Going solo ...but not for long
Hunter Davies was dreading his first holiday after losing his wife – but he found solace and friendships on a Caribbean odyssey
IARRIVED at the Botanical Gardens in Kingstown, St Vincent, just as a coachload of tourists was disgorging. I found myself going through the entrance gate with them, and being herded by a guide holding high a board with his number on.
I realised I had not paid, but hey, this guide was clearly keen for me to be in his party, so I meekly followed him through the gardens. ‘This tree was planted by Prince Edward,’ he trilled. ‘And Sophie was with him! Prince Edward, son of Queen Elizabeth!’
Nobody was remotely impressed.
‘Prince Edward was actuallyy here!’ he repeated. He was s looked at blankly.
It was then that I realised I hadd joined a party of Dutch tourists. s. I feared one of them might address me in Dutch, and discover I was a interloper. When we came to the talking parrots – none of whom would talk – I quietly separated myself.
It had been an informative guided tour, and I’d got into the gardens for free – which would have appalled my wife. She would never have done such an awful thing, or allowed me to do so. But she was not with me. She had died just five weeks earlier. This was my first trip abroad as a widower.
I had dreaded going on my own, but I did find some minor advantages, the best of which is being able to say yes to diversions and distractions without having to worry about another person.
I had deliberately arranged to stay in four different places, so I would always be moving on, which is another thing my wife never liked. I started at Cobblers Cove in Barbados, where my wife and I had first stayed in 1986 for my 50th birthday, returning every January from then on.
But I was going much later in the year than normal, so none of my regular holiday chums would be there, which was a worry.
The manager, Will, upgraded me to a posh suite, Camelot, in honour of my 30 years, and I found myself next door to a nice American couple, Stuart and Barbara – very Ivy League, very cultured.
For Stuart’s 65th birthday celebrations, nine of his friends were flying in from Florida, first-class, staying for a week, all paid for by him.
They invited me to a cocktail party on the arrival of their friends and, of course, I said yes. My wife would have refused, not liking such things, and anyway, how could I push myself into a private party as a total stranger?
I did – and also got myself invited to Stuart’s birthday celebration dinner in the evening, in a special part of the hotel restaurant. I even made a speech.
I described how we had been through a lot, me and Stuart, had our ups and downs (well, our suites were upstairs); how we had got to know each other so well in the, let me see, it must be 22, no perhaps 24 hours since we first met… That did get a laugh.
It would have been amusing to have described it all afterwards to my wife, but on the other hand, I would never have gone, if she had been with me. Even I could not have abandoned her for 24 hours to eat and drink with 11 Americans I had never met in my life.
I then moved on to Bequia in the Grenadines, my favourite island in all the Caribbean, and stayed at the Bequia Beach Hotel. There I agreed to give a public talk, all proceeds to charity, about my exciting life as a writer. ‘You what?’ My wife would have said. ‘Who wants to hear about your boring life?’
I was introduced by Bengt, the owner of the hotel, and also Sir James Mitchell, a former prime minister of St Vincent and the Grenadines, who remarked to the audience that all three of us had lost our wives in the past year. Statistically, women live longer than men and, as a generalisation, wives are younger than their husbands, so it was an unusual coincidence.
Yet the three of us were from different lands and cultures – Bengt is from Sweden, James from the West Indies and I’m British. Oh, the bonding we three chaps were able to do afterwards over dinner.
But mainly during my three weeks away on my own I was with women. I better rephrase that or my children will be appalled.
I mean that every night except
once, when I ate alone, I had companions for dinner, almost all of them female.
Really, it just happened, honestly. I seemed to meet so many women and when they heard I was alone, they invited me to join them.
DURING each day, I was quite happy to potter around on my own, swim on my own, make l unch for myself i n my room, drink rum punches on my own, all surprisingly easy, but the thought of an evening meal on my own, without my wife to chat to, that did rather hang over me.
In Bequia, I stayed in two places, later moving across the island to Kingsville Apart- ments in Lower Bay, which my wife always refused to even inspect, as she thought they looked so awful.
While there I twice had dinner with four women, at Keegan’s and at Fernando’s Hideaway, which is known as Nando’s.
They put me at the head of the table, and listened rapt to my stories – so I persuaded myself. The drink did help.
I finished my trip at St Vincent, (the main island of the Grenadines), my first visit there for 20 years. I had gone there with my wife and we had disliked Kingstown, with its horrible warehouses blocking the harbour views.
This time I stayed at Grenadine House, looking over the town, a relatively new conversion of an old colonial mansion dating from the 18th Century. It was very attractive, with good food and friendly staff.
I made friends there with Lynn, a female American lawyer on her own, chilling out after 21 days’ yachting.
I went with her one afternoon to the cathedral, which I had missed on my earlier visit.
It meant I had someone to read out all the gravestones to. We stopped in front of one plaque to a ‘Peter Hill, Esquire’, who died in St Vincent aged 38 in 1828. ‘A most accomplished gentleman,’ the epitaph read, ‘distinguished in every social and domestic relationship.’
Probably a swine, observed my new lady friend.
‘With polished manners and amiable deportment,’ so the epitaph continued.
I wondered to Lynn if it meant he was camp.
Yes, it was silly – but while it is fairly easy, if you work at it, to pick up dining companions for the evening, wandering around on your own all day does get a bit boring. It is good to have someone to chat to.
After 55 years of marriage, I did find myself talking to myself – in my head.
Trips abroad do help. But next time I think I might need a companion…