The day after we dived, David woke up with a sore ear. He was in a bit of pain, so he took himself off to the local doctor  – a wonderful service, he was seen within fifteen minutes of turning up – and was diagnosed with otitus media – an infection of the middle ear. The entire consultation was in French and David understood the whole thing, very impressive! Having spent a year in a French school, he’s always wanted to pick up his French, and now it really seems to be coming back to him. She prescribed three different types of medicine and advised him not to get it wet until it’s completely healed.  So sadly the diving course has had to been postponed. You might ask why I can’t go ahead without him – but now I’ve gone down with a cold. So no diving until we’re both completely fit.

No place like home

So, what to do with our time?  We’ve been slowly falling in love with the town of Anses d’Arlet. So much so, we contacted the owner of our rental and arranged to stay for an extra week.  The studio at Ville Blanche is modest – just a small kitchen, a bedroom and a bathroom but the outside terrace is amazing. The breeze off the sea keeps the mosquitos at bay, and I never get tired of looking at the view.  We have a variety of birds visiting, including hummingbirds feeding on nectar from the flowers in the garden. Some have green wings, some have red. At breakfast, I put out a few crumbs and watched to see which bird was bold enough to take them from the table. Yesterday we came home to find some ripe pink guavas on the terrace table. A present from Carol, the housekeeper, who was cleaning the house just below ours. She seems to be cleaning most of the holiday lets round here. We ate them for breakfast today – delicious, although I wasn’t sure what to do with the pips which are too small to spit out but very crunchy.

Since the workmen are still digging up the road, we prefer not to take the car out, as it takes so long to get anywhere – and actually, we have everything we need right here. It’s time to kick back and embrace a slower pace of life. The beach is superb and whilst neither of us are able to snorkel at the moment, the swimming is still sublime. We’ve been venturing out further and further. No sign of ‘jaws’ but I did have quite a shock when a fish jumped out the water right in front of me!

The local grocery shop is tiny with a limited range, but they have potatoes and limes and there’s a bakery for fresh baguettes. The fishermen deliver their fresh catch to a purpose built steel fish counter everyday. As some of you know, David is obsessed with fish – watching fish in the water, keeping fish in a tank, sea fishing, fly fishing, and cooking them on the barbecue. His little eyes light up when we come off the beach and see what the fishermen have brought in.  We’ve eaten fish every single day. Tuna, sword fish, bonito, mackerel, marlin, and something I don’t even know the name of.  I’m in danger of turning into a fish (which thinking about it might make David really happy!)

A lovely bunch

Today, a man rolled up selling coconuts off the back of a lorry. He was very handy with a machete! 2 euros for lovely fresh coconut juice and then he splits the coconut open and creates a coconut husk scoop so you can scoop out the delicious layer of  coconut ‘jelly’. He says he’ll be there again tomorrow, “pani problem” (the Creole version of “pas de problem”).

If you can’t be bothered to cook, there are plenty of cafes on the beach where you can eat lunch under the shade of the palm trees with your feet in the sand. Yesterday, we did just that, then curled up in the shade and snoozed until we were ready to swim.

In the evening, the sunset is a highlight, and we’ve enjoyed creating cocktails with the local rum – rum with fresh limes, ginger cordial and fizzy water is the latest concoction – slips down easy!

Ring my bell

As the sky darkens, the sound of the frogs kicks in ( I thought it was cicadas at first but turns out it’s frogs). I prefer to leave the electric lights off and burn a citronella candle to keep the mosquitos at bay so we can watch the stars come out. Birds begin to fly home and the odd bat circles. There’s no sound of cars, just sounds of people, calling out to each other, singing to a baby, laughing at a joke.  Every hour, the church bells sound out, one dong for each hour and every half hour, there’s a musical chime. Home seems a long way away as I sit in my shorts and T-shirt, reading posts about Bonfire Night and shitty Brexit.

David is feeling the loss of his camera, and so we decided to see if we could find a replacement – a good excuse for a trip to the capital of Martinique, Fort de France! It is hot and humid at the moment, the temperature around 30 degrees, so the idea of driving into the city didn’t really appeal. So instead we headed down to Les Trois Islets to catch the ferry.

Les Trois Islets is probably the biggest town on the peninsula and one with an important history. It is the birthplace of Josephine, the wife of Napoleon and Empress of France.  As we walked down to the ferry, we noticed an unusual amount of activity around the church and particularly the cemetery with a number of people arriving in their Sunday best with flowers to place on the graves. We later discovered that it was All Saint’s Day known as ‘Toussaint’ a two day long holiday for honouring dead relatives. Traditionally, it is a time for sprucing up the cemeteries and also for getting together with the extended family to share reminiscences about family members who have passed away.

The ferry terminal is a charmingly low key set up – a couple of brick shelters to keep you out of the sun and a small jetty. The cost of a return is a mere 7 euros and the boats run about every hour. It is a very pretty ride, passing the three small islands (Tebloux, Charles and Sixtain) which give Les Trois Islets its name.  Again, we noticed a number of shipwrecks dotted about which hinted at hurricane damage. As we approached Fort de France, we noticed the impressive 17^th century Fort St Louis to our right which is still in use as a naval base today.

Once we landed, we headed from the harbour into the busy shopping streets. Fort de France stuck me as a real hotch potch of old and new. One minute, we were walking past a row of designer shops selling handbags and shoes, the next, a row of small traders crouched on the pavement – a shoe repairer with his mouth full of nails or a person selling chillis and garlic, laid out in small bundles on the floor.

We tracked down a camera shop. The shop keeper and his wife were delightful and did everything they could to find David a new camera but the prices were more than he’d pay in the UK and the range of models on offer was very limited.  So we left empty handed.

Feeling the heat, we dived into an air conditioned shopping centre and into a strangely familiar café. It reminded me of an English department store restaurant, complete with sandwiches and cake.

After lunch, we set off in search of the Schoelcher Library. This unique building was built for the Exhibition of 1889 in Paris to represent Martinique and was then taken down stone by stone to be rebuilt in Fort de France. It houses the original library of books , which were donated by Victor Schoelcher in 1883 on condition that they were made accessible to everyone, including former slaves. Since then, the collection has been greatly expanded. The building itself is very impressive. Unfortunately we couldn’t go inside as it was closed. As we were standing wondering what to do next the heavens opened and we dashed into a café and drank coffee while we waited for it to clear.

It was clear that the rest of the afternoon was going to be showery, so we decided to call it a day and catch the next ferry back to Les Trois Islets.

Returning to Anses d’Arlets, we noticed a film crew set up outside the church. A woman with a microphone stood in the street, doing a piece to camera – we guessed it was the local news channel’s annual ‘Toussaint’ article. We peeked into the church. It was crammed full of people dressed in white and singing their hearts out.

Exciting day today – the first day of our dive course with Alpha Plongee, a dive school based at Grand Anse Plage. Our first dive was booked for 10 am. Grande Anse is just around the corner from Anses d’Arlet, so we set off about 9.30, which gave us plenty of time to get there and find a parking space before we paid up and got our gear on. However, on leaving the house, we found that our road was completely blocked off and a new, more extensive diversion was in place – only trouble was, they hadn’t bothered signposting the route of the new diversion. After an anxious few minutes of wrong turns and dead ends, we finally found our route – which took us in the OPPOSITE DIRECTION from where we wanted to go, UP the impossibly steep hill, twisting and turning sharply beyond the houses, right into the forest – before finally descending back down to the main road. We hurried into the dive centre just before 10.

Fortunately the dive school dudes were cool and laid back (as dive school dudes are) and gave us plenty of time to get our act together. I’ve been diving a few times before, but only on try dives, where everything is laid on for you.  So it was a new experience for me to have to connect up my oxygen tank, attach it to the life jacket and make sure everything worked. I felt my first pang of apprehension. The idea of being underwater and seeing all the sealife was hugely attractive, but I was intimidated by the ‘technical’ side of diving – would I be up to this? Would I be safe?

It was time to go, so we headed for the water, burdened by the weight of our equipment. As soon as we entered the water, the weight of our tanks was eased. Then it was on with the flippers and swim out to our boat –  not too far to go. Once on board, we powered round the corner to the cliffs on the West side of the bay. David and I were paired up with a couple of kids and an instructor. The aim of the dive was to get us used to being underwater, to learn how to use our breath to make us go up and down, and and to remind us not to flap our hands about! The instructor explained that the kids were more experienced than us and would show us how it was done. David has dived a bit more than I have so I was acutely aware that I was the least experienced one there.

What lies beneath

Soon we were descending, going down about 11 metres. It took a bit of time to get used to the fact that I could only breath through my mouth, and the sound of my breathing reminded me of the soundtrack of a bad horror movie. Which inevitably made my imagination run away with me. It doesn’t help when your diving instructor has warned you that you mustn’t forget to breath “or your lungs will explode and you will die”.  The kids, meanwhile, were darting about like maniacs with no fear at all. The instructor was very kind and stayed glued to my side until I started to relax a bit and look around.

It was beautiful.  The variety of corals was incredible, the best I’ve ever seen. My ignorance of coral names is complete, but I saw delicate fan-shaped corals, massive ‘brain’ corals, tube corals, stag antler corals, and corals that looked like giant pots, often with fish hiding within.  Then there were the fish – trumpet, puffer, angel, spotted scorpion – in shoals or on their own. Everything was waving about, and in a fantastic array of colours. Sometimes something would turn out not to be a coral but a sea cucumber or worm/snake type thing. To those who know better, I apologise for the poverty of my ‘underwater’ vocabulary, I’m working on it!

The weirdest moment of the dive was when we came up. I genuinely thought we were going down, not up, until my head popped out of the water. We’d been down there for 45 minutes, but it felt much shorter.

Into the abyss

Once we got back to the dive centre, we just had time for a quick lunch and then we went out again. This time we went down to 14 metres – the deepest either of us had been.  To get to the dive, the instructor told us we had to go down to the bottom of the sea and stick low to avoid the currents.

Towards the end of the dive, we came to a rope which we held onto while performing a couple of exercises. First we had to take out our regulators (breathing tubes) and breath out slowly for a time before putting them back in again. Then we had to take off our masks completely and then put them back on again. We had rehearsed these on the boat before we came down, but it was much more daunting at 14 metres. The mask moment was particularly scary for me as a contact lens wearer. Fortunately, the instructor agreed to let me keep my eyes shut when the mask came off  – my eyes still stung from the salt when I got the mask back in place – but at least the lenses stayed in place. I hope my optician isn’t reading this, she would be horrified! Anyway, we both ‘passed’ that bit of the course and on the way back up to the surface, we got our reward – a turtle, diving a few feet over our heads.

We headed back to the dive centre feeling knackered but exhilarated –  and immediately booked ourselves in for the rest of the course. We’ve opted for one dive a day from this point on, as two in one day is surprisingly hard work.

Today, we decided to venture out of our comfort zone and head up North.  North Martinique is a more sparsely populated and mountainous region, better known for its agriculture than its tourism. However, with the growth of ecotourism, this may change.The plan was to drive through Fort de France, along the coast, passing through Shoelcher, Case–Pilote, Le Carbet and the old capital of St-Pierre, until we reached the small fishing town of Le Precheur.

The first part of the drive was somewhat hair raising.  It was a public holiday and the cycling clubs were out in force.  Competitive cycling seems to be as popular in Martinique as it is in France. Hats off to them! Cycling in this heat – and in lycra –  takes real dedication.

We continued to drive for another hour, not stopping until we reached Le Carbet, where we pulled in to look at the beach. The beach itself was very beautiful, but it wasn’t enhanced by a handful of rundown beach cafes.  On closer inspection, we realised that the cafes had suffered serious  storm damage. The jetty was also smashed up. My guess is that Hurricane Maria had more impact up here than it did in the South.

Paris of the Antibes

Our next destination was St-Pierre, which was originally the capital of Martinique, one of the most sophisticated cities in the Caribbean, known as the ‘Paris of the Antibes’. Tragically, it was destroyed by the eruption of Montagne Pelee in 1902 and the entire population wiped out. It was eerie driving through the town – many of the old buildings have been left as they were and are slowly falling apart. The skeleton of an elegant old house on Rue Victor Hugo was boarded up, and the words ‘Jamais oublie’ graffitied all over the boards. As we drove out the town, I was acutely aware of Mont Pelee looming over us.

Eventually we came to Le Precheur, which I had read was a pretty fishing village. However, my immediate impression was how poor and run down it looked compared to villages in the South. Just when I was thinking it was time for some public investment, we came to a massive shiny new bridge which I read cost a whopping 8.5 million euros to build.

After Le Precheur, the road started to get narrower and more potholed. Just when we were thinking of giving up, I spotted a sign to ‘L’Habitation Ceron’ which jogged a memory – we decided to take a look. And entered another world.

 

A forgotten world

L’Habitation Ceron is an old sugar plantation with a water wheel which dates back to the 17^th century. Today, it has become a very beautiful tourist attraction. The main attraction is the garden which is running with rivers and streams and filled with beautiful mature trees and plants which showcase the biodiversity of Martinique.

There’s a Zamana tree which is so huge, its canopy is almost a hectare wide (that’s 10,000 square metres, or 2.4 acres). It is a somewhat ‘chic’ place with surprisingly attractive staff and an eye wateringly expensive gift shop. It has a lovely wooden bar and restaurant set within the gardens. The garden is wheelchair friendly, and perhaps because of this, there were a disproportionate number of young French families with prams and pushchairs in tow.

After enjoying the feel of the river on my feet, and enjoying the shade of the trees, we decided to treat ourselves to the restaurant, and had a very good lunch which featured a number of products grown on site. We were excited to try the ‘ecrevisses fraiches’ which they say they fish from the streams at night, but were disappointed to be presented with an average plate of prawns. However, the chocolate fondants we finished with were delicious and could well have been made from chocolate produced on site, as claimed.

Don’t go chasing waterfalls

After Ceron, David was keen to continue a little further along the coast road. It soon got very exciting, the road pitching and plunging up with mudslides and pot holes everywhere. Around the next corner, the road ran out completely. The only way to continue from this point to the next village (Grand Riviere) was on foot. A 20 kilometre hike, apparently. And yet, there were hoards of cars parked up at the end – why?  I’ve since discovered that there is a waterfall about 45 minutes walk from there. Perhaps we will return another day, but for now, we decided to turn around.

At St-Pierre,  we took a sharp left towards Fonds-St-Denis, a charming, almost Alpine-like village high in the rainforest. It was beautiful up there, but the driving took nerves of steel. Fortunately, David was in the hot seat – and there was very little traffic so it didn’t matter that he had to veer onto the wrong side of the road to avoid the odd mudslide.

At the end of this road, we happened across another waterfall,  the ‘Cascade du saut du Gendarme’. Perhaps because it was a public holiday, this was not a very peaceful spot. There was a large picnic underway complete with dancing, singing and rum. There was a macho thing going on with young men ‘daring’ to put their heads under the waterfall – but by English standards it wasn’t cold at all, so this middle aged English woman couldn’t resist showing ‘em how it’s done!

Lost at sea

Stop press: David took an amazing array of  photos for this post, but sadly they are missing in action. He was experimenting with some under water photography when the waterproof casing came apart. His lovely camera is no more, sob, sob. We’ve tried looking for a replacement out here, but no luck, so for now, we have to make do with a phone camera.