Fed up with the relentless gurning lately the comms spike bursts the sky and it bleeds all over Cave Hill. Which puts me in the mind for a pink dusk. And I remember one with a rather yellow wall attached. 'Her and her yella wall n all'
On the drive back tonight I pass a man in navy surf shorts with big white flowers on the corner of Sandy Row. 'Hope you get the weather you're expecting' I smile to myself. Brave in Belfast where you'll earn yourself that for sunglasses on Royal Avenue. Passremarkable, this caustic town. So we are.
Meanwhile in sailor town crew rush to cabins, frisbee rubber waiting trays onto bunks and rip off velcro epaulettes. The Fillipino laundry have pressed a centre crease into their going-out jeans but nobody cares at The Boat Yard. If you've been to sea you've been to The Boat Yard. Like The Orient in Sydney. Everyone says Why go there everyone will be there it'll be just like the crew bar and then everyone goes there. But it's not like the crew bar because the ranks are in their going-out jeans The Great Leveler. And sure where would be the fun if everyone wasnt there. Those that can, go further along Highway 7 to St Lawrence Gap. The Gap. Fish restaurants that would make Vigo revolt Barbados Finest humid fillet steaks $100 dollars a chewy slab before fries. Before we knew better (Yellow reggae bus up the west coast for Fried Green Banana. Kit-form Cubre Libres that come from under the counter in quarter bottles and cans only. Ice and lime if you're lucky. Old men that wont let you pay in the Speightstown Cafe.) Before we knew better we did The Gap either side of a christmas leave. I choose the hotel for sentimental reasons, The Coleraine or Craigavon or something like that. Sandy concrete and old wood it's perfect. No tv or aircon and that lovely yellow balcony. The nights are resonant with The Nasal Americans baying for the debauchery of Cozumel. They ought to go to the Boat Yard, but nobody tells them.
We laugh. The best night we have is chewing the fat and two dollar hotdogs with boys by a filthy smoking cart in the middle of the street.
Margaret O'Hare is a fine art photographer in Northern Ireland. Commercial photography with a creative edge for practical application. And the hotel was called The Rostrevor. Funny that. It's been done up now what a shame.
- St Lawrence Gap, Barbados