After one hour of sleep I awake as fresh as a bunch of bougainvillée; I think it was the coffee more so than hair of the dog. I lie in bed. If my mind can’t shut down my body may as well repose. My phone blips away on the locker. It’s Oliver with a beach proposition. Why not? I can swing myself to sleep by the sea. I get up at midday after some snatches of sleep. Nicola is roused and we have some bad coffee-flavoured tea while we wait for the lads. Oliver and Lionel arrive a while later and we’re soon off up the West coast to Prêcheur.
We stop at a shop for provisions; crackers, cheese, coke, chocolate for later and ice-cream for starters. The locals are cheerful though I think they’re just amused at the sight and state of us. We spot lots of road kill on the way: two cats, a dog, a manicou and five birds. The Clio couldn’t harm a thing – it lags on the motorway and struggles up minor inclines. There’s a football match in Carbet and we have to take to the hills which is a bit of a worry in our wagon. Thankfully the only walking we do is along the black strands of Martinique’s North-Western coast.
By all accounts it’s a quiet day. Nicola and I hang up the hammocks and lay out the mats while the lads take to the sea. When they return we’re already snoozing and when we awake they’re out for the count too. They stir for lunch. It starts to drizzle a bit and it’s out with the brolly. We must look a sight with Nic and I in our hammocks and the lads huddled under us on their mats.
Oliver is reading a self-help book for men. Lionel could take a leaf out of his book as he seems to have a few concerns and affairs which are bothering him. He takes to the hills for a while, Nic takes pictures, I go for a stroll with the crabs and Oliver reads. We stay on the beach watching our black footprints being washed away by the evening tide as the sun sets.
Everyone’s feeling a bit peckish. La Feuille du Tôle in Schoelcher isn’t open neither is the Mayflower. There’s very little in the way of eateries in Fort-de-France so we opt for a savoury sandwich from one of the stalls along the river. Foody’s is our chosen place for chips and friands. The rotating slab of meat doesn’t look very appealing but the whole ensemble of salad, sauce and chips is tempting. Since the lads wouldn’t take money off us for petrol we get them their tea. Lionel doesn’t want anything but we get him chips. He says that he’ll only eat if he’s hungry and since he has only been lying about all day he isn’t. His daily intake usually consists of a roll or two for breakfast and a canteen lunch. We take the food back to ours. The meat is manky but the whole deal disappears as do the lads and the day.
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