Or rather, we've been to Barbados. Such is the nature of this blog that most events which find their way on here are at least a couple of months old. What can I say? I'm a busy guy and typing nonsense into the virtual vacuum that is t'internet sometimes has to wait. I'm sorry. Really; I am.
So, where to start? Well, after a snowy early Easter and the lowering of the stripy stick, our long awaited Caribbean jolly was almost upon us. 'Twas late April, and really bloody cold to boot. Which reminds me of a joke:
Antarctica. A polar bear and her offspring rest atop the pack-ice.
Baby Polar Bear to Mummy Polar Bear: Mummy, am I a real polar bear?
Mummy Polar Bear: Well of course you are dear.
Baby Polar Bear: Are you sure?
Mummy Polar Bear: Yes dear, I'm sure.
Baby Polar Bear: A real polar bear with sharp claws and teeth?
Mummy Polar Bear: Yes dear.
Baby Polar Bear: A real polar bear, with a thick, thick fur coat?
Mummy Polar Bear: Yes dear, a real polar bear with sharp claws and teeth and a thick, thick fur coat. Why do you ask?
Baby Polar Bear: 'Cause I'm fucking freezing!
So, as I was saying, it'd been a pretty nippy March and April - with snow at Easter - which hadn't really done very much to raise our spirits. I say snow, but it wasn't much; an inch or two that had more or less melted by lunch time. We don't get snow like we used to, do we? When I was a young 'un I remember great swathes of the stuff drifting up against our front door, all but barricading us in the house. It would come down by stealth over night and by morning would be several feet deep in places. As a child, I'd look out of the window with eager eyes, and everything was white and shapeless; shrubs, hedges and garden walls would be nothing but lumps and bumps running either side of where the road used to be. The odd, deluded soul who was foolhardy enough to try and get anywhere in their car would be stuck, axle deep, mere yards from their own drive.
Snowflakes the size of beer mats would swarm soundlessly from a leaden sky which was positively bloated with more of the stuff still to come. When I opened the door (trying my best to clear the foot of snow that fell onto the doormat when I did) the cold would hit my lungs like needles and a strange, cotton-wool silence would wrap itself around my already numb and reddening ears. My first step outside would reveal the true depth of snowfall - generally about 6 inches above the top of my wellies. I'd zip my Lord Anthony parka into periscope/snood mode and set out - much in the manner of a latter-day Captain Oates - across the frozen wastes of Northern England. Unlike Oates, my goal wasn't the relatively safe yet elusive haven of an ice-bound supply ship - oh no. My mission was, if anything, even more hopeless. I was hiking neck deep through this winter wonderland to the bus stop; I had the school bus to catch.
You see, no amount of remonstration with my mother could convince her that the school bus - being a tad deficient when it came to skis or packs of flying reindeer - wasn't going to make it through the Alaskanesque wilderness outside. "Go to the bus stop and wait", she'd say, "you don't want to be the one who misses it if it does come". It was always thus. If we awoke one morning to a midnight-black sky shot with lightning, unearthly fires burning all around and the spectre of the four horsemen of the apocalypse galloping relentlessly toward us, she'd still insist I went for the school bus, just in case. "It may well be Armageddon, but you've got double history this morning and you know it's not your strongest subject".
I'd arrive at the bus stop looking like a particularly ill-prepared Inuit, the faux-fur trim of my parka hood sparkling with ice, the handle of my Adidas school bag clasped in my frost-bitten hand. I wouldn't be alone; mine wasn't the only sadistic mother in our village who gave neither bye nor leave to the auspices of Social Services. There'd be two or three other hardy souls there too, all in varying states of hypothermia. We'd wouldn't speak - it was too cold and we already knew what each of the others were thinking, how they were suffering. We experienced among us the kind of stoic fraternity that it normally takes polar explorers months to acquire. And so, we would huddle together like penguins against the cruel arctic wind and hope that when we went, it would be to a better, warmer place.
Ten minutes passed. Then fifteen. Soon, the bus was a full twenty minutes late. If we waited just another ten minutes we could go home and tell our parents that the bus - as expected - hadn't shown up (for some reason half an hour was the allotted time that one had to wait for the school bus before it could be declared a 'no show'). Then, in the distance, a noise. A low rumbling - dampened and muffled by the snow - slowly, determinedly getting closer.
Shit. The bus!
"Leg it!" one of my companions would cry, and we'd charge across the road as fast as our stiff, blue legs could carry us, into the park, darting quickly behind a protective screen of trees. Crouching waist deep in snow, panting great plumes of warm air, we'd watch the bus - empty except for the driver - plod inexorably past us and head onwards, relentlessly toward school with its absent cargo.
I don't know where they got the school bus drivers from back in the early 80s, but they had levels of grit and determination unsurpassed by anything short of a full SAS squad on amphetamines. Thankfully, our bravura display of quick thinking under extreme circumstances meant we go now home and inform our mothers that the bus, as expected, hadn't shown up and could we please - for the love of god - go out sledging with the other kids whose mothers had, quite rightly, rejected the Victorian model of parenting in favour of something kinder and less likely to involve the loss of body parts?
But I digress (in quite spectacular style). Barbados. Yes, after putting up with the cold, the frost and week after week of overcast skies, we were finally packing our bags (or, at least - in true V Family tradition - Mrs V was finally packing the bags). It was time to ready ourselves for wall-to-wall sunshine, mid-80s temperatures, temperate easterly tradewinds and lazy days on the beach.
We'd be meeting my parents out there too, which Tizer was looking forward to tremendously. They'd already been out there for a fortnight and she'd missed them terribly. She hadn't really been able to understand why, when we went round to mum and dads' house to feed their fat, spoilt cats, her doting grandparents weren't there to give her chocolate, those cheesy twist things she likes so much, and various other treats that usually mean she won't eat her dinner when we gets home. She'd walk up and down their hall, opening and closing doors, shouting "Ganma! Gandad!" and generally scaring the shit out of the cats. Then, defeated and crestfallen, she'd toddle up to us and ask, "Where's my Gandad?". After two weeks of answering "In Barbados", she finally realised that 'Daydos' was the place to be, and she was exceptionally excited to find out that we'd soon be on our way.
And so, we loaded the car (well, dad's car, actually; he's old enough to be in the 2% of people who can still afford a large 4x4 vehicle in today's less-than-rosy, over-taxed economic climate) and began our long journey to the Caribbean, via Manchester Airport and Gatwick Airport, with a night at the Hilton at the latter. It wouldn't be until the following morning that we'd be boarding our Virgin Atlantic 747 to Barbados, but it's a trip we've done numerous times before and we're more than happy to put up with the connecting flights and nights at airport hotels if it means we can go in the pointy bit of a top-notch scheduled airline rather than play sardines with the hoi-polloi on some dreadful charter airline out of Manchester. Trust me, I've tried both, and - as is so often the case in matters of this type - the more expensive (and time-consuming) option is preferable in so many ways.
As ever, details of our flight over to Barbados can be found in my gripping trip report, once again hosted by those lovely folk at V-Nerd (which saves an awful lot of cutting a pasting on my part, I can assure you).
Mrs V & Tizer in the pointy bit
Twenty-four hours after our epic journey commenced, we were walking through the hallowed portals of the Treasure Beach Hotel, nestled as it is on Paynes Bay on the beautiful west coast of Barbados. This was our fourth time to the Treasure Beach (and our seventh to Barbados) and we were welcomed back like old friends, which is always a lovely touch. After quickly signing the requisite bits of paper at reception, we strolled through the restaurant and into the gardens to find my mum and dad sunning themselves in the mid-afternoon sun like a pair of aged iguanas. Tizer spied my mum first of all, hesitated (mum was brown enough to be mistaken for one of the locals by this point), then charged headlong toward her shouting "GAN-MAAA!!", managing to scare the bejesus out of the local birdlife, which promptly took to wing, and causing a few of the oldies around the pool to clutch at their liver-spotted chests in shock. Fair brought a tear to this hardened old blogger's eye, so it did.
Treasure Beach is an all suite hotel, with just 30 odd suites set in a horseshoe around a little, kindney shaped pool and a beautifully tended tropical garden which opens up onto Paynes Bay beach and the azure of the Caribbean Sea. Our suite was number 25 which is, in my humblest of opinions, the best of the lot. It's on the ground floor (the hotel has a very wise policy of only allocating ground floor suites to families with small children) and at the very end of the 'horseshoe', so that we can walk straight off our veranda and within 15 steps be on the beach. It doesn't, if you don't mind me saying, get much better.
Small but perfectly formed: Treasure Beach Hotel
The suites are quite simple, with a small living room leading off to a pleasantly furnished bedroom and well proportioned bathroom. Best of all is the airconditioning system, which cools the room down to such an extent you could chill your beer in it, and comes is handy for the first few days until you acclimatise to the tropical heat.
The staff at TB are a lovely bunch, once you get used to Barbados Time. For the unitiated, Barbados Time is similar to the mañana concept in Spain; literally meaning 'tomorrow', the notion of mañana generally means 'anytime in the future' and is employed by everyone from waiters to builders to explain when a certain service or product might be delivered. Well, Barbados Time is just like the mañana concept, but without the same sense of urgency. But it's not all that bad, and once you accept that you're living in a country which is both very hot and very beautiful, you quickly understand the necessity for a slower, more laid back pace of life.
Tizer's favourite member of staff is a brilliant young chap called Darwin, who manages to combine his intended role of waiter with that of children's entertainer, valet and island guide. She loves him, not least of all because he taught her to 'knock' last year. The 'knock', as far as I can can deduce, usually comes after a 'high five' and involves knocking fists together with your compatriot in place, I suppose, of a good, firm handshake. Christ, how white do I sound? Anyway, Tizer picked this up beautifully last year (which wasn't bad considering she was only 18 months old).
Darwin serves up another sumptuous al fresco lunch
Another star of Treasure Beach is Keiva, who works on reception (and who, I'm pretty sure, has got a 'thing' going with Darwin). She's also wonderful with Tizer, and is the ultimate 'fixer' for all things holiday related, from booking hire cars and restaurants, to organising our star of a babysitter, Sonia. Oz, who works the bar most nights and knows how to make a rum and coke without actually involving too much coke, is another outstanding gent, as is John, the restaurant manager, who thinks I look like Martin O'Leary. Not all that flattering, really, but he always looks after us so I can forgive him.
Finally, there's Hamish Watson, the manager at Treasure Beach and a vetran of hotel managment in both Barbados and Antigua. Hamish, like the hotel itself, is very much of the old school when it comes to the hospitality industry. He's a white Antiguan (I think. Well, he's definitelty white, it's the Antiguan bit I'm not certain of) and he exudes a level of charm and professionalism so sadly lacking in many hotels today. He also has the added benefit of displaying many of the attributes of the perfect Bond Villain. Almost completely bald, what little hair he has is as white as the pristine tunic style shirts he wears, with the eppilettes on each shoulder starched and ironed to horizontal perfection. His benevolence belies an underlying level of menace. Upon meeting him you are under very little illusion that should you cross him by - say - uncovering and then attempting to scupper his plans for world domination, it will very unlikely that you'll be allowed to live to regret it.
We have a theory that the small, kidney shaped swimming pool is actually fitted with trap doors, carefully concealed below the water level which, at the flick of a switch, can be opened to allow schools of ravenous pirhana to swarm in and devour whichever poor, unsuspecting miscreant has been lured there by Hamish.
"You have failed me, Number 5, but please - don't be so nervous. I am an understanding and forgiving man. Now, come, join me for a refreshing swim - I just need to make a quick telephone call then I'll be with you presently. Go ahead without me, Darwin will fetch you a towel". Cue the relieved Number 5 thanking Hamish for being so understanding, assuring him he'll never fail him again, and then taking to the cooling water, only to disappear seconds later in a thrashing, crimson foam...
And of course, there's the swimming pool itself which I'm pretty sure slides back on some kind of complicated hydraulic system to reveal a cavernous base for Hamish's evil forces. Beneath it, men in shiny blue overalls, wearing military helmets and carring stumpy sub-machine guns run to-and-fro across metal walkways, whilst a vaguely East European voice anounces "T minus 15, and counting. All systems are running at optimum effeciency" over an echoey tannoy. As I say, lovely bloke Hamish, you just want to make sure you stay the right side of him else you might find a scorpian in your bed.
Me, Tizer and Dad take time to reflect (see what I did there?)
We did our best to stay awake as long as we could after arriving at the hotel. The problem with these trans-Atlantic flights is that your body is 5 hours ahead of local time, which means that come 8 o'clock you actually feel like it's 1 in the morning, so you start feeling pretty ropey come dinner time. However, we've learnt - through bitter experience - that to go to bed at this time is folly indeed; you can't really sleep for much more than 8 hours or so and will no doubt wake up feeling all bright eyed a bushy tailed at four the following morning, which is annoying. So, you stick it out, order a Banks (the Beer of Barbados) and try and rustle up an appetite for something solid, which I always find a little difficult. I managed through until about half past nine, having - perhaps - had a little more to drink throughout the day than the dear Mrs V, who was able to join mum and dad for a spot of dinner whilst I retired to my bed.
Still, I felt pretty chipper the following morn and, with nothing more that 2 weeks of rest and relaxation in the Caribbean sun ahead of me, set my stall for the forthcoming fortnight by installing my sun lounger on the beach and turning to the first page of my novel. At around 11 each morning guests are presented with chilled fruit kebabs - which are so refreshing and truly delicious - followed by a cold towel infused with eucalyptus. I say cold, they're usually frozen solid which makes them ideal for folding into a hat which not only looks pretty dandy, but also keeps your head nice and cool. Mrs V seems to think this makes me look 'very English'; accordingly, I modestly take her comment as a compliment and tip my towel-hat to an appropriately jaunty angle.
Suite No. 25, or Chez Family V for our fortnight in Barbados
But it's not all lying around in the sun eating chilled tropical fruit and wearing spiffing hats, you know. Oh no! Remember, we have a two year old, and she's not as keen as we are at lying around doing bollock-all all day. Not when there's a pool, a beach and the sea to be played with, in and on. Thankfully, this is where spending the first half of our holiday with my parents comes in. By some fortunate happenstance, they do make awfully good babysitters and - considering they were sunning themselves out here for the past two weeks whilst we were avoiding hypothermia at home and feeding their obese cats - it's the least they can do to help out. They do, of course, adore Tizer and the feeling is doubtlessly mutual.
Another beautiful West Coast sunset
To be fair, we always share Tizer-watching duties and a good splash in the pool or a sandcastle building session is all part of a perfect lazy, hazy day at Treasure Beach. As the sun starts to slip toward the sea and we crack open a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc, the most stressful part of the day is working out where we'd like to go for dinner. Some nights we'd be mega-lazy and eat at the hotel restaurant (which was much improved this time on previous years). Other nights we set out a little earlier than usual so that Tizer can join us at one of the more child-friendly restaurants scattered up the coast. The Lone Star is one such spot (and also a boutique hotel) that caters very well to families, groups or couples and is a big fave of ours with consistently good grub from a truly eclectic menu. Choose from fine-dining staples such as braised lamb shanks and fillet steaks, or try something a little quirkier like crispy aromatic duck with pancakes or homemade shepherd's pie. They've got a great wine list too.
Every couple of nights we'd book the wonderful Sonia to babysit and head out to one of the other outstanding restaurants on the west coast. The big daddy of them all, of course, is The Cliff, rated as one of the best up-market eateries in the world. Now, it ain't cheap, you understand (you're looking at about a hundred quid a head with cocktails and wine) but it is sooo worth it. I love the place; we've been for the past three years now and we'll be back again on our next vist to Barbados (hopefully next spring). This year I had - in order of consumption - a perfect lemon martini, pan-seared scallops, fillet steak with a roquefort sauce and a white chocolate cheescake which was as light as a goose-down pillow, but with slightly more calories. There was a particularly good bottle of Riesling and another of Shiraz somewhere in there as well. Perfection (at a price) but perfection nonetheless.
Another 'must do' for us each year is to take to the water on one of the many organised catamaran sailing trips that ply their way up and down the coast. After trying most of them over the years, we now settle on Cool Runnings, which is really the best of an already very good bunch. Their four hour cruise takes you out for some snorkelling - firstly with the local turtles then over a shipwreck - before laying anchor and serving up a spot of lunch, which usually comprises of jerk chicken, local fish (sometimes flying fish, or dorado or kingfish - all delicious) and loads of pasta and salads. Then they usually set sail out to sea to catch a some waves whilst we indulge oursleves in a few rum punches at the complimentary bar. What surprises me most is that we've been some 10 or 11 times now and still haven't seen anyone throw up. Not that that's what we go for, you understand. Mind you, I have seen some pretty ill looking people who've taken the first chance to jump ship as soon as we got near enough to a beach, poor wretches. I am of the belief that rum stregthens the constitution on such occasions and take it medicinally and with great vigour.
On board Cool Runnings (Mrs V bottom right at bar - what a surprise!)
My mum and dad buggered off home after our first week and left us to our own devices, which is just as well. You can have too much of a good thing and all that. We spent our second week in much the same manner as the first: days on the beach, in the sea or the pool, evenings watching the sunset with a glass (or three) of wine and nights out at one restaurant or another before coming back to prop the hotel bar up with our fellow guests who were all - almost without exception - a delight. Many of them we know from previous holidays, Treasure Beach being the kind of place that attracts a fair number of 'returnees' each year. This year there was a very pleasant couple from Cheshire who turned out to be a good laugh (us Northerners must stick together, you know) and another delightful couple called Butch and Lee who are from South Carolina, drink mint juleps and say 'y'all' a lot. Butch never stopped smiling - I mean NEVER stopped. I wasn't sure whether this was because he's just a genuinely happy guy or if he was the victim of botched cosmetic surgery. It's often so hard to tell with Americans.
Then there's Gladys, without whom a holiday to Treasure Beach just woudn't be complete. She's a 78 year old widow, with no family to speak of, so spends three months in the spring and and a month or so at Christmas at the hotel. She flies British Airways, First Class, both ways (we must be talking the best part of 9 grand for a return ticket!), always stays in the same suite toward the back of the property, and spends the majority of her time moaning about the food, the staff, the weather and how much everything costs. She's bloody brilliant! And she drinks like a trooper as well, easily putting Mrs V and I to shame. Various middle aged local chaps show up every now and then and whisk her off to one of the nightclubs in the capital, Bridgetown. Very occasionally she makes it back for around midnight (as opposed to her usual three in the morning), when we're normally starting to think about turning in for the night. She then insists we stay up with her for another rum and coke or three, which inevitably ends in a thick head the following morning. She's a wonderful old bird - the hotel should pay her to stay there as a permanent fixture if you ask me.
Tizer loved her (based on the strange attraction children have for people who clearly don't like children) and called her Gadlys. The old girl quite warmed to her in the end, and rather enjoyed her toddling up to say "Morning Gadlys!" at breakfast each day. She pays full board and so eats in the hotel resaurant nearly every night. There's always great sport to be had in asking her how dinner was when we meet up at the bar later. The soup? "It was cold and didn't taste of anything". The fish? "Very dry". The steak? "Well, I could hardly cut it, it was that tough".
"I've spoken to Hamish about the quality of the food, but he never seems to listen to me" she told me over drinks one evening. Oh, he's listening, Gladys, never fear; he's just biding his time until you next enter the pool alone...
Then, one morning, we awoke to discover the awful truth: It was the last day of our holiday and it was time - as Andy Pandy always sang - to go home. You know you've had a truly great time when the prospect of leaving all but brings a tear to your eye. Wherever I go on holiday, it takes a good few days for me to start to chill properly, it's true, but once I get into that laid back Caribbean groove, I'm so relaxed I'm almost horizontal. Two weeks just isn't enough. In fact, two weeks is about the time I need before I really start to enjoy the island, the people, the food and all the lovely things that Treasure Beach has to offer. Especially afternoon tea. That's one thing I always miss when we come home from Treasure Beach. Afternoon tea. 4 o' clock on the dot, afternoon tea seems to be immune to the effects of Barbados Time. A nice cup or two of Twinings English Breakfast, a dainty finger sandwich and a couple of cream scones, all consumed in the late afternoon sun, sat on the lawn in the dappled shade the mahogony tree, at dear old Treasure Beach. Can one really ask for more? God, is it surprising that I hate going home to the United Kindom of Chav?
Nevertheless, our trip home was fun, as all travel should be (especially when you're paying as much for it as we do). Details of the trip back can be found, as ever, in the capable hands of my friends at V-Nerd.
Take one toddler, add some chocolate, blend with a Caribbean sunset and sprinkle with apple juice
I'm now trawling t'internet to try and find the best deal to get us back to Treasure Beach next spring. Rising fuel costs aren't exactly helping when it comes to finding a decently priced seat in the pointy bit of a plane, but we'll get there, never fear. It's just too good a holiday to give up on. Tizer can once again exchange 'knocks' with Darwin, my good lady and I can help Gadlys plod her way through the hotel bar's stock of Mount Gay rum and my mum and dad can continue to show what great grandparents they are by looking after our dear daughter for a week.
And maybe next year we'll get that extra special welcome I've long been hoping for: We arrive at Treasure Beach reception to find a large leather chair behind the front desk, its back facing us as we approach. Then - the chair spins slowly and dramatically around to reveal Hamish, absent mindedly stroking the white Persian cat sat upon his lap. "Good evening Mr V", he intones, casually. "We've been expecting you".
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