We sleep well and wake up refreshed. It is a beautiful day and by late morning we have ourselves together enough to venture into town to get a few provisions and attempt to check in. Now I know it is Good Friday but you’d think there might be one gendarme around. Do criminals not work on public holidays in this neck of the woods? Ah well, their loss. Our pile of euros stays in Mike’s wallet instead of handing it over as a check-in fee, until tomorrow that is. The hairdresser’s is also closed but the sign indicates it is always closed on Fridays so I presume and hope that it will be open again tomorrow.
We wander around town. I have been a good girl and slathered myself in revolting factor 50 sun cream after the burnt zebra episode last week, so in the heat, my face, neck and chest quickly become disgustingly slippy slidy – I hate the stuff.
We walk down to the restaurant that we are booked into tonight and check that stuffed pig’s feet are still on the menu. They are and Mike beams with delight, licking his lips in anticipation. Bless!
The main supermarket that we remembered from last time has now closed down and it takes time, patience and four shops to get all the provisions from the very small list that I have prepared but all the fresh stuff is of good quality, grown locally from people’s gardens.
I don’t know why I love it here so much. There’s nothing outstanding about the place at all. It’s just so … nice. I’ve never been here in high season before and it’s very much more crowded than I am used to, but it still has a gentle, calm feel about it. It’s very, very pretty and colourful, provisioning is acceptable (although don’t come here if you need boat stuff). The beaches are ordinary but then after some of the beaches we have been to they would have to be spectacular to win on that point. It’s French so it’s not cheap either. I think it’s just still just a hidden surprise, as far as most Europeans and Americans are concerned. The majority of tourists here seem to be French coming on day trips from Guadeloupe just a few miles away (given the way the ferries are packed to bursting).
We buy one of the bright tablecloths in one of the local madras fabrics for the boat. I buy one big enough to cut out napkins from it too. I have been meaning to do this each time I have come here and with the table looking so nice now it has become a necessity.
We decide to just eat the pineapple for lunch so we really have an appetite for tonight. It’s so hot, neither of us is particularly hungry anyway.
Just as we are getting ready to go out in the evening it starts to rain so I grab my fashion statement waterproof jacket. In Day-Glo yellow and blue, it is the perfect accompaniment to any outfit but who gives a toss if it keeps my hair dry and stops me getting a wet bum from the dinghy.
We are first to arrive in the restaurant. We have spent so long eating with Americans that we have forgotten that the rest of us tend to go out later in the evening. Still, it means that there will be pigs’ trotters galore for us, but unfortunately that is not the case. The first thing the pleasant waitress says is that pigs’ feet are off. Mike nearly cries and the waitress looks uncomfortable for a while as she thinks he is going to throw a wobbly. Mike asks if they will be available tomorrow and she goes off to beg the chef but comes back saying that they take too long to prepare. It is obviously a dish which is only available when trade is slower. However, their wonderful beef Carpaccio is available and we are able to choose other dishes which are good but just not what we really want. I can’t even have the dessert I want because if you want the mango soufflé you have to order it when you order your starter and main. It says this in small writing on the dessert page. Who the hell reads that when they are ordering their first two courses? Well, obviously people who have been here before. As the restaurant fills up, I watch three soufflés being carried out from the kitchen, looking very nice too. I hope that the chef will relent after the pigs’ trotter episode, but he is French and very definitely says ‘non’. I contend myself with white chocolate ice cream smothered in Chantilly cream. Very non-fattening.
In between courses, I get a bit arty farty with my camera like Moe and Bob do. It’s the first time I have really fiddled with night exposure, camera wise anyway, but the effects are not quite what I hope for, but practise will perfect I am sure (well that and reading the dreaded manual).
It rains hard while we are eating but luckily has stopped by the time we get back to the dinghy although there’s a good couple of inches in the bottom which Mike has to bale out before I get in.
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