Good Morning!
Wednesday. I awake and throw back the curtains. It’s 3am. It’s dark. How long does one’s body clock take to fix? Today is a “pool day” which means sitting here waiting for some sort of movement from the corpse in the bed next to me. 6am arrives, I’m way too bored already. I travelled to Bermuda with walking shoes, walking shorts, walking socks, walking shirts. We are going walking baby! I check the map. Horseshoe Bay is too far away to walk for your average mortal. That’s because your average mortal is WEAK!
My calves are throbbing in anticipation of action. 6.30am we are out out. 6.35am we are back back. Forgot my bloody headphones!
Now armed with 'Kylie Minogues greatest hits' to spur me on, I hit the road. The tarmac trembled in fear beneath my feet. Unsurprisingly I was one of very few athletes out at this time of the day. They were missing out. The sun had not yet made it over the horizon. The noisy bastard frogs had finally gone to bed. It’s a fab time to be out. 30 mins in and someone somewhere had released the cruisers. Middle aged American women armed to the teeth with super strength Lycra and the kind of cheerful disposition that will get them punched in the face one day very soon. There are also a few locals. It’s probably 19C at this time of day. The locals are the ones in woolly hats and winter coats. Honestly, does smoking weed lower your resistance to cold, because that would go some way to explaining it. Apart from the fact ITS NOT COLD!
The main part of my route is down a disused railway line. This path cuts through the Bermudan tropical paradise taking in some of the quaintest landmarks: Abandoned quarries; derelict factory units; countless chickens roaming free and also multiple groups of local gentlemen sat on collapsable deck chairs from the 70s, surrounded by clouds of the wackiest backy I’ve ever had the joy to inhale. In one such encounter I was apparently caught inhaling when I should have just been walking… “Enjoy the breeze!” the guy called out as I passed… I just said “Yeah Man”. Surely there is more to the Rastafari religion than this, but for a second I was an all in convert. I’ve never had that experience walking past those women trying to hand out copies of The Watchtower. I can’t help thinking the great Lord Jehovah is missing a trick with his marketing!
After an hour or so of walking I’m painfully aware the beach I seek is on my left. As is a fecking big hill. My route according to Google maps is along the aptly named Scenic Heights Pass. The last time I saw a road this steep it had a bloody ski lift! Fortunately, I like to imagine I’m a mountaineer. I’d like to have imagined that walking up here in the now baking early morning sun wasn’t making the sweat run down my hairy back into my arse crack. Wow! Well that’s strangely refreshing!
I summit the peak and strolled down the other side of the hill to a brief area of tropical woodland and yet another sweeping beach. On this occasion it has been defiled by approximately 3000 sun beds, guarded by the biggest life guards I’ve ever seen. “Mornin!” They said in unison in broad Bermudan accents. It’s now I confess I’m really developing a problem that may ultimately get me killed.
Everytime someone says “Morning” to me I feel a tremendous urge to reply in the same accent. It perhaps wouldn’t be so bad if they could mistake me for a local. There are many creeds and colours here. But none of them are 100% stereotypically white faced British tourist as me. I may as well have a knotted hanky on my head. Whilst anyone would be forgiven a “Yeah man” whilst under the influence of 110% pure ganja cloud. If I keep accidentally mimicking locals I am going to die, and honestly. I wouldn’t argue. I’m just a daft old racist clearly. On this occasion I cover my new found accent with a faux cough and add a very British cheery wave.
I spend just about long enough on the beach to take some photos of how terribly beach like it is, and I exit up a different path back to the road.
With the sun now beating down, I take shelter in a construction I now believe to have been a bus stop. At the time, I was just in need of a moments respite from the heat of the day. An elderly local lady very politely said “Good Mornin’” to me. I 100% mimicked her inflection and immediately wanted to kill myself. Bermuda has made me a racist pig. In my haste to escape the situation, rather than continue my walk back up a mountain in the boiling sun, I got on the first bus that arrived. What can I say… it was purely accidental.
The bus was packed with people going to work in suits and smart dresses. They all looked cool and Bermudan. I looked like a freshly plucked fat brummie turkey, red faced and sweaty. I’m guessing they were surprised that an athlete of my standing would be on a bus. I would have tried to explain it was a simple accident. But the mere urge to do an accent would have seen me punched in the face repeatedly.
I maintained my silence until the bus got into Hamilton. Capital of Bermuda and home to the best Full English breakfast this side of the Atlantic. My darling wife had agreed to meet me here. Unfortunately, she arrived too late for breakfast. You snooze you lose bitch!
A lunch time chillax turned into an early afternoon nap. Relaxing is bloody hard work! It’s day 3 of the holiday and I think we’ve reached the point where we need to go into the infinity pool just to take selfies and send them back to the folks at home who may have forgotten what jealousy really feels like.
I single handedly form the scouting party for our expedition to the pool. Is it too cold, is it full of Americans, is it full of kids? All of which are potential deal breakers for your average miserable retired old git from Wolverhampton. The pool is warmish and thankfully the yank count is low. There are a group of young girls in the pool having what I assume is a good time. The hellish screaming may indicate otherwise had I not witnessed this feral behaviour before.
I disrobe and enter the water in my Tommy Hilfiger designer (outlet) swim shorts. My beer belly provides excellent buoyancy. This is balanced nicely by my man boob flotation devices. I may have jumped in the deep end, but there’s no way I’m drowning! The mere act of a single ‘middle aged male’ entering the pool immediately sets off the paedo alarm in the girls heads and they exit hurriedly. Am I shocked, offended and saddened by the state of society that has placed the negative stereotypes in these young girls minds… naaaahhhhh, bitches got out of my pool. Job done!
I signal the all clear to the little lady. The pool is OURS!
We spend the next hour or so critiquing the limited effectiveness of the infinity illusion. Eventually, I discovered the hot tub. I don’t know if you’ve ever experienced one. It’s like a tub of water that is hot. You’d think that wouldn’t be a surprise to anyone. I was surprised, and may I add … delighted. Eventually, when my fingers and testicles achieved the same level of wrinkling I left the bubbling cauldron of joy and headed to the inadequate comfort of a dry towel.
My darling wife, fearing the sub zero temperatures outside the hot tub stayed on. She was immediately pounced upon by two 80 year olds who assumed because of her broad Wolvo accent she was almost certainly Canadian. The guy was travelling with his own water thermometer and despite the hot tub quite successfully boiling some spuds for the restaurant, insisted that they should turn the temperature up. I suspect that he was so old that his blood no longer circulated. They are staying here for a month apparently! Greedy bloody bastard Canadians…
We made our excuses and left. The weather forecast was for rain this evening. It’s nearly 7pm as I type this. The sun is shining, the hammock outside our room is swaying very slightly in the breeze. There will be a low of 18C overnight. I’m guessing it’s something similar back in Blighty, right?
