The day after St Vincent was Barbados. We don’t get off here anymore.  Because it is the furthest east of all the Caribbean islands, EVERYONE stops here, both on the way out and on the way back across the Atlantic; it reduces the risk of cabin fever amongst the landlubbers aboard.  We stayed on board and caught up on chores – like blogging and napping and checking bank accounts are still solvent! Apparently, our usual spot, The Boatyard, was so overcrowded they had to close to new visitors! Glad we weren’t there for that! There are always a good half dozen cruise ships in, minimum. There was talk of a dozen today, but that might be a slight exaggeration! But even six of the newer, much larger, ships is potentially THIRTY THOUSAND passengers, all going ashore looking for a beach. And don’t forget, crew and staff are allowed ashore too!

I was glad of the day off, because the next day was Martinique.  For those who have lost count, that is six ports in six days. What were they thinking when they plotted that itinerary! Thank heavens they included Barbados, so we could plan a rest day. 

Martinique is France. Not French. Not French-speaking, France.  The currency is the Euro, and the flag is the bleu blanc rouge of the tricolore.  And they speak proper French. Not a Creole that I have trouble understanding, proper French. It was lovely. Unfortunately, P&O couldn’t pass up the chance to save a few pennies, and we were the only ship in, because we arrived on a Sunday. France is closed on Sundays.  That’s why the parking is cheap.  (By the way, Paris, hiking the parking for heavy cars is a very silly idea, particularly as electric cars are heavier than petrol and diesel!).

Oddly, as soon as anyone realised we were British, all they wanted to talk about was Brexit. I had to explain to several different people that, generally speaking, no one really talks much about Brexit at home! They seemed curiously obsessed about it.

Some touristy stalls and bars had set up on the quayside, playing French music (we’ve heard a LOT of English language reggae, especially Bob Marley, these past few days) and offering seating and shade. So I purchased the obligatory trinkets and tshirt and then went to one of the bars for a sit down.  They were just putting out extra tables and chairs for two new arrivals, so I joined them.  We chatted for about an hour. They complimented me on my French.  They also thought I was from Alsace (that’s what the University de Caen administrator thought when I rang her in 1997!), so I must have a pretty consistent accent.  We discussed the teaching of English in schools – they now start in primary school – and Matthieu’s nephew is ten and speaks four languages fluently – French, English, Spanish and Portuguese. The older gentleman never gave his name, but it didn’t matter. We had a lovely time for an hour, watching the very happy-looking drug addicts dancing to the music and saying hello to everyone – not begging – just passing.

There is a very big drug smuggling problem here, because there are so many small coves for small boats to come into during the night, and no way to patrol them all.  From here, it’s a straight flight into mainland Europe – Martinique is a French department, and so it is inside the Schengen area.  Flying from here to Paris is an internal flight! Which reminds me, did the recent cannabis find make it to the UK news? Two cruise passengers boarded a ship to sail from the US to the UK. Homeland Security were called, and they each had something like 57 kilos of cannabis in their bags.  Apparently, it’s better to sell it in the UK because they can get a significantly higher price there, compared to the US. You live and learn.

Anyway, I spent a lovely hour chatting in French with two complete strangers, interrupted only by my brief visit to a Very Complicated Toilet ™.  They had a single accessible automated cubicle thingy.  Firstly, it wouldn’t let me in because it was cleaning itself.  Then, when the door did open, everything was sopping wet! In order to get toilet paper, you have to wave your hand in front of a sensor on the wall and it feeds out a certain amount. You want more? Wave again. Want more? Wait. Then wave again. And so on.  The first portion was used to dry the seat!  Then, when you’re done, you wave to flush. The soap and water are both plentiful and also sourced by waving at sensors. They even have sensitivity as to flow rate. The closer you put your hand, the more soap you get and the stronger the water flows.  All very clever.  Cleverest of all: the door open is a BUTTON. So you can’t wave your hand and open it by accident! All of which was explained very clearly by an automated voice – female – in French.  The signage was in French and English, but the talky lady was French only.  Still, clean and well-stocked. Not like Guadeloupe, when I had to wander the streets begging for loo roll!

Dad didn’t come ashore here. We were moored at an L-shaped pier, that struck out from the shore across the shallows, and then bent round so that we could moor alongside and have several gangways down.  He was right not to. I counted. It was 515 paces from the end of the gangplank to the land.  Not for those with limited walking ability!  There were pedicabs to get you around once you’d got there (all powered by women), but they weren’t allowed onto the pier, which is very silly, as that’s where they were needed the most!

They seem very fond of painting their tarmac here. On the shore, there was a huge pavement painting, apparently commemorating the Martinikais’ contribution to the Resistance in WWII.  It’s probably very pretty from the air, but at ground level, it’s just large patches of colour with names painted in white! The pier was also painted – green for pavements and blue for roadway.  And some colour co-ordinated (ie blue and green!) patterny bits here and there.

So, although some were disappointed that everything was shut, I absolutely loved it here, and this is somewhere I would love to come back to again sometime.