dimanche 11.03.07 Flower Girl
I love shopping. Even the thought of supermarket sweep in Hyper U excites me. This morning Nic, Fred and I find ourselves at Rond Point ready for a spendathon. The guys psyche themselves up by puffing away while I shimmy across the tarmac on the trolley. We spot George the Rasta, with the band across his head, in the car-park. He salutes us and we nod back taking it as the starting shot for our spree. Fred is the caddy. Nic and I race around the aisles while Fred follows us. He estimates that it’ll come to near €300. The damage isn’t nearly as bad as anticipated: €153.
We’ve bought some cabbage and ham and we rustle up some Irish grub with plenty of spuds and some white roux sauce. Fred enjoys it too – he’s used to his ready-meals so this is a treat. Rum and raison ice-cream and Lyon’s tea finish off the perfect meal.
We sit back on the terrace sipping our whiskey digestifs before we decide to make tracks and head to the Jardin de Balata. It’s about time we visited Martinique’s most famous inland tourist attraction. It’s a stunning little garden with beautiful flowers and fantastic plants, finely landscaped arrangements and incorrectly spelt English signposts. Nicola chooses her flowers for her wedding bouquet and throughout the afternoon we imagine that it’s Nicola and Fred’s wedding; they pose for photos, walk down the aisle and even sign the register together. I’m the bridesmaid, the flower girl, the chaperon and the photographer in one.
We decide to make the most of our Sunday afternoon and we visit the Cascade Gendarme; a waterfall hidden in the hills off the beaten track. We take the beaten track and find ourselves at Ravine Brunette; a little cottage and quaint garden on the hillside beside Fond Saint-Denis. The drive downhill to Saint-Pierre is exhilarating and we get a great view of the sweeping plains and rolling forests surrounding Mont Pelée. We watch the sun set from the jetty at Saint Pierre. We spread out soaking up the last rays of the day, looking at the strange cloud formations and taking in the beauty of the Caribbean; it’s the epitome of tranquillity.
Fred wants to take us out for a meal to repay us for our Irish hospitality but since Martinique is not a destination for night-time dining we decide to head home and prepare something; pasta with chorizo sausage in a roast plum tomato sauce. I think we’re outdoing ourselves with our culinary skills today! Our dancing skills are also perfected as we take to the dance floor to perform our dance routines for Fred.
Nicola and Fred head to the terrace for a few beers… for their honeymoon! Etienne the Rasta is on the blower to me again so I sit inside and listen to his raspy ramblings. He invites me out but I fob him off as I’ve no desire to dine with him and plus Will the Waster is probably at the other end prodding him on. Strophe also gives a jingle. He is a fraction less sleazy but he’s not much more bearable. He works on and off for Jean-Pierre in The Terminal Café but Jean-Pierre can’t stand his lack of dynamism or his slow pace. He likes to blether on the phone too. To talk any longer would only induce sleep so I say my goodbyes. I work on my blog and read my latest lend Qui a tué le béké du Trinité? before joining laying down my book and lying down for the night.
I love shopping. Even the thought of supermarket sweep in Hyper U excites me. This morning Nic, Fred and I find ourselves at Rond Point ready for a spendathon. The guys psyche themselves up by puffing away while I shimmy across the tarmac on the trolley. We spot George the Rasta, with the band across his head, in the car-park. He salutes us and we nod back taking it as the starting shot for our spree. Fred is the caddy. Nic and I race around the aisles while Fred follows us. He estimates that it’ll come to near €300. The damage isn’t nearly as bad as anticipated: €153.
We’ve bought some cabbage and ham and we rustle up some Irish grub with plenty of spuds and some white roux sauce. Fred enjoys it too – he’s used to his ready-meals so this is a treat. Rum and raison ice-cream and Lyon’s tea finish off the perfect meal.
We sit back on the terrace sipping our whiskey digestifs before we decide to make tracks and head to the Jardin de Balata. It’s about time we visited Martinique’s most famous inland tourist attraction. It’s a stunning little garden with beautiful flowers and fantastic plants, finely landscaped arrangements and incorrectly spelt English signposts. Nicola chooses her flowers for her wedding bouquet and throughout the afternoon we imagine that it’s Nicola and Fred’s wedding; they pose for photos, walk down the aisle and even sign the register together. I’m the bridesmaid, the flower girl, the chaperon and the photographer in one.
We decide to make the most of our Sunday afternoon and we visit the Cascade Gendarme; a waterfall hidden in the hills off the beaten track. We take the beaten track and find ourselves at Ravine Brunette; a little cottage and quaint garden on the hillside beside Fond Saint-Denis. The drive downhill to Saint-Pierre is exhilarating and we get a great view of the sweeping plains and rolling forests surrounding Mont Pelée. We watch the sun set from the jetty at Saint Pierre. We spread out soaking up the last rays of the day, looking at the strange cloud formations and taking in the beauty of the Caribbean; it’s the epitome of tranquillity.
Fred wants to take us out for a meal to repay us for our Irish hospitality but since Martinique is not a destination for night-time dining we decide to head home and prepare something; pasta with chorizo sausage in a roast plum tomato sauce. I think we’re outdoing ourselves with our culinary skills today! Our dancing skills are also perfected as we take to the dance floor to perform our dance routines for Fred.
Nicola and Fred head to the terrace for a few beers… for their honeymoon! Etienne the Rasta is on the blower to me again so I sit inside and listen to his raspy ramblings. He invites me out but I fob him off as I’ve no desire to dine with him and plus Will the Waster is probably at the other end prodding him on. Strophe also gives a jingle. He is a fraction less sleazy but he’s not much more bearable. He works on and off for Jean-Pierre in The Terminal Café but Jean-Pierre can’t stand his lack of dynamism or his slow pace. He likes to blether on the phone too. To talk any longer would only induce sleep so I say my goodbyes. I work on my blog and read my latest lend Qui a tué le béké du Trinité? before joining laying down my book and lying down for the night.
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