Friday, 21 August 2015


Gaynor and I started the day with an early morning swim surrounded by scores of flying fish. They jumped out of the water, glided for thirty feet or so then went back to the sea like arrows. Such an exciting start to the day.

After breakfast all went in search of memories. They say that you never should and perhaps they are right, but we went in search of them anyway.

Driving through Bridgetown was a nightmare as always and even when we hit the coast road on the southern part of the island it was busy.

The Woodville apartments in Worthing are long, long gone. It was where Gaynor and I came on our first holiday together and then, two years later, to honeymoon. They were run by two sisters, ex-collonial types who greeted you with far too pale skin, rinse and sets, and rum punch by the pool. It was all very British in a Bajan way, trousers to be worn in the evenings, and we didn't even have aircon.

Across the road was a tin shed where you could buy bottles of rum and cases of beer for next to nothing. The beer bottles were returnable, at least some things don't change. The rum and beer are still cheap and the bottles are still returnable. Of the apartments and the tin shed though, we could find no trace at all.

We did manage to find The Magic Isle apartments where we took Holly when she was ten on her first trip abroad. It was a Caribbean Butlins without the entertainment, Holly loved the snorkelling and the pool and we had a great time. But our favourite palm tree was gone and we didn't find a single hairbraider.

Hastings beach hasn't changed much but the Magic Isle Apartments looked a little sad and deserted. I don't think that they will be here when we next come to Barbados.

On to Oistins for a fried flying fish lunch bought from a wooden shack by the side of the road and washed down with Banks' beer. The spiced batter was excellent and the fried potatoes as good as any I have ever tasted; although it seemed to cost me ten times what it did just eleven years ago.

Oh well, times change and, along with the tides, wait for no man. Perhaps they are right after all; you should never go chasing memories.

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