(Appears in the March 2010 issue of Caribbean Beat )

I found myself doing a lot of walking on Carriacou. Combined with hitching rides and taking local buses, it is absolutely the best way to explore this enchanting island of castaways, boat builders, big drummers, and some of the most idyllic stretches of sand in the Caribbean.

Carriacou and its diminutive sister, Petite Martinique, are located in the Southern Grenadines and belong to the tri-island nation of Grenada. You can get there by light aircraft from Maurice Bishop International Airport, but actually I think it’s much more fun to hop on board the Osprey Ferry which departs daily from the Carenage in Grenada’s capital, St. George’s. The journey takes about 90 minutes and passes along the pretty west coast of Grenada. It’s a great way to meet Kayaks, the name given to the people of Carriacou who, more often than not, will be buried beneath overflowing bags of supplies they have purchased from stores on the main island.

The ferry arrives at Hillsborough, Carriacou’s principle town. Fringed by a narrow beach and located on a beautiful bay, Hillsborough has just one main street which is lined with a hotchpotch of stores selling clothing, food and delicacies, a number of simple eateries, and a smattering of small market stalls. The Carriacou Museum, housed in a former 19^th century cotton ginnery, has a fine collection of Amerindian artifacts that are regularly unearthed along the island’s ever eroding windward coastline of Sabazan.

I decide to head along the beach towards L’Esterre Bay. It used to be possible to walk and drive right across the Lauriston Airstrip to get to Carriacou’s south western coast, but now, if you are driving, you have to take a rather wayward inland route to get there. On foot, it is much more fun. At Lauriston Point, where the beach and road come to an end, a narrow footpath appears in the coastal mangrove. Meandering this way and that, ducking beneath low branches, and occasionally emerging at a shoreline of shallow oyster beds, I finally arrive at Paradise Beach. Serene and idyllic, Paradise Beach has to be one of the Caribbean’s finest. I enjoy a drink at the Hardwood Bar & Snackette. The bar has a water taxi that can take you to the outlying Sandy and Mabouya islands where shallow inshore reefs make for great snorkeling. Aside from a cook, a waitress and a couple of gulls that are perched on the bow of a lonely rowing boat, I seem to have this beautiful place all to myself. Sunlight sparkles off the clear, calm waters, where not even a ripple seems to disturb the serenity.

Before heading off towards Harvey Vale and Tyrell Bay, I buy an attractive hand-made t-shirt from Fidel Productions, and wander through the sleepy village of L’Esterre where, it is said, people still converse in French Patois. But sadly there is no-one around, just the enticing aroma of freshly baked bread from Henrietta’s Bakery to keep me company along the road. The expansive Tyrell Bay is a natural anchorage and home to the Carriacou Yacht Club. Its sheltered waters are crowded with an assortment of vessels, from expensive-looking yachts to rather sorry-looking old wooden schooners. The bay front at Harvey Vale is crammed with bars and eateries, most offering a good selection of local lunches, including a bewildering variety of lambi, or queen conch, dishes. I resist a few beckoning waves and instead continue my trek, wandering around to Hermitage, a quaint settlement of squat stone houses that nestles on the southern tip of the bay, and where long-bearded castaways seem to be fixing up the shipwrecks in which they were once marooned. At the Lazy Turtle restaurant I grab a cold beer and a bite of pizza, probably the best there is in this little corner of world’s end.

The next day I decide to walk north from Hillsborough. I pass through the villages of Craigston and Bogles (where Roxanne and Phil run the very unique Bogles Round House Restaurant) and arrive at the beginning of the High North Nature Trail, a coastal woodland path that skirts the High North National Park. The trail, like the rest of Carriacou, is supremely peaceful and I enjoy the tranquility of its woodland scenery and the lofty views down to the western coastline. At a paint splash on a large boulder I take a detour, heading downhill through rough scrubland and rocks to emerge at Anse La Roche, a very attractive beach and bay. Here the sea is rolling in with a purpose, crashing down hard onto the untouched white sand beach. Anse La Roche is Carriacou’s big secret; the beach those in the know whisper and nod their heads about to each other when they hear tourists heaping praise upon Paradise beach in the south. But for me, Carriacou’s finest stretch of white sand only reveals itself after a further walk through yet another coastal mangrove forest, this time in the far north at L’Appelle, beyond the bluff of Gun Point. The long, narrow beach at Petit Carenage Bay is absolutely breathtaking. Turquoise waves dance in all directions in confusing currents. Across the water is Petite Martinique and, to the east, stranded on a shallow reef, is the rather melancholy hull of a grounded ship that is just begging to have its picture taken or its portrait painted.

Rounding the top end, the trail turns into a narrow road and I enter the village of Windward. Home to the world famous Carriacou sloops, Windward has a tradition of boat building that goes back to the days of the first settlers from Scotland, whose ancestors still live in the village today, and whose maritime skills have been passed down through the generations. Along the water’s edge, skeletons of hulls take shape and stand facing down the seas they will one day try to master. Windward boat launchings draw people from across the island to this quiet corner where fiddlers and guitar players sing sea shanties, women cook traditional oil-down and cou-cou in large iron pots over open fires, and men flex their muscles in preparation for the final heave-ho. Together with village Maroon Festivals and Big Drum dancing, both vivid evocations of an African legacy, boat building is a quintessential part of Carriacou’s cultural heritage.

I climb out of Windward, up the sloping hillside of Limlair, a landscape of pigeon peas and black sage scrublands. At Belair, stone windmill towers are another reminder of the island’s past, where estates would harness wind power to drive sugar cane and lime crushers. Children wave at me as I reach the brow of the hill and begin my descent back down to Hillsborough Bay. They accompany me for a while, asking where I am from and why I am walking. I tell them that if I had not been walking I wouldn’t have been lucky enough to meet them and their beaming smiles outshine the sun. Arriving in Hillsborough, I sit on the jetty and wait for the ferry to arrive. Experiencing Carriacou has been like taking a welcome time-out, and I am very reluctant to get back into the game.

Beyond the shack lay a field of bananas that were engaged in what appeared to be a losing battle with ever persistent creepers and weeds. The farm track came to an end and we began to weave our way through the plantation itself, heading towards the foot of a tall ridge where we would begin our ascent. A dog barked somewhere in the distance and a solitary cock crowed. I sensed a warning against this tomfoolery, but brushed it off with a somewhat unconvincing shrug, following the slight figure of Gurry, my guide, as he arrived at the edge of the field.

The original trailhead had disappeared under a massive landslide in the hurricane of 2004. Our plan was to climb this ridge, hopefully pick up the old trace once we reached the top, and then, with any luck, follow it to the summit of the mountain. Gurry had not been here since Ivan had struck, and everyone had told us the trail had been lost to the storm and the inevitable advance of nature. There were a lot of unknowns on this journey and plenty to be concerned about, but I had a book to write and that meant getting to the location of Fédon’s last stand. Gurry grinned, as if reading my mind and then set off up the hill.

Julien Fédon purchased the Belvidere Estate in 1791. His family hailed from Martinique and his wife was a ‘free coloured’ or mulatto woman. Influenced by the French Revolution of 1789, Fédon began a rebellion against British rule of Grenada and the oppressive regime of ultra protestant planters in the early hours of 3 March 1795. Over the next year he captured much of the island using a militia of mulattos and slaves, raiding and plundering British owned estates, capturing and killing their owners and managers. This very bloody and costly uprising eventually ended on 9 June 1796 in a battle on the summit of what is now known as Morne Fédon or Fédon’s Camp when he and his followers were finally defeated in a fearsome battle. Fédon’s body was never recovered and legend has it he escaped by throwing himself down the mountain and sailing to Trinidad. To many, including Gurry, Julien Fédon is a heroic figure, symbolizing the fight for freedom and independence and, though many lost their lives during this 15 month insurgency, he is often lauded for his liberation of island slaves.

The ascent of the ridge was steep and muddy, the bush dense and very unforgiving. Forging ahead, we cut narrow strips of brightly-coloured cloth and tied them to trees to mark our path, determined our return journey would be a little easier. Both of us carried machetes and we needed them. My arms and legs burned with the exertion of clearing and climbing and when we reached the crest of the ridge I flopped to the ground in a heap. Gurry wandered off and soon returned smiling; he had found the old trace.

Sadly, any hopes of our journey becoming easier were soon dashed by a wall of landslides, fallen trees, razor grass thickets and tangled undergrowth. Clearly, no-one had been along here since Hurricane Ivan and the climb to the summit was now a nightmarish prospect. Huge candlewood trees, torn from the earth by winds stronger than I could imagine, blocked what remained of the path. Sometimes we would clamber over them, nervously hoping our feet would find firm ground on the other side; other times we would crawl in the mud beneath them, not daring to think about how fast they were wedged. In several places the trail and ridge crest had fallen away completely and we found ourselves swinging precariously around the broken bases of trees, desperately grasping at roots and branches, anything that seemed tethered, with nothing below us but air and no-one but a stray dog and a cockerel to ever hear our final cries. Everything was wet; the saturated ground, the tree trunks, the branches, the leaves, and even the air around us as we approached the moist cloud forest environment of moss, ferns and mountain palm. We slipped and fell more times than we could count, pulling ourselves up again with all the strength we could muster, our bodies soaked through and covered in a layer of slime. Razor grass ripped exposed skin from ankle to face, adding blood to the unappetizing soup. Beneath our sodden clothes, red ants marauded and chiggers hitched a ride in our most sensitive regions. But we had reached that point when nothing mattered other than getting there. Wearily we trudged on.

It took about five hours to reach the summit; a small circle of grass and rock with a stone memorial to Fédon standing at its centre. Grinning from ear to ear, we shook hands and slumped against the stone, out of breath, hearts beating so fiercely they threatened to jump right out of our chests. After a short time Gurry turned and sat facing the memorial to his folk hero. I left him in peace for a while before he caught my eye and nodded. And then off we set again.