mardi 03.04.07 Pony express
Born free. Taxed to death. That’s what we read on the plaque above a doorway as we hop on board our ferry to Anguilla this morning. I often find that the anticipation of the ferry crossing is nearly more heightened than the time spent at the actual destination. Fortunately however our eagerness doesn’t wane throughout the day. The first highlight mightn’t be out of the ordinary in these parts but a gigantic floating turtle looks me in the eye as we bob across the water. I feel that this bodes well for the day.
A construction site sight welcomes us as we debark at Blowing Point. Tranquility wrapped in blue. And concrete. And JCBs. And dust. Anguilla is indeed a dusty, bush scattered island and as we cruise around in our automatic along interior dirt-tracks you could convince yourself you are driving through somewhere not unlike the Arizona desert. Nicola is usually happy to drive but the shifty Nissan Bluebird with three gears – go, slow and no, makes her a bit more cagey and we zip over to Meads Bay in silence until we see the sea.
Dolphin Discovery. Rather than fork out hundreds of dollars to swim with the slippery swimmers we want to fork some tuna steak while watching the action from the Coral restaurant. The restaurant is shut but the spectacular sea deserves our presence. The strange blueness of the ocean matches the turquoise of my bikini and the soft sand is as glowing as the whites of my nails. I disappear into the wild spray with my snorkel. There’s nothing much to see except the tranquillity of soft sand and sparkling waters but I that’s what attracts the crowds. I reappear to find kite-surfers and speedboats on the horizon. It’s another cracking day. We monopolise the remaining holiday resort deckchairs and dry off before deciding that hunger is knocking us back more so that the strong sun.
The Valley is the main town although it resembles the early stages of a Monopoly game more so than any town I’ve ever seen. The people are cheery and helpful though they would rather hazard a guess as to the location of somewhere rather than admit they don’t have a clue where it is. There’s a distinct small-town America feeling to the place but surprisingly fast-food chains have been disallowed. Supposedly some place named their quick-café McDonna but the closest food franchise we spy is Subway.
Heather has to get out some dosh but the ATMs are being extra temperamental today so I rescue her and we head off to Koal Keel which is recommended in our tourist book as a must-see; the environs were once a sugar and cotton plantation and the dessert is awe-inspiring. The flourishing review makes it sound a bit too posh for our sort of midday nosh so we’re almost relieved to find out that they only do dinner. It’s back into town in search of somewhere to dine. I catch sight of a sign for T-Bone steak and pizza so we backtrack and settle on picnic benches with a Chinese trio and four Americans, and a roaming chicken who proves to be our only distraction from the long fast we endure before our food arrives. The chef had admitted that they didn’t have any cream for our Pollo Annollo Alfredo and we were cool with that but once a creamy bowl of chicken pasta arrives we realise why we lost weight while waiting; the waitress from St. Vincent had ran down the road to buy some cream. Nic goes for some chicken with succulent breasts and John manages to branch out a bit by having rice with his steak.
We don’t have time for the non-existent dessert but for the second time today a very obliging local lets us use his phone; horse riding is on the agenda for this evening and I call to book our bronco tour at El Rancho del Blues. We’ve a bit of time to kill so we cruise around looking for souvenir shops. I’ve a few more postcards to send and since some of my pen pals have already been to St. Martin I thought an Anguillan memento would be appreciated more; they’ll just have to appreciate the efforts we went to as postcards are as elusive as pervy guys. Yes, it’s true. We don’t encounter any pervy guys on Anguilla. Even when we trot by the locals on our steads they tip their hats and wish us a good afternoon. We pass some kids who are fascinated by our horses. They want a ride but we kick-off and head back to the ranch before we start to resemble Tayto and Ossie. The roads are so flat but the tracks are well bumpy. Part of the ramble brings us to the beach. I want to go for a gallop but my horse has other ideas and threatens to buck me. John’s back is sore so he doesn’t join us on our trek. Us girls have a great time even though Heather has an eyeful of contact lens to contend with.
All too soon we’re back in St. Martin and bundled into Romano’s taxi back to our hotel. The girls are whacked so John and I head for dinner. Pizza and beer is in order. The pizzas are too big for one person and one sitting so we bring them back for the girls to nibble on as they’ve skipped dinner and started downing drinks. There’s a mini-market by the hotel beach bar so we spend our time flitting around that before settling for rounds double Baileys; they go down easy and make us sleep easy.
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