After a rather unhappy Christmas ’07 and a difficult 2008 including the loss of both of my remaining Grandparents, my family and I resolved that December 25th 2008 would mark a change in tradition and departure from the norm. Following some extensive research and several location visits I persuaded my Mother and Brother that the Caribbean was the only place to spend the festive season. We booked our flights and ten days in a beach house in St Lawrence Gap, Barbados.
It’s my eighth visit to the island and every time I leave I want to come back as soon as possible, (so much so that I’ve already booked a return flight for March). It has everything you could want; great food, friendly locals, beautiful views, glorious sunshine pretty much all year round and above all it’s fun. Not just any kind of fun but the non-stop dancing, Champagne quaffing, midnight skinny dipping, sleep all day in the sunshine, aspiring lower middle kind of fun that makes Barbados to me what Hawaii was to Flanagan.
There’s no doubting the island’s capability as a great vacation destination but never having experienced anything other than a very traditional English Christmas the jury was still out on whether it would make a great ‘holiday’ location. Would Christmas eve really be Christmas eve if it were spent crunking to the beats of a steel band, rather than staring in awe at the fat bird downing Stellas on the fruttie at my parent’s local? Could the Caribbean sun really compete with the fun, frolics, car accidents, revelations of infidelity, domestic arguments and trips to casualty of Christmas’ gone by? We endeavored to find out.
Sadly the journey to this island paradise wasn’t quite the utopian voyage one might have hoped for. We spent a sleepless night in an overpriced Best Western that was playing host to its local bus company’s office party. The BA club queue at Gatwick was as rowdy as Walmart on black Friday and getting through security was a cluster fuck of New Look beachwear and knock off ‘Luis Vitton’ luggage on a scale only previously only seen the last time the Sun newspaper ran its ‘take your family on holiday for a fiver’ promotion.
Discontent and disheveled we headed straight to the gate where a lovely lady let us pre-board on account of my Mother having broken her toe on her suitcase as we rushed to escape the Western that morning.
A surprisingly short eight hours later we landed, picked up the car and headed straight to the beach house - a beautiful place and the only private residence with access to its stretch of sand. We settled in and hung out our stockings in readiness for the big day itself.
Christmas eve was a rum-fuelled, fun-filled evening at popular night spot the ‘Reggae Lounge’ so much so that the following morning saw my brother and I crawling onto the terrace of our beach house - stockings in tow.
Bikini clad and donning the size of sun glasses usually the reserve of those with a white stick and golden retriever we basked in the sunshine and over breakfast and champagne we raced our way through the mountains of wrapping paper. Several pairs of socks, a Smythson passport holder and numerous paperbacks later we all went for a mid morning dip in the sea, still trying to stave off a hideous hangover my brother and I, Champagne bottles and chocolate money in tow.
It was blissful and set the laid back tone for the rest of the day, we slumbered on the terrace before dressing for a late lunch and one of my favourite restaurants on the island, paddled before pudding then sated and a little sun kissed wandered back to the beach house.
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