From my bed, into my swim suit and unto the beach, I was only too pleased to be served up a culinary synchrony for breakfast when we got down to the bay: fried fish fresh out of the sea, into the frying pan and unto my plate.
This little cafe was deserted when we got there at 9:30, although the proprietor informed us confidently that once the food was cooked, it ‘goes very quickly.’
Her little snackette still had the remnants of the last St Patrick’s day decorations. Apparently, in lieu of its Irish settlers, Montserrat celebrates the day every year. In more recent years though, the St Patrick Day parades have come to resemble the carnivals that are part and parcel of Caribbeanism (any excuse for a party really).
I forgot to ask what type of fish it was, but it was white meat, succulent and delicious. The fried bakes weren’t bad either. I was suspended like a prisoner between the call of the blue and lingering long enough to savour every morsel.
Alas, it was all gone, both fish and bake, washed down with cool apple juice. With nothing to keep me ashore, I endured the journey over what felt like hot coals, heading down the beach. I guess like childbirth, once the lovely water was lapping round my ankles, I instantly forgot both the ache of waiting and the shock of hot sand on my feet.
Blooming hard work – all of it – but somebody’s gotta do it!
Keep your head on straight and your heart on strong!
H Michelle Johnson
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