In Napoleon's wake - part seventeen

Back in Cape Town - here the pilot boat is arriving -  and a last task before leaving. 

On St. Helena, the British supplied Napoleon's food and drink. These are some of the original accounts.

Napoleon was partial to wine from the the 17^th Century Groot Constantia estate near Cape Town. On his deathbed, he had a sip saying, it's claimed, ‘A drop can't hurt me.' 

I visit the historic vineyard on the slopes of Table Mountain. As so often on this trip, I'm fortunate to be largely on my own.

The honeyed Grand Constance wine Napoleon appreciated is late-harvested from Muscat de Frontignac grapes. Wine Enthusiast Magazine describes it as a 'sweet, nutty dessert wine.' Apparently, Jane Austin recommended it for a broken heart and Baudelaire, in Fleurs du Mal, said only a lover's kiss exceeded it in heavenly sweetness. 

I don't particularly enjoy sweet wines, but the scent is delightful.

I - with reservations - remember the great tyrant, but more important, toast the fantastical island of St. Helena.

Salut! Cheers!

______________________

Bruce takes me to dinner and airport. How often do we find a person, let alone three at once, with whom we immediately have a bond? And then, even as it begins, regret that the relationship will be difficult to maintain.

Megan, Brenda and Bruce, we may not meet again, but I treasure your friendship. Beetroot to you all (and, dear reader, you had to be there)!

In Napoleon's wake - part sixteen

The RMS is back. A notice outside the shipping agency downplays the seas she faced while returning.

Luggage has already been transferred to the ship, so an easy stroll past the mule yard to the water.

Sadly, no mules or donkeys. I wonder how my friend Big Headed Barger is doing?

I stop to chat with St. Helena's Chief of Police Peter Coll, Keith, Cilia and Simon.

The tender waits.

Luggage is handed aboard.

Bruce (on the left) hopes to periodically return and continue management training on the island. 

Shortly after boarding - only fifty-four passengers - the RMS signals departure with a long, mournful sounding of the ship's horn. 'My St. Helena Island,' in the country style so popular with Saints, plays on the speakers. 

I succumb to another picture as Jamestown slips to stern.

The western coastline is dappled with elusive spring sunshine. I can see where I had some of my most memorable walks.

St. Helena is a place where things always happened slowly. Now, disquiet as Saints await the assault and its uncertain consequences. Many are skeptical about an airport. If it comes, there may be modest improvement in a tiny economy. For medical emergencies, undoubtedly a lifesaver. However, this means abrupt change, societal upheaval that elsewhere happens over decades, even centuries. 

Currently, the few visitors make a real effort to get here. That’s much of the appeal. Solitude, lack of commercialism and a genuine interest in travellers makes St. Helena very special. With an airport, it becomes another place on a mass tourism ‘bucket list.’ I will not be on an airplane to Jamestown. 

For a little over three hours, I watch with the effort for a sight one will never see again. The island becomes less and less distinct, obscured by mist and distance, dipping beneath the swell.

A sudden toss of the ship; I regain balance, look back and St. Helena has merged with sea and cloud and has gone. We are alone in the South Atlantic. 

In Napoleon's wake - part fifteen

Early morning. Philip Yon stands at the Wellington House front door. Today, he may go fishing.

On Main Street, our neighbour's dog and cat wait for something to happen.

Okay, so I like cats!

In first light, the church and nearby trees are haunt to delightful Fairy Terns, which swoop and hover. On the island, they’re called Fairy Tarns.

Now's my chance to climb Jacob's Ladder.

Bar isolation and history, Jamestown's most famous attraction is Jacob's Ladder (which you may have noticed in my September 13 posting). It was built in the 19^th Century to supply the fort at the top of Ladder Hill. The 183 metre or 600 foot stairway is a 699 step climb. The record is five minutes and eleven seconds.

Yesterday, skipping DOWN the Ladder was a schoolboy.

Ensuring no one's around to laugh or, worse, sympathize, and pausing only, of course, for 'photo opportunities,’ I ascend. When praying that, surely, I'm at least three-quarters there, I'm appalled to find it's only halfway. 

Halfway and this is the view looking down.

Halfway and the incline is becoming steeper. 

To be honest - perhaps it's the thin air - I lose track of time. I think I'm at the top in about sixteen  minutes (with stops!).

Coming down is an assault on the knees. Later, a Saint demonstrates the traditional method, first used by British soldiers to quickly get to town. Not for me.

There's an old island proverb: “You break your heart going up and your neck coming down.”

___________________

The RMS will soon return and I haven't tasted St. Helena coffee. Secluded in these hills is said to be some of the finest - and certainly among the most expensive - coffee in the world. When I checked before the trip, the price was $89 (U.S.) a pound or 0.45 kg.

The bean, medium roasted, has - say those who know - 'a high lively acidity, with good balance and body. The coffee has a superb fragrant bouquet with no off flavours and pleasant floral fruity hints of citrus and caramel strongly hinting of its Yemeni origins.'

Bizarrely, about to leave, I still haven’t sipped it. No place in Jamestown currently offers a cup of St. Helena coffee. Subject to Canadian customs, I will report to you on my return home.

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Late afternoon. Bruce and Brenda carouse outside the pub next to the shoe shop, part of the Solomon empire.

I virtuously take a walk on the cliffs just outside town. This is looking past the rockfall netting to the wharf steps where I - and roughly Napoleon - landed.

The stretch of coast Napoleon would have seen as his ship anchored.

Hikers return to town. You can see the Ladder on the opposite side of the valley.

A view with castle and church that, but for cars, hasn't changed all that much.

Beyond the evening fisherman, nothing but water until South America.

In Napoleon's wake - part fourteen

This is today's second entry. On St. Helena, people I don't know phone and invite me for a meal. Or start chatting in the street and offer a cup of tea. The Bishop of St. Helena does just that and we pass an hour in the cafe overlooking the castle gardens, residence of a very comfortable cat.

In the same place, I also talk with the Attorney General (remember, the population is tiny).

Here are Cliff, Delia and Goosey, their twenty year old blind goose. 

Cliff is Canadian, living on the island since 1967, and Delia is a Saint. They ask me to their home for lunch. We eat looking out on the view you can see below.

Val (holding an Arum Lilly, the island's 'national' flower) spots a tourist on a walk. She invites me for tea in Jamestown. 

Some delightful, talkative ladies at a small (and I do mean small) store. Although one may look a little severe, she's of the island generation when posing was serious stuff. Anyway, the store owner, Beverley, insists on giving me freshly picked fruit to take back to the hotel.

Here's a large part of her store.

Rodney, who I meet quite by chance, spends time one evening telling me about island history.

'Buffalo' (his real first name is Raymond) tells me about island nicknames. His comes from a childhood habit of charging around with head down. Others include Piece-of-Cake and Fishcake. I quite like ‘Bite the dog,’ but haven't had a clear explanation.

Developed in isolation, island speech is also intriguing, if often incomprehensible. Here are some  easier sayings: ‘Who you is?’ (What’s your name?) ‘Where’s he done gorn? (Where’s he gone?) ‘Speak tidy!’ (Speak properly)

This is ‘Booby Goose,’ well known publican and entertainer. I have his idiosyncratic, homemade CD. Tracks include ‘Stoned at the Jukebox,’ ‘The Twist’ and ‘South African Tune.’

As do many Saints, Deborah spent years working off the island. Her features mix the backgrounds - European, black and white African, Chinese, Malay - that make up islanders.

Richard and Sylvia, another couple who've made me feel so welcome.

After the voyage and a few days on the island, I now walk up Main Street, recognizing a fair number of people who then stop to talk. Not because they feel obliged, but because they want to. 

I've learned that you wave to every oncoming car and, better still, call out 'hello' as you draw near. Parked and looking at the scenery, a passing driver brakes and asks if I'm all right. Mind you, given my car’s angle (and this isn't the worst, by far), that’s perhaps understandable ...

In Napoleon's wake - part thirteen

St. Helena may have a population of 4,000 and only be ten kilometres (six miles) by seventeen (ten), but the British governor doesn't lack perquisites. Plantation House (1792) has housed scads of His Excellencies with plumes and epaulettes and swords. Saints expect their governors to still occasionally look the role.

The current governor seems to have learned the governor trade by being deputy governor in Anguilla and also Bermuda. To be fair, his full diplomatic c.v. is pretty impressive.

His current living quarters are chockablock with memorabilia from centuries of rule. There's a fulltime staff of eight, including parlour and chamber maids.

However, I rather like the front entrance with crisp (potato chip) packages, a novel, tennis balls and dog lead.

Arguably more important than the governor, at least for disrespectful Canadians, is the island's most famous living resident. Jonathan the Giant Tortoise features on a coin. I think this is Jonathan, but even a local historian, here when I am, isn't sure. 

Simon, having got over Napoleon's death, is taking a picture of the governor's house, so I include him for perspective.

Jonathan may be closing on two hundred. He was brought to St. Helena in 1882, when already no spring tortoise, and they're busy planning for his funeral. The obituary has been drafted. Lonesome George's recent death in the Galapagos has rather rattled Jonathan lovers.

The late English writer, Gavin Young, perhaps unkindly described Jonathan as looking ‘like a large boulder.’ Actually, now that he’s in his favourite puddle, he - if it is him - does rather look like a boulder.

Less celebrated tortoises, including one named Speedy, also share the governor's grounds. They seem to like the area near his tennis court.

Tortoises are a useful segue into donkeys. I've always been rather partial to donkeys. Mind you, I've never had to care for one. Anyway, in the old days, St. Helena had lots. Now just a few.

On a misty, no, rainy morning (weather here changes quickly and the rain is warm), I'm helping to walk the donkeys. This is great fun. The little one is Basil.

Mine is Big Headed Barger or Bargy for short. He isn't particularly keen on being photographed, but so far hasn't tried to kick, so he must like me.