‘A view to a kill’

I suppose if you up sticks from everyone and everything you know and love and move to the other side of the world, it does raise questions about how well the old noggin is functioning. (Noggin is old English for head/brain... just for our Scandinavian readers who may have already lost the plot in the first sentence). And then if you add to the speculation about one’s dubious decision making capabilities by choosing to land on a tiny dot of an island at the bottom of the Caribbean, it is little wonder one can be thought of as a tad odd.

This is then compounded by realising that this particular tiny dot, seems to have more than its fair share of eccentrics, which makes me wonder whether I am barmy. I certainly don’t consider myself eccentric but I am now wondering whether ‘island life’ turns you barmy or just attracts people with barmy tendencies or maybe you need to be barmy to survive here. Time will tell no doubt. However, if you do come and visit us.. and we hope you will... and you see in your loo a jaunty little sign reading 'You don't have to be mad to live here but it helps' please feel free to shoot me!

A classic example of this collective ‘barmyness’ takes place just round the next headland from us every Friday morning. It all starts at 4am. John Albanie, The Honorary British Consul (HBC) is woken by a call from Norman Stalker our octogenarian neighbour, who was the Director of Audit Hong Kong. (I didn’t know a country could have an actuary but apparently they can and dear old Norman was it!) ‘The HBC’ then drives from the very bottom of the island to the very top to meet up with Norman. It takes over an hour because it is a very bendy road. Usually it is, in my humble opinion, one of the most breathtaking journeys you can take but of course at 4.30 in the morning it's pitch black and you can’t see a bloody thing.

This intrepid duo are then joined by other certifiable loons... a couple of Canadian ‘snow birds’ who spend the Canadian winter in the Caribbean sun, Newton a ‘returner’ (ie a Grenadian who has lived abroad for most of their lives then retired here) and Rawlings a charming local Rasta with full dreads. Together the convoy proceeds in a stately manner to Bedford point and more specifically to a spot marked on the map as Fort Bedford. Until 20 years ago you would have been forgiven for thinking this a somewhat erroneous bit of naming by the local cartographer, for there was absolutely no sign of a fort of any kind.

Then along comes John and his chums. John discovered a bit of wall whilst on a walk with his dogs one day and began poking about in the dirt to reveal a bit more ancient wall. John being John, then bought the headland and started digging. Realising he was well supplied with local eccentrics he roped them into helping him and so it has gone on every Friday for 20 odd years without a break. Now the land is cleared and one can enjoy the spectacle of a very fine wall, a good 25 foot high and even see the holes where the cannons were placed. Indeed they have discovered several actual cannons, although those have been removed for safe keeping. You can see where the armoury was and a water tank and even a sentry box on the pathway leading to the fort. Or maybe it was a rather robust privy. No one is quite sure!

Over the decades they have also discovered a great deal about the fascinating history of this tiny fort. They had copies of documents sent over to them from Kew archives which provide wonderful insights into what life was like for the soldiers perched on this rock, high above where the Oceans meet. Well technically, it’s where a Sea (The Caribbean) meets the Ocean (The Atlantic) but let’s not nitpick. The documents detailed the big changes to island life back then, like the Brits taking the island from the French and then the French taking it back and so on until Johnny Frenchie finally took the hint and pootled off to annoy someone else.

The archives also depicted the little things in life, like requests for more soldiers (Denied.) Requests for more materials to expand the fort (Denied). Request for repatriation of a soldier to Britain. (Approved). This seems awfully generous of them considering how hard life was back then for the common soldier but, then when you read the reason why the request for repatriation was made it all beomes horribly clear. ‘No arms and legs remaining’ it states rather blandly. God knows what happened to the poor sod but at least he got home, albeit not in one piece.

Of course, this is all very interesting but you could find out all this history from the comfort of your own hammock. But no, these guys choose to labour at the coalface of history, digging away on the site every Friday, in the heat, from 5 in the morning until around 2.30... and all this for no financial gain or payment or even praise, as no one knows the fort is there. Surely they all need sectioning for their own safety? Although one has to say in the interest of honest reporting, that they do enjoy a leisurely breakfast followed by ‘elevenses’ followed by lunch provided by ‘The HBC’ of sandwiches warmed in his much derided solar oven. However, I am convinced that what draws them back week after week is actually the view. There is some considerable irony in the fact that this spot was selected as a site for the fort because it represented a perfect ‘kill zone’. A view to a kill... literally. If Johnny Foreigner wanted to land here, he had to dodge between the tiny islands and sail directly under the cannons which were arrayed to blow him to smithereens before he got anywhere near the beaches!

Yet as far as we know, no battle ever did take place up here, so the soldiers could just sit, as we did last week as guests of The HBC, and stare mesmerised out at what is surely one of the most breathtaking and peaceful vistas in the world. From up there the Grenadines stretch out endlessly before you. Island after island, reaching up out of the turquoise seas, changing colours in turn from a vivid green to a soft blue, to a misty grey, as they stretch out towards the endless horizon. ‘A view to a kill’ no longer but, certainly a view to die for.