dimanche 10.12.06 Penniless window shoppers
Needless to say, after our early morning mooring we’re neither fit for nor up for an early start. Nic and I abandon our plans to go to church but we do manage to make it to Hyper U for groceries before midday. First though we have to smuggle the guys out without Arlette seeing we’ve two, not one, person over. It would be probably just as well if she thought we were immoral Irish as she would probably never talk to us again and so we could do what we wanted. But we’re not. We’ve nothing to hide – even though we’re trying to. Nicola and David head to the car while Gethin and I go to the gate. It squeaks and shudders as it rolls along. I can see Arlette looking out her window at the car. We can all hear the car. It takes an eternity for it to make it up the hill. It may be 30ºC today but the incline is double that. David flashes Arlette a cheesy grin and I roll back the gate before following Gethin into the car. Pani pwoblem!
It’s slow going in the supermarket, not just due to the throngs but the pangs of ale and ailments from last night. Our hour in Hyper U is less supermarket sweep and more supermarket beep. We deal out €160 and fill the boot with goodies and groceries. The lads are back in David’s place at the IUFM but we’ll be back for them when we’ve unpacked our shopping at home. Arlette comes down and we presume we’re in for an earful. However, it never comes, instead she asks us to move the car. Panic stations over we settle down for some mint tea as we wait for our lunch to cook. We’re bringing a picnic to Sainte-Anne. We store the rice, banana-jaune and lentils and pack the picnic box with utensils and other useful bits and bobs. We pick up the lads in town and soon pull into a lay-by where vendors are selling barbequed, poulet boucanée. It’s smoky, succulent meatiness is just the cure and we can’t help lick our fingers as we tuck into our lunch on the beach at Sainte-Anne. A plump sun seeker rambles by wishing us Bon Appétit; I’m sure she’s just wishing she could join us.
Sainte-Anne is a Bourg. Mills, lime kilns and Stations of the Cross adorn this small town. Its old town authenticity is still intact thanks to its traditional market place, the Créole houses and the lively squares; there are remnants of a recent street party with streamers, banners and stripped stages to be found here and there. There’s free parking and plenty of spaces. The streets are narrow and most of them are one-way so we take in most of the sites as we cruise around.
Coves, capes and beaches skirt the sandy coastline and the most popular beach in Martinique is found just south of Sainte-Anne at Les Salines. We drive out of town to the beach Mecca but it’s so busy we turn back to start on our accommodation search. The boys are content to hang by the beach while Nicola and I cruise around.
We view a few places around the Bourg; L’Etoile de Mer, Anoli Village and Freshanse, which reminds me of Dominica due to its mini-garden layout and the steep hilly incline. Since it’s Sunday and since it’s nearing the holiday season most of the places we had correspondence with are either closed for the day or shut up to accommodate the owners own holidays. We get brochures and contact details when we can and drive out of town to the nearby Belfond area where the big bucks are being flashed. We contemplate going to Club Med. The long, palm tree lined driveway can only be accessed by the electronic gateway. We decide to ring for a price and succeeding that then head in for a gawk. However, we’re put on hold for ages and abandon the idea as we don’t really intend on selling our souls just to mingle with white-clothed, deep-tanned types. There’s a cluster of Anchorage hotels just up the road from the beach and we try our luck there instead. We look around two of the hotels, noting the pools and the clientele. The prices are at the higher end of reasonable but we keep them in mind as we skim the Golden Pages for more options.
We find a hotel called La Dunette. There’s no colour advertisement – just the number and the address, Rue Jean Marie Djumbea. The street name is intriguing. We ask around for directions before finding ourselves back in the Bourg. It’s 17,30 and getting dark. We park the car in the main square and no sooner have we parked than a beggar comes a-tapping on the window. I let out a whimper and Nicola jumps in her seat, locking the doors, as his face presses against her window. He’s harmless but nobody appreciates weirdoes sticking their nosy noses and famished faces in private places. He shuffles on, repeating the same stunt over and over again to unsuspecting parkers. Gethin and David are in a nearby bar and spot us walking along the street to our waterside retreat.
The downstairs of the hotel is open plan with the reception and a bar in the inner island. Dining tables and chairs are under the canopy and outside lower tables with candles and plastic loungers are neatly arranged on the grassy ridge. There’s a calm, cool aura about this place. Its right by the sea, les peids dans la mer, we’ve got all the amenities we need nearby and the staff are friendly – well the bar staff are at least. We get to look at a room and we’re given complementary cocktails as we sit outside waiting for Gerard, the main barman/receptionist, to sort us out with a deal. His colleague, however, is unwavering with the price, even though we tell him we’re residents, but we’re offered sea view rooms and entertainment galore. It seems like a good deal. Gerard is a flirt and a half. That extra half probably pushed out half his brain as he isn’t very thorough with our reservation receipt – no contact details taken and the minimal given.
We head back to the car and surprise, surprise the freaky, weirdo window shopper is back again. I’m at the boot and I don’t even notice him slinking along the side of the car. Our windows are down and he’s up at Nicola before I can alert her. She can’t put the window up as I’ve the keys so she has to endure the poor. He asks for money for a sandwich and Nicola offers him sweets instead. He tells her he can’t take them as he has no teeth. Bit of a contradiction asking for a sandwich then sir, but she gives him a € and he’s on his way.
Gethin and David have been off having drinks with Alex, Philip and Rodolfo along the pier. Nicola and I spied them from our grassy ledge as we sipped on Pina Colada and Coke. They soon return ready to hit the road. We tell all about our housing hunt and our encounter with the mad, mumbling money-eater. The guys also came across our toothless tramp and as they tell us about their day we see him sway across the street with a can of beer bulging from his pocket. Hiss. Hiss. I can’t tell whether the sound I hear is that of the can being opened or David making mocking sounds at the locals but we’re too far gone to care about the repercussions.
David tells us that when he arrived home earlier this morning he found that some birds had come in his open window and ravaged the apples he had left out on his desk. There were apple cores on the tabletop and pieces of splattered apple were stuck on the wall, the desk and the chair.
We leave Gethin home in Ducos and eventually find our way out of the maze which is the motorway. For some reason we all misinterpret the road sign and get a bit jittery when we have to pull over to be certain we’re not on the wrong side of the road. We get back to Rond Point in one piece and leave David to another week of bird-watching inside the IUFM.
Back home at the ranch Nicola and I crack open a few beers and watch them disappear with the day.
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