I can almost hear my skin sizzle

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Mmm nice, everyone loves a barbecue.

Just what in the name of the wee man are we doing here. To us a beach should under no circumstances be without drizzle. Preferably it should be directly off the sea as to provide ice sheering sharp relief from any possible sun that has decide to grace us with its presence in case we had forgotten what it looked like. If possible it should also contain at least two of the following - sand (being blown at face level or in sandwiches), hail, sleet, wind (a roaring gust) or donkeys.

None I tell you, not one of these do they have here in this so called Caribbean 'Paradise'. Paradise my arse, my red and sun burned arse that is. So as we sit here on fire, yes literally on fire, no at least fire burns out eventually, this doesn't get colder, ever (of course we could stump up for air con, but hey we're cheap!). So as the crowds descend on this admittedly quite pretty little stretch on tropical coastline in bizarre and somewhat boring attempt to turn their skin all nice and leathery, we're building a shelter to escape it.

What started as a few palm tree fronds planted in the ground to escape the relentless Caribbean sun quickly turned the way of so many of our sand based escapades - it went big, really big.

It grew quickly like a majestic beacon of hope in the otherwise lifeless expanse of sand (not entirely lifeless, nude sunbathers abound, but you'll forgive the metaphor). A towering effigy of green in the blazing heat. Proud, strong, glorious.

Then it fell over.

Not to be deterred we at once set about building it to be better, bigger, more braced against the warm Caribbean wind that seemed determined to destroy what we aimed to create. Almost as if jealous of the fervor and zeal that we showed to escape its incessant, unrelenting heat. Time after time it tried, sending hot gusts (that's one but we're more used to our wind fierce and if possible cold enough to suck the very life from you) of dry air our way. But 'Our Monument to Scottish Beach Life' continued to escape it's nefarious clutches. Holding together, protecting its kin huddled beneath its sun protecting branches. An idol to be worshiped by all those who need its help, its protection, its life.

Ok, it was good and once we tied it to the bikes it finally stood up, but the best bit had to be when, after attracting the attention of varying locals, an old man with dreads down to his knees who spent his time selling coconuts decided he had to buy it. After all who wouldn't want it. Built by craftsmen (and craftswomen) and withstanding the worst the almighty, gigantic evil ball of diabolical hottness in the sky (for that is what we now call it) could throw at it. We had done it, we had built it, now we would sell it.

Then it fell over.

A story came to mind of another hardy, if not that bright, chap who decided to resist the elements upon natures desert by the sea. But this would not happen to us. Oh no, we were proud, we were strong and we would build in our own image a Parthenon for the age.

This would be no White Elephant, no Scottish Parliament, no Millennium Dome, no Liverpool. This be something to be proud of, something to survive the ages. Something children would look at and wonder (oh they would wonder).

It was only after we had finished this round of planning, building, designing, testing, implementing and pineapple eating that we finally noticed the red demon began to creep over our bodies. Gentle at first and then progressing with the fury of a thousand knives scrapping our soft white (oh so white) flesh.

Oops, maybe we should have sat under the shelter we had been so keen to finish. The time had come now we would finally be safe, protected.

Then it fell over.

And so the story goes - don't come to the Caribbean. You'll just be disappointed.

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Photos

It's not Machu Picchu
but it is refreshing to have an archeological site to oneself. Entirely to oneself - there weren't even staff!