The Weekend Australian - Travel - - DESTINATION AFLOAT -

• den­nis-hide­ • be­ • cot­ton­ • dis­cov­ • theul­ti­mate­trav­el­com­

that night’s stop, Union Is­land. To­tal cost, in­clud­ing lunch: $98 each. Cash.

Union was nice, too, a kite-surfer’s par­adise (a bit windy, that is). It’s a ver­i­ta­ble me­trop­o­lis com­pared to Mayreau; it even has an ATM. But again the vibe was pleas­ingly lo­cal, young and old chillax­ing un­der the al­mond tree in the cool of the evening. A steel band prac­tised (badly) as my conch stew took an age to ar­rive at Lambi’s bar.

It was only just light — and still only Wed­nes­day — as we wheeled our cases back on to Jaden Sun for the 7am, 90-minute leg to Be­quia. A lot has been writ­ten about Be­quia and the best ad­jec­tives are ex­hausted. So I’ll just rather pro­saically say it’s great. Don’t miss Princess Mar­garet Beach, where she prob­a­bly took a drink, and where we watched a class of adorable pri­mary school kids hav­ing a swim­ming les­son. And treat your­self to a lob­ster pizza from Mac’s. We stayed at the swish Be­quia Beach Ho­tel, where the bar­be­cue-night band did bravely take on Lady in Red. De­spite that, we stayed a sec­ond night.

Get­ting to our fi­nal stop was al­ways go­ing to be the tricky part. Be­cause our last stop was the mil­lion­aires’ theme park of Mus­tique, where hol­i­day­mak­ers have in­cluded Kate and Wills and Bowie and Jag­ger (who I like to imag­ine singing Danc­ing in the Street to­gether on the karaoke at Basil’s Bar). Mus­tique doesn’t do fer­ries. It does pri­vate jets, maybe the odd he­li­copter char­ter. They have let Jeremy Clark­son on, though, so I fig­ured it was worth a punt.

In the end, I had to throw just shy of $425 in the di­rec­tion of Cap­tain Wayne Good­ing. Dur­ing the rough, hour-long cross­ing in his fish­ing boat, Wayne — a fiftysome­thing white Gre­na­dinian of Scot­tish de­scent — showed us pho­tos of his great­est catches, in­clud­ing a 453kg mar­lin that took him 3½ hours to reel in. Pe­ri­od­i­cally, the en­gine would cut out, at which point Wayne would reach down and yank sea­weed, an in­creas­ing Caribbean scourge, from the pro­pel­ler.

Nights at Mus­tique’s Cot­ton House start at about $800 B&B. It is, as you’d hope for that money, gor­geous. The gen­eral looks of con­fu­sion as we bobbed up via a very un-VIP fish­ing boat were price­less. An­other sight that greeted us was also worth the pre­mium. Be­cause there she was, in her bikini, hunched on a lounger in front of the ho­tel’s beach bar, slurp­ing a pina co­lada and smok­ing a fag. It was princess Kate. No, not that one. I mean, of course, Miss Moss.

I was too scared to talk to her. Al­ways the same prob­lem with pretty girls. I’d pre­pared my “What if I bump into Bowie?” script, but I had noth­ing ready for Mossy. I could have said, by way of an ice-breaker, “You took a plane here? Oh, we just took a lit­tle fish­ing boat.”

I like to think she’d have been im­pressed.

Martin Hem­ming was a guest of The Ul­ti­mate Travel Com­pany.


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