"Whoa We're Going to Barbados"

That 1975 song by Typically Tropical has become a bit of a earworm.

I had never heard of it, but Martin, of course, introduced it to me by singing it incessantly until now I can't get it out of my head. 

We find ourselves now ensconced in a hotel that was built and expanded around the time that song was written. It is bright pink. And it has all we could want in a place to rest our heads after a red eye flight, and enough diversions to keep us awake until it is a sensible time to sleep.

And sounds to both lull and distract us. 

Chickens in the ramshackle, touristy village of St. Lawrence Gap behind us, roosters who don't know what time of day it is based on their constant crowing. A pretty sort of brown bird that sounds like a cooing wood pigeon in every balcony.  Rhythmic surf on the beige sand. Dry rustling palm leaves.

We explore, swim, walk, wade, try our hand at shuffleboard, drink tea (served at 4pm with cookies) and rum punch (served on Monday evenings at 6:30pm) - it feels like we have gone back in time to an Agatha Christie mystery set - we star gaze, dine, dance, and then finally, blissfully, drift off to sleep accompanied by a motley collection of songs played by a motely collection of cover bands drifting through the air from indistinct locations in the village.

 

And for your listening pleasure: