Toby+boatride=nap

Carriacou, from the arriving ferry

Kayak Cafe (where we ate many meals and drank many smoothies)

fruit stand outside our guest house

From our ferry arriving at Carriacou, one Grenada’s small, outlying islands, we could see an inspiring stretch of sand and turquoise water running the length of the shore.  Our guesthouse, “Ade’s Dream,” was in the center of town, and our room contained two double beds for the four of us.  Whether it was the close quarters, or the faint scent of garbage that emanated from somewhere nearby, or the oppressive feeling of being in the center of a gritty town, however small, when it is hot and you yearn for the ocean, we can’t say, but our stay in Carriacou (pronounced “carry-a-coo”) felt strained.  The wind picked up the day after our arrival and brought with it some bouts of rain, which made a trip to the beach unappealing, but it was still hot.  We spent much of our time on the island in the Kayak Café, located across from Ade’s, which served some good food and satisfying smoothies made of fresh local fruit, or on the communal porch at Ade’s, planning the last few weeks of our trip.  (Justin had sampled pretty much every bakery we passed during our time in Grenada and we had concluded that only a trip to St. Bart’s would assure us some decent pastries.) 

Two high points:  The Round House, and the bus we took to get there.  One of the island’s minivan buses, blaring soca music, pulled up to the bus depot where we were waiting, and when the door opened, Justin saw that there were already nine other passengers inside.  “Oh, looks like you’re full,” he said.  “Naw, honey.  Dey’s plenty ah room.  Come on in,” said a large woman with a toddler on her lap.  We four climbed aboard and the driver sped off down the narrow, winding, road, jerking to a stop here and there to let passengers off and pick more up, though we didn’t overhear anyone stating their destination.  A nine year-old boy squatted in the aisle, which was actually one square foot between the end of one row and the sliding door.  Fifteen minutes after we’d left the depot, we passed a cinderblock house outside of which a man was slopping his hog, and the bus jerked to another stop.  Had it not been for the hammering soca music, we probably still wouldn’t have heard what the driver muttered after he braked, but the boy in the aisle slid open the door, and asked in our direction, “you gon to Bogles?”  Down a driveway, hidden behind a stand of trees, several wooden cottages bordered a small lawn overlooking the ocean.  At the center of the property sat The Round House, a circular, stone-walled, hobbit-like building with a spider web grill in the window.  It might have been a Waldorf pre-school, but in fact served a delicious lobster dinner and the best fish Nina had ever eaten.  “My parents were hippies,” explained the proprietor, a woman in her late thirties who had inherited the property and was raising her small daughter on the island.  We might have spent our three nights on Carriacou at The Round House, but Ade’s helped us to appreciate the fancy digs awaiting us in Canouan.