Well I remember every little thing, as if it happened only yesterday
Having entirely given up on any idea of charging about Grenada to visit a waterfall or distillery or whatever, Tuesday – our last full day here – was earmarked for largely doing fuck all. We got up late and wandered along the road, eschewing all kidnap attempts and nipping down the steep stepped road next to Roydon apartments, leading to the very top end of Grand Anse beach.
We walk, and walk, and walk, searching for somewhere I can perch in the shade to read my book while Helen goes into the sea. After throwing 20EC a man's way for the use of two loungers under a tree, that's exactly what we do.
Ooh, it's hot. Fucking hot. You could fry an egg on it, etc. After a couple of swims Helen goes off to get a massage from the blind people at the nearby uni campus, while I continue to read and get mistaken for a bloke named Steve. Like, entirely mistaken: "Steve! Steve" I ignore, until he's right next to me and we shake hands. "Just doing a bit o'readin' today are ya? Nice. Seeya Steve". Righto.
With 2.7 miles of almost entirely empty beach, a couple arrive and plonk themselves on the sand directly in front of me. They lie on their backs, perfectly still, arms by their sides; they tag team a swim; they lie on their fronts; and they fuck off. It all seems very regimented, as if they're timing themselves cook.
Helen returns, and we buy an air freshener made of spice, but not a tea towel. A load of divers come onshore from their excursion; we leave our seats and go into the bar behind us named Umbrellas. Beer and a cocktail plus 3 plates of munchie fried goods please, that would be lovely.
It's about, I can't recall, 3pm or so by now? With the beach facing west it gets warmer in the afternoons as the sun drops and burns through what little cloud there is. We decide crawling back might not be a bad idea: I can stop off in shade/a bar while Helen goes for another dip.
A mildly unpleasant interaction with a local as she emerges from the sea puts a slight downer on the experience, but it's soon forgotten as we first watch a dog chase some crabs then walk to Esther's, where we'd eaten alongside chickens and a dog a couple of days previous. The lady serving remembers us, clocking our mojito-and-a-Carib order before we've even chosen where to sit (i.e. at exactly the same place as before).
The mojito is not, this time, an insta-pissed drink; the same cannot be said of the next round, because we choose (largely on my insistence, though there wasn't much push back) to have a couple of cocktails. Asking for advice/ingredients, we end up with a Dark & Stormy (a couple of types of ginger, and shitloads of booze) and a Yellow Bird (lots of yellow fruit juices, and shitloads of booze).
Oooooo-eeee. These have shitloads of booze. And they are very bloody nice. Midway through, Helen demonstrates how hammered she now is by taking a good two seconds just to pronounce the letter H in "hammered".
Fearing our ability to walk may be compromised if we stay any longer, plus we wouldn't mind watching that sunset one last time from our deck, we walk back along the beach without stopping for more booze. Wearing my sandals for the first time all trip I'm happy to let the sea splash over my feet, though this decision is later proved to be a terrible mistake because despite having covered myself with suncream several times I have burnt bits of my ankles/shins. Fucks sake.
Unsurprisingly, the steep road down is now a steep road up. Were there really this many steps this morning?
Back at our apartment, we're there just in time for sunset and also to meet Elvis's other half, who's just got back from the states. We discuss transport and checkout for the next day, then apply more bite cream to Helen's leg, where the mosquitoes appear to have bite-drawn a map of St Vincent and the Grenadines.
The deck remains a great place to see the light go.
We've about 6 beers and a quarter bottle of rum to get through, but virtually no food except for this weird bread stuff that's weird and tastes weird.
The rum is bona fide local, even if it is in a plastic bottle. It is also a mistake, as we will discover the following day. But, y'know, it had to get drunk. Now indoors, we prove how pissed we are by trading YouTube plays of Meat Loaf and other music, singing along, until going to bed at a time neither of us can actually recall.