Feeling a little more energetic today, we decided to wander around the local shops in search of a few postcards and a new beach bag. Somehow or other we ended up in one of those pretentious and highly up-market shopping malls, stuffed full of pristine, air conditioned jewellery, handbag and designer clothes shops. Yes, the sort of shops over which my bank manager would have had a week of sleepless nights and palpitations if he’d known I was venturing anywhere near them! Yes, they were those shops that don’t believe in price tags: “….if-you-need-to-know-the-price,-Sir,- then-you-can’t-afford-it” kind of shops!

At one cosmetic shop we actually dared to set foot in, June bought some face powder and a mascara. What a palaver and breathtaking orgy of ‘red tape’, that little transaction proved to be. June had to sign three forms (something to do with Customs, I think I heard the salesgirl say) and was then subject to a barrage of questions – a commercial “Spanish Inquizition”, no less: “How long are you here for?”; “when will you leave?”; “Did you arrive from Gatwick?”; “Can I have your passport, please, I need to take down some particulars?” etc. etc……… I tell you, International arms dealers get less of a grilling!

The psychedelic bull, at the entrance to the Mall caused us some amusement, as we hurriedly left before full-body searches and 24 hr surveillance ensued.

Still unable to find beach bag and postcards, we decided to venture into Bridgetown, the capital of the Island. Walking to the bus stop, I found my first Methodist Church with a corrugated iron roof.

We had heard that there are three types of public transport: the white minibuses, the blue government buses and……….the yellow “Reggae” buses. The latter were an experience “not to be missed”. The buses are frequent and ridiculously cheap. One fare – 2 Barbadian dollars. That’s just under a quid! And with that fare you can travel the length of the island (about the size of the Isle of Wight).

We decided to give ourselves the full-on Barbadian experience by catching a yellow “Reggae” bus. They are so-called because they all play loud reggae music. You can usually hear the music approaching before you hear the engine. We flagged ours down outside the hotel – if you don’t put your hand out they hurtle by. Oh yes, that’s the other thing – they hurtle everywhere! The locals use them a lot. Perhaps they like living dangerously? Old ladies with their shopping, young mothers with tiny tots and distinguished elderly Caribbean gentlemen with grey hair, wrinkles, enviable loud shirts and walking sticks.

The bus took off from the bus stop like a dragster. Most bus drivers use the tried and tested procedure we all learnt for our driving tests: “Mirror, signal, manoeuvre”. Not these guys. They just pull out and goooooo! Just look out if you are an innocent overtaking driver at the time. I had to hold on with both hands because they corner on two wheels and every stop is an emergency stop! The seats are pretty small – all the more reason to hang on tight! We came home on a blue bus, through the floods after some torrential rain. So sedate after the white knuckle ride, I nearly fell asleep.

Bridgetown buzzes. June felt unsafe there. I loved the atmosphere. But there again, as June often says: “I live in my own little bubble, blissfully unaware.”

The Town Crier has gone on a little adventure! Yes, Glastonbury High Street has fallen silent; his bell is at rest, his regalia swapped for sun hat, sunglasses and shorts. Accompanied by my good lady, we’ve decided on a little excursion to Bimshire and have consequently booked some lodgings, at a little place by the sea there.

For the next couple of weeks, I thought I’d bore you all witless with a few stories of my travels, random observations of foreign “goings-on” and the odd photo of the unusual. So, here beginneth the first of a few travel blogs to help me pass the time and possibly give you something to chuckle about.

I’m writing this at 36,000 feet, at 560mph, over the mid Atlantic heading in the general direction of the “most ferocious hurricane in recorded history, ever to cross the Atlantic.” Luckily, Bimshire is quite a bit south of the path of this highly destructive meteorological beast but no doubt her ladyship’s gin and tonic not to mention all 279 passengers will be well shaken before we’re done, by the turbulence on its periphery, as we attempt to fly over it or around it, to get to our destination. As I write this, the plane suddenly climbs an extra 2000 feet in a very short time and we exchange nervous glances. Things are beginning to bump around!

The holiday has got off to a generally good start. Neither the M3 nor M25 were in car park mode when we planned to negotiate them, but we did manage to turn up at the WRONG hotel for an overnight stay prior to flying. Now how stupid is that, to have two hotels near Gatwick, both called by the same name, within spitting distance of each other? Google maps is so easily fooled. However, the first hotel looked rather old and dilapidated, dripping with “Gothic charm”, shall we say. The man on the Reception Desk, I swear, was Dracula’s younger brother!

No matter how many times I fly, airport security still irritates. It’s bad enough being temporarily parted from your wallet, passport, phone, watch, shoes and trouser belt but the stress of having to ensure that one’s trousers don’t succumb to gravity, thus causing an act of gross indecency, is something I could really do without at such times. Added to that, the young, overweight, burly female security attendant, shouting at people for not stacking their valuables trays, was all too much. (She clearly must have honed her people skills at the Genghis Khan Charm School for Young Ladies!) Or perhaps she was just having a bad day……..

Virgin wined and dined us well in flight but I felt so sorry for the cleaners at our destination who have just an hour to transform the litter-strewn aircraft into a clean habitable place for flying somewhere else. I was saddened to have to pick my way through the eight and a half hour’s worth of accumulated detritus, where the cabin resembled a battlefield, with numerous discarded bottles, papers, packages, magazines, and other general travel rubbish. When it comes to “fouling our own nest”, we humans must be up there with the leaders!

It was a good landing in sunny, hot Bimshire. June and I always score marks out of 10 for the smoothness of the landing. The pilot got a creditable eight and a half out of ten!

On arriving at our hotel we saw our first Caribbean sunset for this year. To start with, it was totally bland and without colour. We felt slightly disappointed. But once the sun was below the horizon, there was an eruption of colour. Not just above the sea, where the sun had just set, but also above out heads and behind us as well the Sun’s rays illuminating clouds several miles above our heads. Quite the most extraordinary sunset I’d ever seen, that changed dramatically from minute to minute.

And the tequila’s good too!