Stunning friends

The transition from Tobago holiday mode to normal life in Lyon was achieved via a three day stopover in dear old Blighty. Rain greeted us at Gatwick, accompanied us on the drive to Bexleyheath via Bromley and continued the rest of the day. Not much change there. After being welcomed by the good Doctors C, we gave them the news. Delight & surprise all round but a special mention for the Lovely L for being the first to complement la bienheureuse's usual leaky eyes. We took a two hour siesta after lunch to recover and gird ourselves for the return from school of the mini-JeZoids. They duly burst into the bedroom and inflicted an awakening that was rude in more ways than one. Bless 'em.

A pleasant afternoon and evening followed. With the Z-fils-cadet beavering for a couple of hours, his older brother was markedly calmer. We watched the rain fall, the squirrels bury nuts in the lawn, the fox climb over the garden shed, and the parakeets flock in the trees. Tired and jet-lagged we may have been, but we really weren't dreaming we were still in the tropics. Eventually we found our way to bed and real dreams, this time slightly less rudely interrupted by the Doctors' sons before they were dragged off to school the next morning.

Goodbyes said, after lunch we made our way to Cambridge via a somewhat unsuccessful specialist clothes shopping sortie to Bluewater. The relevant fashion sections seem rather small given that about 10% of the target clientele is concerned at any one time. We soon gave up and headed into the Friday afternoon traffic on the M25. Three hours later, we made it to Cambridge. Queue for the Dartford crossing - not too much worse than expected; traffic jam further round the M25 due to road work - not unexpected and a mere 20 minute delay or so; queue coming off onto the M11 lasting all the way (5 miles) to Harlow turn off - entirely vexing and unexpected, due to accident just off the motorway. Teach us for travelling on UK motorways late on Friday afternoon. Ritual gripe: in France they have a radio station dedicated to autoroute traffic, which keep motorists bang up to date with traffic conditions. In the UK we have to rely on patchy, out of date bulletins that may or may not be intermittently issued by random radio stations

The rest of the evening made up for the motorway hassle. A highly convivial evening, first chez J&C with a bottle of celebratory fizz cracked open and a belated birthday present, then a lovely Thai meal at the Lemongrass, with additional guests, Professor Margarita and the two Js. Ms Beaucoup made a game of leaking the news, which completely foxed the others, with the exception of the experienced Crystal Tipps, until some heavy hints were added. Reactions over the weekend ranged from Soggy stunned disbelief all the way through to shrieking delight. No less than expected.

The merrymaking continued back at Cherry Hinton with more fizz, brandy and beer finding its way down my throat while la bienheureuse looked on enviously (of the bubbly stuff, anyway). In the morning I thus felt a little the worse for wear, but a couple of pills and a huge and hearty brunch soon cleared that up. Shortly after noon I was being chauffeured to towards Mecca by the girls while le grand gooner generously forewent his seat and stayed behind to suffer the radio commentary. Suffer being the operative word for the abject defeat against the Lancashire Latics, who for a change won by playing football. Afterwards we put the finishing touches to my fiftieth gooner gift and sloped off home. Fortunately le grand chef had done his usual thing and cooked a delicious, consoling meal. A few glasses of wine did the rest.

A noon flight meant we were up early on Sunday morning. We bade our hosts goodbye, suffered the Easyjet Stansted check-in shambles, but were nonetheless back home in Lyon by mid afternoon. It was raining.

Lazy, rainy days

Our first full day on the upper Caribbean coast called for a bit of a lie in, with shutters the whole length of the front wall thrown open in the morning to take full advantage of the feeling of almost sleeping in the tree tops. The rest of the day was spent lazing by the poolside, reading on the balcony and generally relaxing. When a bit of exercise was called for we explored the beautiful grounds of the property that was our home for the week. A garden planted with banana, coconut and other unidentified fruit trees, laid out on a steep hillside that dropped away to a creek complete with small waterfall, and on down towards the sea further round. Throw in an infinity pool where we could float admiring the stunning ocean views, teeming bird life including resident hummingbirds, and we had an idyllic place for a lazy holiday.

Night times were becoming more routine now. Darkness falls, mosquito coils and citronella candles are lit, a fan moved to the balcony, dinner (fish delivered by Dwight and barbecued) taken on the balcony. Then a bit of reading, gazing out at the fireflies flitting through the garden, perhaps a visit from the affable Dwight to check up on us, and then early to bed. Once we figured out the cars going past at night were slowing down for the large potholes just up the road rather then to case the joint it was easier to ignore the strange night time noises and sleep rather easier too.

The next morning, Sunday, was spent much the same way. We resolved to venture further afield in the afternoon, perhaps to explore the nearby beaches and do a bit of snorkelling. While we ate lunch the heavens opened. So we lazed and read on the balcony instead, while the rain poured down the rest of the afternoon and into the night. Monday morning the rain had stopped and we even glimpsed the sun. So we jumped in the car and headed off for a tour round the north end of the island, with the intention of perhaps doing a boat trip with some snorkelling on the reefs at Speyside. Along the twisting, diving, climbing coast road we went. Past Parlatuvier, past Bloody Bay, past Man of War Bay, through rain showers towards Charlotteville, where we stopped in an unexpected burst of sunshine for a short stroll on the beach. Then we carried on, up Flagstaff Hill for the views of Man of War Bay and St Giles Island at the northern tip of Tobago, down again and on to Speyside, where we stopped for a drink at a beachside café. While we considered a boat trip the wind got up, the waves crashed a little louder on the beach, and then the clouds burst open. We decided to stay on for lunch, and as the rain continued unceasing, we abandoned the boat trip idea.

After a long lunch we headed back down the Atlantic coast with the idea of perhaps visiting Argyle waterfall, Tobago's highest. But the rain still came down, showed no sign of stopping, even getting heavier as we passed the entrance. We thus abandoned further sightseeing for the day and headed up the road over the middle of the island, through the rainforest. Negotiating potholes, hairpins, rain water cascading across the road, we eventually reached the top and breathed a sigh of relief as we dropped back down towards Bloody Bay. The worst seemed over, but a mere kilometre or so from the coast road, the tarmac disappeared. We bumped and crawled our way on through the rain, somewhat nervous about the rather soft front tyre on our hire car but in the end we made it home without mishap.

The rain continued through the evening and night, but early in the morning it stopped. Tuesday was our last full day in Tobago, and we ventured out once more. This time we headed south to Englishman's Bay, a postcard beach, which we had completely to ourselves. A stroll from one end to the other, then some snorkelling on the rocks at the north end, which hosted a few small colonies of coral and teemed with fish, a small moray, box fish, schools of blue tangs and surgeonfish among them. Then we drove on in search of a roadside fruit stall, which we eventually found south of Castara. On the way back we stopped off to admire the views of Castara and Englishman's bay before returning for our last night in Parlatuvier. A night that was loudly interrupted by a deafening noise rather like a strangled whooping, which emanated from the road just behind the cottage. Tentatively we ventured out onto the road to investigate and were greeted by flashing blue lights. It was the local police stopping by to check that we were okay at the solicitous Dwight's request. The man himself soon appeared, saw the nice policemen off and explained that the loudhailer horns on the police jeep were full of water. Hence the weird noise.

In the morning we packed, cleaned, bid a long adieu to Dwight and finally headed for the airport. With no stop off, the overnight flight back to London was rather quicker and more balanced nosh-wise. We landed at rainy Gatwick just after seven in the morning. After picking up a hire car we headed for Bromley, where la soeur had left her car chez the honeymooning petit frère. When the key he'd given us failed to open the back door, all three of us almost lay down and curled up to sleep in the rain, but the lock eventually gave in to a bit of desperate fiddling and we were in. A quick shower before we went our separate ways, la soeur back oop North, us the short hop to Bexleyheath for a siesta with a rude awakening by two excitable young boys…

Tobago ear ache

The post-nuptial week in Tobago passed quietly. The day after we all went up to the newly-wed's villa-for-wedding-night, further up the hill above Stonehaven Bay, for lunch and a dip in the pool. Immediately afterwards, the dispersal started. I took le grand frère and la hermana de la nueva cuñada to the airport to catch their London-bound flight, then shuttled back to home villa where la bienheureuse et la soeur were finishing packing up. The three off us then headed off north into the great Tobago unknown. Parlatuvier was a mere 20km up the coast as the crow flies, but on Tobago's sinuous, mountainous, non-signposted roads, it took a good hour to find.

Our new home for the week was a self-catering cottage in the grounds of a larger property, which is run as a B&B by a retired American couple during the six months of the tourist season. In off-season we were met by the manager, who I shall name Dwight in honour of two of his more famous namesakes, one a fellow Tobagonian. Due to our wildly optimistic estimate of journey time we arrived half an hour late. I apologised to the garrulously genial Dwight for this fact.
"Oh, you're not late," he said dismissively, and proceeded to introduce us to our new home. An hour later he was still showing us round a cottage consisting of two rooms, it was getting dark, and we still had the pool to go.

After giving Dwight a lift home, we ate an improvised dinner out on the balcony, looking across the treetops to the dark ocean beyond. Finally, we collapsed into bed, following Dwight's advice to keep the fans blowing full blast to keep the mosquitoes away. It worked, but it was rather like I'd imagine sleeping inside Concorde's engines would be, albeit without the searing heat.

The next morning, after a somewhat disturbed night's sleep, we headed back down the long and winding road to Stonehaven Bay. A mere 50 minutes later we arrived to find el hermano and la sobrinita suffering from ear infections. No matter, we all headed to the beach for a bit of swimming (head up in the aforementioned two cases) and inflatable doughnut surfing. After lunch, on a blistering hot day, it was time to ferry luggage to the airport and drop off afflicted ears at the clinic on the way. After waving goodbye to the bride's Colombia-bound family, it was back to the clinic to find the patients still queueing. La bienheureuse, la cuñada and I left the sufferers and went off to do a bit of suffering of our own, in the form of provisions shopping. Inquiry at a nearby pharmacy as to whether antibiotic ear drops could be had without prescription produced an answer in the affirmative. We returned to the clinic to find the queue unchanged, but it was decided seeing a doctor was the preferred option, given that the blocked ears would be flying two days later.

La cuñada engineered a bit of queue jumping for her beloveds, but as they still had some way to go before seeing a doctor and the shopping was cooking in the car, I took la bienheureuese and other perishables back to Stonehaven before returning to the clinic once more. Hallelujah, a doctor had been seen, diagnosis made, and prescription provided. Off to the pharmacy, another queue, and finally, three hours after setting off, medicine was obtained. Back at base, it was time for the happy couple to set off on a Barbadian honeymoon. Fond goodbyes over, we consoled ourselves with a dusk stroll to witness the surf pounding the beach and another stunning sunset. After a quick dinner came the long drive in the dark back to Parlatuvier and our isolated, windswept cottage.

Friday, after a somewhat better night's sleep, we retraced the tortuous route south to enjoy the Melbourne gang's last full day in Tobago. For a bit of variety we went to the beach. The breakers rolled in and dissuaded those with infected ears and gestating babies from risking the water. The brave tried a bit of body surfing, but everybody soon went back to the villa and the calmer waters of the pool. Dinner for eight and then it was time for tearful farewells. We hit the night road north one last time, leaving the sweet sobrinas and their parents to pack bags for the flight towards the Florida theme parks. The ears apparently survived.

Barefoot beach wedding

The day dawns bright and sunny, boding well for the festivities ahead. For most of us, it's a question of marking time until the ceremony in the early evening: plunge pool cavorting, beach swimming and snorkelling. For the family of the bride and las sobrinas, it's a day of frantic preparation. Early afternoon, the bride heads off to the marriage night villa to dress while the groom frets and sweats back at base. Furniture is rearranged and decorations put up in the top villa, and finally it is time to don the smart dresses and trousers.

In twos and threes we head down to the beach at the appointed hour, where the groom waits with the presiding clergyman before a temporary gazebo decorated with flowers. A mere five minutes late, the steel pan starts playing - here comes the bride, escorted towards the imaginary altar by her father and brother, while a flower girl (still sober at that stage) prettily paves the way with rose petals. Resplendent in white, la Colombiana joins her novio and the ceremony gets under way. The sun shines brilliantly, the cleric gives a sermon about Naomi, which passed right over my head, and mistakes (deliberately or not) Colombia for Venezuela, hermano and sweet sobrina the elder give readings, and finally the couple exchange their vows which onlookers struggle to hear over the roar of the surf. Then the wedding bands are slipped on, and le petit frère is finally married to his beautiful novia. Cheers all round.

The newly married couple and their witnesses sign the register in the late evening sunshine, and then husband and wife simultaneously fill a vase with individual bottles of sand to symbolise an inseparable union. Finally the groom pops the champagne cork amid a cloud of bubbles and a glorious sunset. Toasts are drunk (a little too enthusiastically on the part of la petite sobrina), many photos taken, many kisses and hugs exchanged, and many waves wet many legs and feet. Then paper lanterns are lit and rise into the rapidly darkening night sky.

Back to the top villa for more champagne. The partying starts with a splash when the bride and groom jump fully clothed into the pool and are soon joined by half the wedding party. The other half clean up while the impromptu swimmers head upstairs to change into dry clothes. Dinner is laid out and swiftly consumed, the cake is cut, and then the party continues back down at the bottom villa, where we are royally entertained for an hour by a drum and dance troupe from Trinidad. Audience participation towards the end with limbo dancing and bamboo pole hopscotch - risk your ankles if you dare.

The dance troupe leaves, and the party continues. More paper lanterns rise into the night sky, some more successfully than others, none of the spinster girls catch the bouquet, more drinking and dancing follows before la bienheureuse and I take advantage of her condition to lead a gradual drift off towards bed. The end of an idyllic day.

Surprise guests

Thursday 9th September
On our first night in Tobago, we're lulled to sleep by rain. Lots of it. The following morning we take breakfast on the terrace and watch the rain bucketing down. Three hours later water still falls from dark skies, but finally it stops and allows us to take an exploratory stroll along the beach before returning to the villa to polish off the remainder of our introductory rations for lunch. In the afternoon therefore, a shopping expedition to replenish food stocks. Cost of provisions at a nearby supermarket and fruit & vegetable shop, a round thousand dollars. Local currency, of course, but still a bit more than I'm used to spending on my habitual 30 euro Monoprix sorties. And we aren't finished yet. Another short trip to the fishermans' stalls at Mount Irvine bay provides some rather tasty mahi-mahi steaks for the barbecue, but value this time is somewhat better than our local Lyon poissonier.

In the evening, salad is prepared, the BBQ fired up (gas, fortunately), and we await the arrival of the bride and groom themselves. At two in the morning London time, they finally make it. Fish dinner swiftly cooked and consumed, beers drunk, and seven exhausted travellers fall into bed.

Friday 10th
Jet lag starting to recede, we allow ourselves a lie-in till eight. After being woken before dawn by the raucous chorus of the cocricos. Noisy birds. While the bride and groom get dragged off on a wedding venue sightseeing tour, the rest of us indulge in a day of rest and recuperation. Another dip in the plunge pool followed by a first dip in the Caribbean sea under cloudy Caribbean skies with a water spout twisting down from the storm clouds in the distance. The heavens soon open to let loose a tropical downpour, duly followed by thunder and lightening. We beat a hasty retreat to find shelter.

Early evening drinks down at the villa of the future jeunes mariés are interrupted by a text message announcing the arrival of the future in-laws of le petit frère on a flight two hours earlier than expected. Off rush two cars to meet them while the rest of us hasten back up to our villa to prepare dinner.

Salad prepared, the BBQ fired up again, and tables rearranged and laid for ten, it comes as a bit of shock when fifteen diners turn up. The uninvited guests are the best surprise though, the Melbourne clan and la suegra, arriving for the wedding after all, having told everybody they couldn't make it. Only the bride and la bienheureuse were in the know (the latter let in on the secret a few days earlier to avoid too much shock to her delicate condition). I should have guessed who the mystery occupants of the middle villa were...

Fortunately the sausages and pork chops stretch far enough, and a happy evening of eating, drinking and catching up ensues. Ten pm bedtime was noon the following day, Australian time.

Saturday 11th

The sun finally puts in an appearance, and after an early morning play in the plunge pool with the sweet sobrinas, everybody hits the beach. My sunbathing is interrupted by a return to the house to catch the final half hour of another glorious victory in faraway London, but others' first taste of Caribbean sunshine ends in sunburn.

In the afternoon, a mass outing to one of the proposed beach wedding venues, Pigeon Point. A bit of a logistical challenge, transporting seventeen people in two small cars, but in the end two trips for each car gets everybody there. Another beach, another swim, torsos and bald heads more judiciously covered this time, a refreshing smoothie, a stroll along the jetty and then it's time for the return trip. The four return trips. I pick up the stragglers in cloud of mosquitoes and finally everybody is back at three villa base.

In the evening we stroll up the road to take dinner for fourteen (la bienheureuse, la prima and husband pleading fatigue) at the Seahorse Inn. Which is full. Eventually they find space and enough tables and chairs for us upstairs and a very pleasant evening meal follows.

Sunday 12th
Settling into the holiday routine now. Fun and frolics with les nièces in the pool in the morning, salad lunch on the terrace, more swimming in the afternoon, pool and sea, with a bit of snorkelling thrown in. Speckled morays, octopus, leaf fish and trumpet fish among the more exotic marine life spotted on the rocky reefs just off the beach. Floating in the calm sea, we watch the sun go down and then head back up to the villas where the future belle-mère of the groom has prepared a delicious Colombian dinner for seventeen.

Monday 13th
The groom, the bride and her parents head off into Scarborough to take care of the administrative formalities of marriage in Tobago, in preparation of the big day tomorrow. Meanwhile, the sweet sobrinas keep us entertained in the plunge pool once more while the ladies go shopping on the hottest day of the holiday. In the afternoon, with the sun shining and the sea like a mirror, those less preoccupied with personal appearance head for the beach, while the bride's sister provides manicures. As the sun dips and flirts with the horizon, suddenly someone spots dozens of small dark creatures cascading down the beach.

Baby turtles! We all dash over to watch the rearguard making their desperate dash for the water. A local digs out the nest and recovers one last straggler who seems unlikely to make it all the way to the water unaided. He is picked up and carried most of the way before we all watch and encourage as he struggles the final few yards. Finally he makes it into the water and bravely swims away in the big wide ocean. A glorious sunset heralds the end of the beginning of a real life drama and we head back up for another tasty Colombian dinner, this time cooked by the original suegra. The young almost-married couple finally announce the chosen venue for the wedding - the local beach. Approval all round, and then it's early to bed for most in anticipation of the great day to come…

Striking lucky

Tobago bound or strike bound? That was the burning question the evening before our scheduled departure for the forthcoming nuptials of frater minimus in the sunny Caribbean sea. La grande journée d'action on Tuesday included promise of disruptions by air traffic controllers. After much agonising over alternative travel between Lyon and Gatwick, in the end we decided to grit our teeth and cross our fingers that our flight would go. Tuesday morning, it was still shown as scheduled, so off to the airport by taxi we went, leaving rainy Lyon behind. Check-in and security successfully negotiated, we settled down to wait. And wait. But at last we were on the aircraft and raised a small cheer as what turned out to be the sole flight of three to make it from Lyon to London left the ground. Only an hour late, too.

At Gatwick, we eventually made rendezvous with le grand frère in the hotel, had dinner, briefly met the groom and la soeur to take delivery of vital wedding supplies: a champagne bottle each to be  transported to Tobago. The following morning we were up at the crack of dawn to catch the shuttle bus to the airport, where we met up with la soeur and the future belle-soeur of the groom, checked in successfully despite the strict 5kg limit on hand baggage, and finally ate breakfast in departures. The flight was called before the last cup of coffee was gulped, and an hour later we were at last Tobago bound.

It was a long flight: eleven hours of cramped discomfort. Having survived the first seven hours on Monarch rations (small muffin, piece of melon and three grapes) before a more substantial meal was finally served a couple of hours before the brief stopover in Grenada, we touched down at Crown Point International airport. Long queue for passport control, even longer queue for customs. Fortunately our luggage appeared the carousel before the latter had lengthened too far. Our party of five was too large for the single hire car, so la soeur and la belle-soeur nominative took a taxi and had thus taken possession of our home for the week by the time we picked up the car and found our way to Stonehaven bay.

And a very nice home it was too. A mock-colonial villa fifty yards from the beach, up a hill giving stunning views of the sea. Well, it would have done if there hadn't been another rather large villa blocking some of the panorama. We settled in, took a dip in the plunge pool, then watched the sun go down and ate a picnic dinner on the terrace, before collapsing into bed.

Nail biter

And so, the brave new blue dawn on Friday was obscured by dark clouds of disappointment. The new era of Les Bleus under Laurent Blanc stuttered to a home defeat against lowly Belarus. Tomorrow evening, they must pick themselves up and win on hostile territory against Bosnia, arguably the strongest team in the group. No easy task when all three strikers used on Friday are now injured…

We are also biting our nails about travel problems tomorrow. The national journée de mobilisation against pension and retirement reforms is likely to include some action by air traffic controllers. Learning this on the evening news last night threw us into a bit of a panic, given that a Caribbean holiday is in the balance if we don't make it to Gatwick by Tuesday evening. Two options presented themselves:
a) hope our flight is unaffected, turn up at the airport tomorrow morning, with a long drive and ferry from Dover as an emergency backup plan if the flight is cancelled.
b) rebook our flight for the evening flight today.

Both choices risk costing in excess of 300 euros, and occasioned much internet searching, much anxious cussing and ranting, and a hasty bit of early packing. In the end I gave in to common sense and took la bienheureuse's advice: on calling Easyjet (no easy task as they do their level best to hide the call centre number on their web site - cue more cussing and ranting), I was told that flights from Lyon would be unaffected and that the Gatwick flight was certain to go. Hoorah. Revert to plan A. The Easyjet web site this morning appears to confirm that the Gatwick flight is going, though three other flights outbound from Lyon are cancelled tomorrow. All fingers tightly crossed…

The weekend otherwise was very pleasant. Warm sunshine induced us out to lunch on Sunday, pizza and salad at La Pie riverside restaurant, followed by a stroll up river to La Cité Internationale to watch the special version of the most successful film of all time, la bienheureuse being the one person in the whole of France not to have seen the original.

Custard pie

The maire de Lyon, Gérard Collomb, was pied yesterday. A nebulous group calling itself "Al Qaïtarte" (presumably a play on words linking tarte and a certain notorious terrorist group) claimed responsibility and condemned the "policies more than right-wing of a man who claims to be left-wing." The entarteurs also count the president of the Rhône-Alpes region and the artist Ben among their victims, claim the "greatest pieing ever in Lyon", that of the MoDem mayoral candidate, but regret failing several times to entarte the former minster and UMP mayoral candidate Dominic Perben. Ho hum. I suppose it's more fun than attending a city council meeting.

On the wider political stage the government is still struggling against the adverse headlines created by the new "security policy", with several government ministers breaking ranks to admit to unease about the expulsion of Roma and the proposed stripping of citizenship. And waves continue to be made by the Bettencourt affair. Sarko and Fillon are still backing Eric Woerth after he was forced to admit that he had indeed written a letter recommending Patrice de Maistre for a Legion d'Honneur. He claims that ministers and MPs routinely put forward people for honours, which may be true, but not all of them would dare to recommend the man they've persuaded to give their wife a highly paid job…

Interestingly, there's a view that the government are happy to take the flak about the security policy, safe in the knowledge that it's deflecting attention from other problems and that the majority of the French population support the Roma pogrom. One problem comes up on Tuesday, when a journée d'action to protest against retirement reforms has been called by some of the main unions. The union hand is strengthened by the fact that it's a distracted Minister of Labour, one Eric Woerth, who is handling the reform bill in parliament. The main strikes are likely to be on the railways, so perhaps I shouldn't be too nervous about the fact that we're flying to the UK that day…