A trip to Pigeon Island

I know, this sounds more like the title of a Famous Five story. And Pigeon Island isn't even an island. It used to be, but the St Lucians decided to use the spoil from digging out nearby Rodney Bay Marina to create a causeway from the mainland to Pigeon Island and stick a couple of resorts on the beach they made in between. As is clear on the view below.

Pigeon Island is owned by the St Lucia National Trust, but they seem rather less energetic than our version. The little guidebook claims dramatic changes since it took over in1983, but lists only building a little jetty,


 so one can arrive by boat, and a restaurant to replace the rustic shack that existed before. But since said restaurant, though sweet and in a great place, still looks like a shack, I am not sure how much worse its predecessor was.

 And there is an interpretation centre. But alas closed for renovation. No re-opening advertised. When I say closed for renovation, I mean it was clearly closed but there were no renovations going on. So I think all they do is cut the grass and collect the entrance fee.

But its well worth the visit. First one is confronted with the welcoming sight of an old letter box.

The ruins of the 18th/19th century barracks,

 powder magazine etc

 are not too exciting it has to be said. But what one really goes for is the setting. Which is lovely. Be it the beach at the bottom,

the wide lawn (set up with a little gazebo for weddings),

the interpretation centre

or above all, the two peaks which made it such an excellent spot for a fort. The lower one has the cannons in situ and is really spectacular and worth the climb. As is the higher point, Signal Peak, although the climb is more arduous as its pretty steep at the end. But gives wonderful views all round, including across to Martinique. And the wind when you get to the top is quite something. It does make you a little nervous as you could just imagine being blown off.

St Lucia had a checkered history, switching hands between the English and the French no fewer than 7 times. Sometimes we just handed it back in peace treaties, but in one of those we got Canada instead so I feel we got a fair deal in terms of square feet.

Fine flora and fauna too. Flowers and trees nice, butterflies too fleeting to catch on camera and the only mammal is apparently, according to the guidebook, the mangoose. Presumably half human / half christmas dinner.

Having caught a taxi up here I returned as far as I could by the beach, so got a close up of the resort built on the causeway - pretty swish -



and the marina - pretty extensive.

The Jacquot Trail

It was always my intention to do some trekking in the lush interior of the island. But of 3 main treks that were advertised, two hadn't re-opened after the hurricane and the other hadn't attracted any interest while I was there from all other tourists on the entire island. Climbing the highest of the two Pitons was a possibility, but I met a couple of marathon runners who had done it and said they ached for days afterwards. No rock climbing involved but just lots of steps. It sounded like the world's most extreme step aerobic class.

So as a last resort I hiked the Jacquot Trail. Now this trail was in the Northern part of the island and established by an Austrian company who had acquired the concession for the area. Cleverly they had gone for the triple option over the same basic area, so you could go zip-wiring through the canopy,

 or take a sort of aerial tram,


 

or just hike up the mountain.



I took the most arduous rote - walking. Arduous mostly in the company. Now one shouldn't trade in stereotypes, so here goes. I was in a group with a stereotypical middle-aged American. Loud, bald, seriously obese with a tiny wife who had clearly arrived by mail from the Philippines. Unfortunately he didn't seem to speak to her at all, but at all times he addressed the group. And he was under the mistaken impression that he was a great wit. Rarely in the history of mankind can one man have been so wrong - pretty much between him and Chamberlain. I am hardly fit, but with him we were pretty much on mega go slow. I did rather feel the guide was a little unadventurous - we could easily have outrun him. Probably against company policy to leave a tourist alone the forest, but surely there were extenuating circumstances. Anyway, it was well worth doing, although unfortunately there were no good viewpoints to just see the surrounding countryside from the mountain, and any birdlife would be scared off by the constant "banter."

And afterwards, my thigh muscles did ache for two days. Heaven knows what the Pitons would have done to them.

Castries

Being a slightly intrepid sort, I decided to catch the local bus into the capital, Castries, rather than take a taxi. Not very adventurous, but with my sense of direction it can always go awry. And indeed I happily got on the little mini-bus that constitutes the service, feeling rather pleased with myself at finding the stop. Only when told it was the end of the road in a pretty non-descript village (Gros Inlet), did I realise I had caught  the bus in the wrong direction. Ah well, by a somewhat meandering route I eventually got to the capital (and at least saw the entire bus route). On arrival my state was probably obvious to all as a nice lady asked me if I was lost or just looking around. A difficult philosophical question really. Since I didn't know what I was looking for I probably came under the latter category, but if I had known I would have been lost. Where the bus stopped it was pretty much just a cacophony of traffic and run down buildings and stalls.

Unfortunately, it didn't get much better. Castries is never going to make the short list for greatest world capital. Or indeed the long list. Really hard to find any redeeming features, and I did try. These photos do it much more than justice.

The markets are run down and full of tacky souvenirs. The public square, Derek Walcott Square, was closed to the public,

 The catherdral, well have you ever visited a cathedral before? If you have, then you have seen a more impressive one. Decorated by local artists in what would be deemed naive style (ie by artists who aren't much good at drawing).
 

Most attractive building was the library.

Every 30 seconds someone asked me if I wanted a taxi. The best sight was away from the main drag and getting a better view of the harbour. On the day I visited it held no less than three cruise ships. These are clearly the mainstay of the economy as they disgorge thousands of doddery Americans (and to be fair some families too) who proceed to scatter around the island for a day. This had a strange effect on Reduit Beach in front of my hotel. No criuse ship and it was pretty empty. With a cruise ship it was still pretty quiet until about 10 am when suddenly there would be a stream of holiday makers arriving, trailed by local chaps anxious to rent them a dechchair and sunshade.

Anyway, the ships were pretty impressive in the harbour. The odd pyramid by the way is a French cultural centre, or so I was told.

And if you are wondering about the name of the capital (ok I know you weren't), its named after this bloke, the Marquis of Castries.