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.