Wow, a week ago I was just getting ready to go to the Plantation in Barbados for what turned out to be the last of my revelling nights. I had to turn down the offer to go to McBride’s on Sunday night to listen to techno music, on the grounds that I could hardly stand up from fatigue. And seriously, could techno top the whole reggae experience of Wednesday night?
I did, however, have some very delicious fishcakes made for me on Sunday. Thanks David, we all enjoyed them.
Imagine my disappointment when I got to the beach on Monday (my last day) morning to say goodbye to the Rasta guy – and he wasn’t there. It’s so unlike him, everyone was surprised. Hope he’s OK. I did, instead, meet up with the woman who was willing to give up her massage session for me, (in the photo with the head wrap) and the police officer who featured in the novel, whom I’d been looking out for all the time I was there.
Barbados cried for me as I left, big bulbous tears, hundreds and thousands of them, throughout the whole day. And I gather it’s still crying. ‘Don’t cry for me Barbados, the truth is I never left you…..’ somehow I think that’s one’s been done.
Eight hours later, I arrived in Manchester, to be greeted by the cold, the grey and the sniffer dogs.
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