once again featured in the build up. At the previous game on Tuesday, the management had kindly laid on some pigeon entertainment for the northern enclave in which we were seated, in the form of a copulating pair of our feathered friends. I had thought that Sex On The Rafters was a Caribbean cocktail, but in the pigeon sex show the tail part was missing, if you get my drift. Yesterday the influence of pigeon began with our removing their droppings from our allocate seats. It was noted that as the West Indies had shat all over England in this series, they had decided to rub our noses in it, especially in the Yorkshire enclave, where I was trapped as Yorkshireman Steve “trouble up t’mill” Jackson had bought the tickets. I guess it was the Caribbean take on a postcode lottery.
The cricket this time was much more exciting despite the gormless tactics of our opening bowler, Jade Dernbach, who only had to bowl the last ball somewhere near straight to win but could not manage it, being called wide and giving the home team another chance to steal a win from what should have been an impregnable position. It was even worse than the brainless bowling of Yorkshireman Tim Bresnan (dropped for this match) during the second game on Tuesday. The clue must be in the name. Jade for a man?
It was however a splendid experience, reminiscent of my previous visits to see cricket in Barbados, with the locals creating a carnival atmosphere which was great fun, but with the match over my thoughts turned to more serous matters, such as the opening of an account with Currencies Direct, and dinner.
Another fabulous Caribbean beach
John “Chuckle Brothers” Surtees had already excelled himself as pool boy, laundry maid and gardener, took over the barbecue and prepare some fantastic marlin steaks and flying fish, which I thought would go well with the a cheeky little guava wine I had purchased on a small market the weekend before, and although I did manage to drink the first glass, I was the only one with a strong enough stomach and it was quickly deemed too awful even to hide in a rum punch.
Today should be quieter, as long as the tree fellers at the villa next door do not return. It is not so much the noise made by their chain saws, it is more about the noise made by one Not So Nice Lady Decorator as she apparently pointed out to them quite loudly and forfully that they were making such a din and that she was unable to concentrate on her gin and tonic. It did however make a change from the power drills we had to endure the day before.
Things will hot up this evening as we are scheduled to celebrate the birthday of Steve “Trouble up t’mill Jackson by dining at the most exclusive restaurant in Barbados, The Cliff. If I tell you that the email confirmation says that if we don’t show up, they will charge 245 Barbados Dollars to my card (about £80) per person, you will have an idea of what we should expect. I suspect that it will be eyewateringly expensive, but let’s hope it is worth it. One does not enters ones 6th decade very often (even though he has conned us all because his actual birthday is still a few days away), so it should be special, and I have taken the liberty of giving him his first copy of Saga magazine, dedicated to people over 50. He did not show it, but I am certain he was joyous deep down.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
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
Miserable git gets the wrong tickets
The eyebrows were still a bit orange as we got into the car to head to Bridgetown for the second of the three match 20:20 cricket series between England and West Indies. Having mistaken the tanning cream for something that had partly bleached his eyebrows the day before yesterday, John “Chuckle Brothers” Surtees decided on keeping a low profile today. A lesser writer than my good self might have said he was staying low brow. Even he admitted it looked like he had been tangoed.
The night before, in the hubris of too much rum punch, we had donated the tickets set aside for the WAG’s, who had decided not to go, to some of the locals, and we were looking forward to seeing them again so I could further explain the benefits of having an account with Currencies Direct for their foreign exchange needs. They turned up with a bag full of beer cans and some rum, which helped to ease the pain of yet another defeat.
We seemed to be seated in an area exclusively reserved for those rather gruff and unsophisticated chaps from Yorkshire. Whenever one of their prodigal sons in the England team did something noteworthy, they all stood up and chanted Yorkshire, Yorkshire, but when the penultimate disastrous over was bowled by their very own Tim Bresnan, effectively losing us the match,which admittedly we had never really looked like winning, they were strangely quiet.
Despite losing the match and the series, making the third game on Thursday academic, it was a great day which was often enlivened by events unrelated to the cricket. One of the Yorkshire contingent in the crowd noticed that there were two pigeons having sex in the rafters of the stand. This seemed to me to be a very thoughtful gesture on the part of the management, clearly laid on for those pigeon fancying northerners.
If the cap fits.. Trouble finds his dream boat,
We were in a stand under cover, which was OK when there was a shower during the game, but being stuck in a northern enclave when one could have been on the exciting part of he ground, where there were dancing girls and loud local music between overs and indeed after the scoring of any boundary, came under discussion. It was one of our own gruff Yorkshireman, Steve “Trouble up t’mill” Jackson who had secured the tickets, and clearly that old Yorkshire reputation for thrift will not die. According to our local friends, you can buy tickets for this section which include all the food you can eat and includes all of your drinks, you get the dancing girls and the music, but Trouble had decided against it, preferring obviously to sit amongst his compatriots, about as faraway from the action as you could get. I think I may have mentioned it.
Last night we ventured down to the bottom of Holders Hill and had a bottle of wine on the beach at Daphny’s, a swanky Italian restaurant directly on the sand, which was very pleasant, but we all wanted to experience some more of the ethnic tasty Caribbean food so we went across to Mr Vic’s for some local delicacies, such as shrimp curry.
Today, I have been told that some of us, and being designated driver that means me, want to go and see some Plantation house set amongst the sugar cane somewhere in the middle of the island. Apparently we want to go and experience this piece of history. We had driven past it when touring the week before, and had even stopped in the grounds for a beer, but at that time That Nice Lady Decorator had not taken the opportunity to go in. Aren’t I lucky? Now we get another chance!
Chris France
Alistair Darlings love child?
Arising before 8am is usually socially unacceptable in my little world but as we are 4 hours behind the UK whilst here in Barbados, and that equates to midday in The UK, I was prepared for the sense of unease that overtook me when first looking at the clock.
Having been seriously rum punched by the homemade version of the local brew the night before, and fancying a greasy breakfast to settle the stomach, I suggested that we should go for a walk on the beach and see if we could find such an animal.
Steve “trouble up t’mill” had made a true Yorkshire fashion statement at the cricket yesterday, by proudly wearing his cricket shirt emblazoned with his clubs sponsors logo (Rippon Interiors no less) emblazoned in a less than subtle manner across his chest, but Currencies Direct client John “Chuckle Brothers” Surtees went one further yesterday morning when it was noticed that his eyebrows were going orange. His excuse was that he had mixed up after-sun cream with some type of tanning lotion, creating a look which was dubbed “a touch of ginger”. Rachael “Lady In Waiting” promised to dye them back to black last night. As I write, I have yet to see the result, but do hope that we don’t have to face something that could be confused with Alistair Darling’s love child when we arrive down for breakfast this morning.
We found Treasure Beach Hotel was offering breakfast and so we partook before walking up the renowned St James beaches past the world famous Sandy Lane and then back again, by which time thirst was the main problem so we stopped off for a restorative ale at a beach bar called Coconut.
The west coast of Barbados
Whilst we were there, two heavily armed and seriously camouflaged soldiers wandered through the bar onto the beach. It was a rather incongruous sight, and we could only surmise that they may have been searching for a dodgy looking man with ginger eyebrows. Trouble mentioned that it was illegal to wear camouflage clothing on the neighbouring island of St Lucia, but then added “but how would anyone be able to tell?”. He has a point.
After an afternoon spent recharging by the pool, we considered going back to Coconut to see if we could capture a true Bajan west coast sunset, but in the end we settled for watching it at the magnificent Cornucopia, where we are staying. I think we did, but it was slightly rum enhanced sunset. Beautiful but a bit hazy, and could refer to both to the sunset, our respective wives and the amount of rum punch the party had consumed. Even the beautiful Rowena, Sensible WAG, wife and carer to Trouble lost some of her legendary control and was absent for dinner.
I had been sent down to Karibu, the local Bajan restuarant where we had dined on exotic dishes such as curried mango a few days earlier, with the Chuckle Brother supporter to secure ready cooked provisions, and, arriving back, was overcome by a bout of extreme tiredness and retired to my pit at something like 8pm, I was not the first.
It was not before Chuckle and I had performed a philanthropic act (which has nothing to do with stamp collecting) by donating the tickets for the cricket today, originally earmarked for the WAGS, to the deserving cook at Karibu, the ethnic restaurant at the bottom of Holders Hill. Unaccountably, they have decided that they would prefer to sun bathe and then have lunch rather than brave Bridgetown for the second 20:20 cricket match between England at West Indies. We are under no illusions, there is no tacit promise of free food on nights to come, but I live in hope.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Welsh rarebit properly roasted
Surreal was the only word for it. We watched England versus Wales 6 Nations rugby match at Bert’s Bar in downtown Bridgetown, Barbados surrounded by a scrum (did you see what I did there) of other Brits, most of whom, rather gratifyingly due to the result, seemed to be Welsh. It was never certain until about 3 minutes from the start that we would get to see the game. ESPN2, one of the sports channels available courtesy of Bert, had advertised that they were showing the match earlier in the week, but their on-screen schedules were saying something different by the time we had ordered the first Bloody Mary’s of the day. Much discussion between the gathered visiting inhabitants of the UK and the bar staff ensued, and they (the bar staff) were convinced that it would be broadcast. The TV guide for the hour before the scheduled start said that they would be covering football, but it was actually broadcasting basketball, so in a typically West Indian way there was still hope. The first pictures from Twickenham, 3 minutes before the start, were greeted by a huge cheer by the assembled multitude, which had grown to about 60 people. As I have said before about the Caribbean, it is brilliant utter chaos but they somehow get it right in the end.
View from the Kensington Oval
After watching England dominate our daffodil and sheep loving friends on the rugby pitch whilst seated in a tropical paradise, it was off to something less that sporting paradise, the Kensington Oval, to watch a dismal England performance in the cricket. There was nothing wrong with the venue or the weather, the fault lies with the English cricket team. The high spot for me was watching the great West Indian batsman Chris Galye hit the biggest six I ever seen, going clear out of the ground over the stand. The six he had hit a few overs earlier landed in the top stands where we were watching and was caught by one of the locals! He only just beat me too it.
A ragga/salsa sound stage had been set up in the car park of the West Indies cricket museum across for the ground after the game had ended, but after one beer there, the “Trouble” team, containing but two Currencies Direct clients, conclusion was that we were a little jaded, a little hot and sweaty and needed to regroup.
A short siesta completed, we had a chance to try out the various new ingredients that seemed to be required to make Caribbean rum punch. I found 12 different recipes within a few seconds on Google, so it seems as long as you have rum and a few types of fruit juice, a sweet base, loads of ice and some nutmeg, you are there. It also helps to have dedicated team of run punch creating learners in-house. You will not be surprised to discover that the in charge of the manufacture was Rachael, “Lady in Waiting” Surtees who carries with her at all times a bottle of gin and her own extra hot chillies. I am sure it was she who misunderstood the fine balance required between the rum and the sweetness, so overdid the rum, and I am certain that this put paid to any ideas about going out to eat last evening. I think the precise time when that decision was made can be defined. It was when it was suggested that rather than go out and risk a local alternative, we should stay in and eat Welsh Rarebit at the fabulous Villa Cornucopia rather than venture out into the Bajan night. The opportunity to roast the Welsh one more time proved irresistible.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Rum shack surprise
Lunch consisted of curried goat, pumpkin, curried mango, macaroni cheese and curried spinach and was wonderful. I think you might call the establishment a rum shack but the curried mango they served especially was superb.
Yes, plastic seats, and bottles of Banks beer being the only non rum option, was a little limiting but one feels one is getting deep down into the local cuisine visiting a place like this. It was called Karibu, and is on the main road from Bridgetown to Speightstown at Holders Hill, just a mile or so from Sandy Lane and the same distance from what is reputedly the best restaurant on the island of Barbados, The Cliff, where incidentally we are booked for the big birthday celebrations on Friday, but I could not have enjoyed it more.
Airport runs eventually gathered the whole party together for the first time a little later, and Steve “trouble up t’mill” Jackson, who arrived with his carer, intelligent WAG, Rowena, later in the afternoon, expressed disappointment that he had missed the goat, which I am pretty certain is not something he would have said before, certainly not in front of me. I do think however, that he may think that I have used this expression in a deliberately disingenuous way. I am sure there are plenty of goats to go around up north, but I suspect he may have a particular favourite, and who would not miss a close companion?
We had moved into the splendid Villa Cornucopia yesterday after a fantastic 3 day stay at The Round House in Bathsheba. It is on the far more cosmopolitan western side of the island, but there is still a real Bajan feel to the place. Hence the restaurant. It is opposite a far more up market tourist restaurant which is on the beach, but we could not have had a better meal. There is also the small question of cost. A beer at Karibu was $4 Barbados. At the beachside tourist trap called, I think Elaine’s, a beer was $11.
Ethnic dining on Barbados
Whilst relaxing in early evening, we recounted the story of the ethnic meal, and Trouble decided that he wanted to experience the same, so we headed to the same area, at the bottom of Holders Hill Rd, and found another place, pictured today, specialising in barbecue, where once again we went native, although not quite as enjoyable as lunch, it was interesting. I especially liked being asked “which starch” I would like, and decided that I would like the breadfruit chips.
You might think that here, whilst expounding the benefits of embracing local culinary styles, I might be tempted to make some mention of the benefits that flow from becoming a customer of Currencies Direct, but nothing could be further from the truth.
The first cricket match in the international 20:20″ series between England and West Indies takes place this afternoon at the Kensington Oval. We have tickets reserved, and later today we will no doubt enjoy some typical Caribbean chaos when we attempt to collect them in time to watch the match, which is due to start at 2.30. Before that we have talked as a group about trying to find an establishment in Bridgetown, where the new Oval stands, and to find a bar that is showing the 6 Nations rugby. There is the small matter of England versus Wales this at 11am local time, and if we are successful, what a great day of sport in very different surrounds lies ahead!
Before that, I must seek some exercise, so as we are staying opposite the Barbados Polo Ground, where they must play “that game with the horse” as an American I met on the island described cricket, I shall shorty be marching around it.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Rum punch drunk
It is not called rum punch just because of the rum. This fact was established clearly yesterday, when That Nice Lady Decorator decided to take on the local concoction. She gave it her best but the result of the final showdown (well, whilst we are on the windy side of Barbados) was hard to hide. However, never down and out, she recovered more quickly than I from an afternoon overload of local alcoholic produce to being on top form at dinner, something to which I could only aspire.
A siesta was imperative after another exploration of the fantastic beaches of Barbados. I have a picture of one as today’s photo. I think it goes without saying that we were odds on to ensure that we took in local culture to the fullest possible extent, myself in a gallant attempt to tame Banks Beer, herself conclusively to prove that Bajan rum punch is a drink for the uncommitted. We both failed.
It took just a short siesta to repair things and in my opinion I was at the top of my game as we sat down for our last dinner at The Round House in Bathsheba. It was not an opinion shared by anyone close to me. Earlier, on the tour of the many beaches, I had taken this photograph to ensure that I have some documentary evidence to prove I was there. Memory will be insufficient. This is because I suspect I shall not remember ever being there.
One of the many beautiful deserted beached of Barbados
This morning, after an early morning walk along the cutting of the old Barbados railway, which ran all the way around the south and east coasts past Bathsheba up to Belleplaine (it is about the only time of the day when serious exercise can be entertained), we shall depart the East coast for the much tamer but swankier West Coast, where we have rented a splendid looking villa from some dear friends for the week. Arriving later this morning will be Currencies Direct customer John “Chuckle Brothers” Surtees (so called because of his abortive attempt to resurrect their TV career a few years back) with the gorgeous Rachael, “The Lady In Waiting”. Regular readers will know to which this refers but for the uninitiated, my wife and her husband have previous carnel knowledge of each other in an earlier life, whilst The Lady and I do not, and I have always felt I should square the circle, so to speak.
Later in the day will see the arrival of gruff northerner and birthday boy Steve “trouble up t’mill” Jackson and his saintly wife the remarkable Rowena. Remarkable because she puts up with him. I have prepared a package of gifts for him as he approaches that milestone that is 50. I believe that life expectancy in the north of England is considerably lower due to the privations which make up their daily existence, and that physically, he is more like a 70-year-old southerner. Amongst that package is the latest copy of Saga magazine which I know he will love when he open it. We may even see a little tear. We will then have the complete party gathering in place ready for a full week of ribald living and cricket. I can think of nothing I would look forward to more.
On the way back from the airport, we shall move from one area of Caribbean chaos, arriving at the airport, to a second, probably worse debacle, when we divert to the Kensington Oval to attempt to collect the tickets Trouble has booked for the three 20:20 cricket matches between England and the West Indies which are due to take place this week, starting on Sunday.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
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