So I went down to the bar.  The Million Dollar Bar, so called because the plot value if you level it, is worth so much more.  But as of today, it is 3 massive electrical cable drums, wooden and painted by a local patron and boat builder, a wooden hatch from which drinks can be purchased, a cantankerous patron and a spectacular view of the bay.

I like to drink beer!  This is not an AA introduction, although according to most anal websites regarding your health, it should be.  I have spent many an hour drinking the coldest, and very cheap, beer at Kanti Awa (means beside the water).  I have become one of the premier clients!

My relationship with the owner has been difficult. In his eyes, I stole his fiancée!  She would not fully agree but that’s up to them to sort out.  Let’s just say buying beer was not always smooth.  His English is poor, he sort of slurs anyway in either Dutch, Papiamento or English so talking has never been smooth sailing.  But over time our relationship has varied between him threatening to get me deported, warning Americans that I am English and a bad man, to giving me free beers.

Anyway, tonight I met my girlfriend and her Dad at the bar. We caught up since yesterday – she works and I don’t.  So trying to impress her that my day consisted of cleaning/sorting out the contents of my fridge and Skyping with my Mum was an uphill struggle!  She had been teaching kids all day so I guess I was on a loser and I had earlier posted my discovery of 7 pots of mustard so that was not a deal breaker.

Then along came an American couple, 7 marriages or divorces between them, who spend time on the island when not living in Florida.  Nice enough people, a bit Trumpy perhaps, but they were happy for me to decline the English verb of “Bollocks” and its variation when used with “Dogs”.  Interestingly, I think they found me to be quite fun/weird/strange because I was English.  They had had an English friend who was a “hoot” and apparently I was too!

The crowd changed, I was joined by a friend, my girlfriend left (and some money behind the bar), the Trumpys left and soon it became a small tight knit group.

The Patron, wearing his Brazil football shirt, looking like an ancient overweight Ronaldo, his skinny side kick Yopi the boatbuilder, Kleto, the old guy living beneath the poverty line who we always buy beers for (he’s in his 80’s and just sits there and gets free beers – my role model for later) and a Venezuelan guy.

The beer hatch is closed, the Patron is customer side, Kleto has a beer sitting quietly in the corner, Yopi is with his cat – the most bar aware and tranquil cat ever and the Venezuelan who is playing Latino music from his phone on a Bluetooth speaker.

With my most limited command of language, at my request we started to play Maña, a Mexican rock band, the sound from the speaker was clear, loud and full of bass, the wind was from behind us and so it carried across the promenade.

Tourists, locals out late exercising in the cool, passed by looking at this odd group of not so young men with good music.  The metal chain was in place keeping them out, the beer hatch was closed but we were happy as Patron would pop through the side gate and bring refills.

Three out of four of us communicated with others in Papiamento or Spanish. Me, largely just looking at the yachts trembling on their moorings,  in the declining breeze, watching the incoming planes beaming on their way across the bay to the airport.  It was such a beautiful movie to watch, with a great soundtrack and friends/acquaintances sharing a cold beer.

AND there was Romance.  A young couple sat across the road, on the steps leading to a jetty.  They were close, arms around each other, her long dark hair reaching to her waist and then ….

She got up, starting waving her arms around, was cajoled into sitting down again, next to him but not close.  I urged the Venezuelan to play more romantic music, to narrow the distance of our young lovers sitting looking over the bay.

But then a crisis!  I ran out of cigarettes, my bladder was bursting – the patron had locked the toilet and the lovers were sitting by the sea where I pee!

So who knows?  I am a romantic at heart so I believe that they lived happily ever after! I got home and made it to the toilet on time – surely a good omen?  So they must have made up (and maybe made out).

But in between all these busy moments, there was that time, dressed in shorts, t-shirts and flip flops, standing by the sea, with good friends, on a beautiful bay, beer in hand, just breathing and living.  I think we all communicated with something or someone.

I have been thinking about writing this for ages. Never quite had it in my mind, still not sure.  Even the title has defeated me.  I was trying to find an appropriate version of Driving Miss Daisy, to include Sara the Dog or just to include an example of the driving habits on the island.

But let’s go with it!

I learnt to drive in England, have driven on either side of the road, officially or not, in many countries.  The last, being Germany, where I was encouraged to do a Meatloaf – drive like a Bat out of Hell on the Autobahns.  Amusingly the last day I drove in Germany in my own car, I got a speeding ticket!

Anyway, this is mainly about driving on a rock in the Caribbean.  So it should be chilled and no worries?  That is probably mainly true but it needs a little background.

We have a set of driving regulations, I believe not updated, written around 1954.  So such things as seat belts, drink driving, pedestrian crossings don’t actually appear. Also we have no annual car inspection or road worthiness tests.  So pretty lawless with any old thing that can move in front of you, coming at you etc which tends to go against the tranquil or trankilo idea.

So starting with the vehicles.  Never trust brake lights or indicators.  If they have them, not just rusted holes in the rear, they may not work and most people indicate, if at all, as they are going around the corner. Of course, driving at night may mean you can’t see the vehicle ahead of you as they have no reflectors or indicators to see where it may be going. On an old diesel, the exhaust cloud helps with their stealth mode.

Oh yeah!  The vehicles coming at you may be cheap imports from Asia with Right Hand Drive and non corrected headlights so you are blinded.  Their lights are not focused on the kerb but straight in your eyes.  And they are often fitted with fog lights ( we don’t get fog) which are really good at picking out pot holes.  Sadly they are looking in your direction and are completely unfocused.  So my night vision is deteriorating very quickly, not just through age and alcohol but by being burnt out.

I mentioned alcohol, so let’s go with that.  I understand the law says you shouldn’t drive if sick or too tired.  Nothing wrong with a few beers then?  I understand a previous Police Chief stated that drunk drivers were fine as they drove so slow and often just coasted into the ditch.  Another one is that the drunks drive straight, the sober ones weave to avoid the potholes.

There is a recent crackdown on drink driving; we are not sure how legal this is as the law does not preclude it.  But the results are quite reasonable.  You are allowed to continue if deemed capable enough, asked to leave your car or, in extremis, taken for a free night at the police station.  The last case must be difficult to reach.  I was at a bar one night when a car lurched into the car park, stalled to a stop, door opened and the driver fell out. After a while he got to his feet, approached the bar and bought 2 beers.  He drank one and took the other to his car.  With some difficulty, he reversed out and off.  All perfectly legal as long he was not running a temperature.

So this all sounds like mayhem! But mostly the trankilo element rules.  The speed limit in town is 40 kph and a lot of locals keep well below it. Well below it!  But no one, apart from recent immigrants and those who have not learnt to chill, are happy to potter along behind.  I think I have overtaken a car less than 5 times in almost 5 years and the same for being overtaken.

People blow their horns a lot.  Not like the French or Italians!  Just to say hello or to allow a car to pull out of a side road on to the main road in front of you.  The politeness is amazing, people say thank you, let you out, wait..They are a true inspiration.

But times may be changing.  Today I stopped to let a car out of a side road from the left.  There was a gap and then a lot of oncoming traffic so he had a chance if I waited.  The car behind me blew their horn, not a short thank you peep but a long angry blast.  It seemed like a Caucasian women.  I felt like stopping and asking her what her problem was.  But I took the Bonairean approach, I drove at 20 kph all the way in to town. She needed to learn to relax so I gave her some time to do so.

But this is a majority view.  We have young tearaways and complete a**holes too.  I think our accident rate is pretty high.  Maybe the death rate per accident is also high, due to a lack of seatbelts, airbags, structural integrity etc.  I don’t feel over safe at night driving, not due to my alcohol intake or my night vision but there are bicycles, goats, dogs donkeys, drunks out there and not well illuminated or controlled.

I heard yesterday about a speed trap set up by the Police.  This together with the 2 or 3 alcohol checks in the last months indicates a more controlled future.  This will be sad and I don’t expect many to understand.

There is a joy living a life on a tropical island where people wave and peep, don’t worry about form filling, too much bureaucracy, a laissez faire attitude to at least one aspect of life.  We cannot have vehicle inspections as 50% of cars would be illegal.  The poorer would never be able to import the parts to bring their cars to standard or import a replacement. So I vote for the current status which is imperfect but sociable.

And I thank God or whoever, I don’t live and drive on the Dominican Republic – did that and just survived.

Just a taste of driving here, I could write more and have obviously left some examples out.  But those who know can always leave a comment.

I am sitting with my last bottle of French Burgundy – sadly some of my friends recently visited, complained about the lack of my wine stocks, as they emptied the reserves, bottle by bottle!  I should note that French Burgundy, for me, is now an extravagance not a way life as it was.

But that is not the problem, rather the inspiration. Tonight’s dinner was French Onion Soup, which was a new adventure: both risky and interesting.  The interest was that I had never made it before, the risk – it is one of partner’s favourite dishes!  To do it badly, would be to fail myself and worse, fail in my eyes in front of my partner.  But I think, I carried it off!  So I am feeling content and mellow (see Burgundy), also reflective.  Maybe a little more loved?

I am currently very happily hosting some old friends, who I haven’t seen for nearly 20 years.  They seem just the same and it is almost like yesterday that we were together.  For me, perhaps better than before but then I used to work!  Now, I am not so prepossessed, less angst and more time to enjoy things in life.

In a couple of days, these friends end their holiday with me and then just two days later, I leave the island for two weeks! So it is amazing for me (!) that I can spend half a day cooking Onion Soup rather than having worries about leaving in five days!  The Old Me would be fretting so much more.

The Old Me, (I am so much younger now –  mentally) would be so worried about this trip, catching planes, etc…  I share a lot with him, but I can feel my stress levels are a lot lower. I am resigned to missing my connecting flight and will deal with it at the time.  OK, I have tested 3 pairs of jeans today – 2 fit!   Maybe a little early, but I haven’t worn long trousers very often here.

So where is the reluctance?  I love my life, the tempo, the place, the people, my dawg. To exchange that for getting in a metal tube, possibly full of screaming children, dumping me in a centre for stressed out people (an international airport), navigate my way through to the country of my birth, probably to be met with an arrogant son of a beach (was that right?) asking me what nationality passport I carry (it happened last time!).  I used to love travelling by plane, now I fear it.

Perhaps, I used to travel as a break from an intensive work regime and was excited about the break.  Now, I love where I live and the contents of my daily life. So I don’t want to leave it!

But, but but!  What will I gain?  I will see my Mum, just back from a Cruise, complaining of bags under her eyes, from a good night life, at the age of 92 young!  I will see one of my brothers and his partner before they take a big break.  A brother, who I always admired but was rather separate from my life. Thankfully we are closer these days. [My older brother, should he read this, was always there for me and supported me so well.  It’s just nice bonding with the other one!]

This has been chronological in my itinerary: I will of course see my kids, my darling daughter and my very cool son.   And my Grandson, Owen – amazing kid on Skype, is he real?  And my kids’ partners – wow! I am so lucky they made such good choices!

I will get to drink English beer, eat some very good food of different styles (England does great food these days!!), my partner will join me and I hope to excite her about the newer London. I will meet old work colleagues from the 1970s (not zombies) and I will travel to see my dear friends in Frankfurt, where I spent almost 20 years.

I guess it is the inertia, to gain momentum to move. To pack, to empty the fridge and fill the rubbish bin.  To arrange a dog host etc.  Once I move past these, not forgetting the sad farewell to my best friend at the airport, I will endure my encapsulated transit and then begin the adventure of my family and distant (faraway) friends.

I guess, I will love my time with my family, I will return a much happier person for having made the trip. But I feel no island fever, I love my island!  BUT, I can already imagine the hugs and the pulls on my heart-strings as I meet and leave my family and friends.

Perhaps, I am frightened of the emotion that my trip will involve?  That is something, I can do little to prepare for.  Except pack extra hankies!

So sorry family and friends, if I have a soggy hankie!

But I’m leaving on a jet plane …….

I was looking back and thinking the other day. I was pondering how I came to be living on Bonaire. How an Englishman, working in Germany, ends up on a Dutch owned, Papiamentu speaking rock?

I guess it started in 1999, before I even visited the island. It was a holiday in Mexico that decided I want to qualify in Scuba Diving, having seen so many beautiful fish on a try dive. I can still remember the colours today – the yellow, golds, reds and blues all whilst I was embraced in the clear, warm waters of the Caribbean. I was also just prompted by a friend’s FB posting in remembering my discovery of real Tequila, not the s**t that I have drunk in Europe. God it was wonderful.

On my return from holiday, I decided to do some research on where to learn to dive. This was early internet days, I’m not sure I used it much as there wasn’t so much content. So I resorted to paper and ordered a Dive magazine; one of the issues had a review of the best places to dive. Of course, Bonaire was #1 for Shore Diving. I had already rejected the German way of doing the exercises and theory in a chlorine pool in the winter and a shorter course in the sea later. The smell of changing rooms is as bad as a cheap Tequila!

So the following year, a holiday with my son was organised and we all certified as divers. A couple of years later, my daughter and her, then, boyfriend joined but didn’t certify as divers due to sinus issues. Over the years, diving holidays also happened in Thailand and Fiji. I wasn’t having a closed relationship with Bonaire, in fact I travelled to lots of other places, not all of them on the beach. I was happy to holiday anyway, exploring new venues as there was so much to see. I slept around!

Around 10 years before my planned retirement, discussions came up with my, then, German wife. [I was just looking at the last sentence as it seemed to read she changed nationality rather spousal status!]. She would prefer to live in England and I, rather stay in Germany. So that didn’t work and so we looked at an atlas. Of course, we started looking round the Mediterranean. Spain was out – too many foreigners, France would be difficult – the Côte d’Azur too crowded and expensive, Dordogne full of Brits, Italy – lovely country but I think the Italians need to chillax! We seemed to have overlooked Portugal and Greece, or I can’t remember the justifications!

The key was to be able to fly home, within 24-36 hours, in an emergency, so that ruled out Australia and New Zealand. Also Fiji went due to the lack of direct flights, always to having to change somewhere like Australia (see above) or South Korea.

I suggested a large bush plot in Namibia but they were going a bit Mugabe at the time. So Bonaire which had always provided a calm and easy life style, with 5-6 overnight flights per week to Amsterdam was a strong option.

In 2006, having done lots of research, this time on the Internet, we had a good idea of housing, taxation, limitations on shopping – just one main, half empty supermarket, a holiday/shopping trip was planned. In case we found a house, we had already agreed how to borrow money, freed up sufficient capital so we could put make a down payment immediately.

It was weird weather when we arrived: there had been a wind reversal and it had rained from an unusual direction. Of the 26 houses visited, many had water streaks or puddles. These were immediately dismissed in mind as I didn’t want known long term maintenance issues being dealt with at a distance.

Talk was rife that the Netherland Antilles was about to break up, this happened 4 years later, and Bonaire would return to Holland. So the first choice house was taken off the market, by its Curacaon owner as he thought he would make a killing in the years to come.

Another house was chosen, an offer made and accepted and job done. Except I had to go back to work for supposedly another 10 years.

Then the iPhone was launched! I wasn’t a very early adopter, having used Motorola, Erikson, Nokia, and Blackberry before I settled on Apple. But I found the Countdown App. Each day I would say something like “only 550 working days left!”. I was even happy to put younger friends’ birthdates into the app and report “Yup 2,715 to go”! I am certain that everyone really needed to know when I was leaving.

In those 10 years, I probably visited the island, every other year with holidays mainly going East (physically or mystically) in the odd years. So Rwanda, Lebanon, Egypt, Tanzania, Mozambique, to name a few, were my new destinations.

Soon the number of days were getting short. With less than 5 years to go, I stopped buying Burgundy and set to the wine cellar with its peak of 750 bottles. Desperate measures were taken – hosting a Cheese and Wine party with bottles of 6 different vintages available to taste/glug! Even though my retirement was actually brought forward, due to a generous offer – we pay 15 months if you don’t come to work next year! – I only had to pack the 32 bottles left over.

Arriving exhausted on the island from rounds of farewell parties, there was so much to do. Renovating the house after 8 years of tenacy, starting to build on the plot next door, purchased with the money that my Father bequeathed to me, unpacking over 500 boxes and wrapped objects, the rounds of Government offices to get papers or get them stamped.

Then once, or even before, we were settled, friends arrived to share our home and experience Bonaire. Life was non stop, never turn down an invitation, meet new people, meet new challenges like block drains and clogged septic tanks.

Of course, you all know what happened next. My marriage came to an end and some particulary difficult years ensued. These times are largely now over as a settlement is being put in place in the last months.

So where am I now? What goes before just explains the physical and mental process of choosing a destination. Not in living the dream that I held onto through difficult and challenging times at work or through the divorce.

I am starting to repeat some processes in my life. Almost 3 and half years ago, I would sit and look at my garden, with unfamiliar trees and birds, and think I made out it out alive! This is all mine! Now I repeat the process with familiarity and surety: the house and land is mine, barring some paperwork, the trees and birds are old friends.

Before I would sit and feel the gentle, silky caress of the cat passing under the dining table as I write. Now my toes just got a slobbery lick from my new companion.

Before my mind and temperament was still slowing down from 40 years of being focused on work. Now I am pretty laid back, naturally comfortable, barefoot in old clothes, not so easily moved to temper. I was fixated on result orientated days: sleep was not so good unless I achieved during the day. Today, I potter around on jobs, sleep without angst, with just background nagging thoughts that I should have done more. Luckily, my memory is like a sieve with large holes for nagging items.

I arrived with a partner and no local friends. Now I have a new partner with bonus family, and lots of very good friends. My circle of friends has expanded and changed. Originally it was very much expats, few Dutch or Bonairean, all in a similar situation as ourselves. I should have used my Countdown app so I could rank myself against the other Newbies on the Island.

But we Newbies have changed. We will never reach the status of my partner, integrated fully, speaking all 4 locally used languages, directly involved in their lives as a teacher. But we have become involved in local charities and always support local events, mainly through contributions at the bar.

As a freckly, fair skinned youth who would pink up in any strong sun, I am turning into a leathery old git who eschews suntan lotion, prefers a baseball cap to keep the sweat out of his eyes, only occasionally wears sunglasses as the sunshine is quite normal. Mosquitoes seldom bother me, I don’t often use repellent, which probably explains why I got ZIKA 15 months ago.

When I retired, I did not miss work, just the companionship of colleagues. But I had plans and I was busy. So I suffered no pain.

What I could not control was my head. My thought processes were non stop, in the absence of work issues I worried about or focused on everything else. For work items I was pretty obsessive, rarely forgetting a deadline or history on an issue but unsure of the day of the week.

The first days and months on the island, I had plenty to do and could use my work brain quite effectively. Then everything went wrong as I obsessed over the implications of a difficult financial separation: how I would deal with each scenario of losing the house, researching other destinations, returning to Europe with the Brexit implications.

But over time with the support of some great friends, I found comfort, in finding a new partner, I found strength. I had to get stronger, she told me to move on yet understands me. On my bad days, she would be sympathetic, as emotional deadlines loomed, she would say how well I was doing.

She has shown me new sides of the island and life through her deep relationships with so many inhabitants. Whilst I can’t embrace all of this, I am the better for the exposure and education.

I feel at a disadvantage as I know all of her direct family members, she has yet to really meet any of mine. Is she prepared? Will I lose her? Obsessing again? Just joking!

But I digress. I think I have finally retired. I have started my path to a Buddha like calmness – maybe the first step but a step nevertheless. In parallel, I begin my exploration of eccentricity. I feel it a duty as every Englishman abroad should do. With the loss of the Empire, I feel the British Eccentric Quotient has declined.

My feeble attempts include having 2 very disparate vehicles with my patent logo on each. My pool cleaner has asked what business I run? None, its just me being me.

A friend commented that having a bright red bumper on my truck did not match the logo or the body paint work. Precisely, neither would any of the fluorescent paint colours I had fantasied about but were unable to purchase.

Together with my dawg, sitting next to me on the front bench seat, in a big American pickup, red bumper leading, falcon logos abeam, I get waves of recognition and acknowledgement. Yup, I think I am me.

I still have ways to go. I have to improve my positivity; I am often negative but my inner voices start to question the possibilities. These voices have moved on. before they were always the centre of my worries, now they help resolve issues.

I am untangling my complicated, if you don’t speak the language, German financial life and replacing it with simpler Bonairean and Luxembourg arrangements. Trust me they are simpler. These bring me some peace in understanding I have some financial security, not a big balance after 40 years of work but enough for a beer and a can of dog food.

I think what I am trying to say is that I know where I am, what some of my limitations are but more importantly what I could do. I have plans for the future which are only up to me to realise. Without my partner and friends, I could have been pretty broken or damaged getting here.

Have I answered the title? I think so but it is a bit of a ramble. In essence, its been a bumpy road retiring and finding a new life on a desert rock in the tropics. But if you pick the threads from above, add to my FB posts and pictures, I think you can see I am in good place!

Yup I’m here!

It’s been long! Not as long as the Actress said to the Bishop!

I normally become preoccupied with the idea of writing something and then I blog. Recently, I posted about Trouble: that wasn’t an idea, that was a steamroller that hit me. So I shared my feelings which is some sort form of cathartic healing.

It may have helped but, as the firework season explodes towards the legal day of happening, I feel very happy that she is sleeping through this one. Whilst I don’t often verbalise my conversations with her, I still send thought talk. A bit like Bishop Ambrose, the first recorded person to read without moving his lips. I don’t feel like to admitting these conversations that I have – I am not sure that I aim them to others apart from myself and Trouble. But if any friends are having weird thoughts concerning me, own up!

My current random thought is about Christmas. Obviously as a child, or as a parent with children, it was special. However, with grown up kids, I hate commercialism and thereby hate modern day Christmas. I live alone on a rock, many leagues from family and shopping malls, although surrounded by friends. So I should be in the right place.

I received one present this year, and I thought it a wonderful selection of wine. I bought no presents so feel slightly guilty in recieving one.

For a Bah Humburg/ Grinch person, this should have been the perfect Christmas for me. As a non believer, troubled by political ruckus over the place of Jerusalem and the “God fearing nation” who once were a religious sanctuary from my home country and also described as the Great Satan, the time should have brought a greater peace. But it didn’t. No ceasefire from extremism.

I live on a rock, where extreme things can pass by us like the hurricanes. But they cause effect such as wind reversals (which can ground yachts), stealing our wind and leaving us sweaty or even giving us rain.

So Christmas affected me. I got what I felt I needed. There was a big hole however. I really missed my family!

If I was there, I would have no place to host them, they are all grown up and have to visit their in laws and extended family. I would have just been a guest, perhaps honoured in some else’s house. So what I missed is probably a dream.

But I am really humbled and feel so wrong. A very dear member of the family passed over the Christmas period. He was not young but his years of life on this planet just accumulated love and respect. So in his 90’s he had quite some love. Perhaps, he chose this time of year, surrounded by all his family, who all dearly loved him, to pass on.

Maybe I don’t need to believe in Christmas, I just need to believe more in family.

Thank You John!

Trouble was part of my life for the last 16 years and so I think She deserves a few minutes of my time in remembrance. This may be a little emotional, I am not sure yet, but lets see how we go. I base my concerns upon my recent actions: last night found me having a last glass of rum, sitting by her new place of rest, reminiscing of old times and apologizing if I had caused her pain in the last hours.

Tierschutzheim.
Sorry for getting all Germanic on you but I need to start at the beginning. By all accounts, Trouble’s Mum lived on the wild side and Trouble was born in the woods. She was captured and brought to an Animal Rescue Centre which is where we found her, shortly after the passing of her distant cousin, Pickle. When we took custody, bailing her out, she was around 6 months old: half her life being in custody!

Traumatised
Having been born in the wild, the Tierschutzheim were concerned whether she would integrate with humans. Certainly, when she saw us, she displayed her mighty armory of teeth and claws, hissing at us through the bars of her cage. This was not a case of saying “How cute!” and falling in love at first sight.

However, the risk was taken and Trouble came home: the first of 3 homes in Germany.

At the time, we had a curved settee which sat in a corner, covering 2 walls. This became Trouble’s domain. Her food bowl at one end and litter tray at the other! At night, a trail of treats was laid to encourage out and slowly, day by day, she would venture further out.

It was some months later that she got onto the settee when it was occupied. Some time after that she colonised the lap of X2 (where X = previous spouse and the number denotes the order they acheived that role). The funny thing has been that Trouble never sat on my lap, apart from last week just before she died. However, I would often cuddle her; the duration going from seconds, until most recently, minutes.

A good friend of ours, Trouble and I that is, Elisabeth, who is a great lover of animals and possibly a cat whisperer, came to visit and wanted to see Trouble. This was very early days. We mentioned she was behind the settee and to be careful as she was very aggressive. But Elisabeth boldly went forward and leant over the settee to face a rocket propelled, claws clawing, screeching cat aiming for her face! Luckily, they did not connect then although, later in life, they were best of friends.

Terrified
Trouble, over time, became quite normal. Exploring house and garden, taking on the challenge of moving house in her stride. By the third house, she was out the backdoor and 10 metres up a walnut tree within days.

However, she was always a small cat and was terrified of other cats, putting up a token defence before bolting for the cat flap. Whether they were enemies or admirers, I was never quite sure but there were always suitors hanging around.

This avoidance of cats was also true for humans. X2 and I were the only real humans tolerated by Trouble. When we had guests, she left and hid. When we went on holiday, a neighbour would come in and feed her. They would report that, after 3 weeks, they had not seen Trouble but knew she was alive as food was eaten and litter tray filled.

Thinking of the future
With my retirement to the Caribbean looming, thoughts about taking Trouble to the Tropics or finding her a new home were going on. The likelihood of Trouble adapting to a new home were low, the unknown future with us held a lot of uncertainty. In the end, we decided Trouble would join us – in fact she left a week ahead of us.

Tropicalisation
When we were reunited on Bonaire, we found a terrified, over heated, panting cat. She voiced her displeasure all the way from Jella Stone Park (pet hotel run by Jella!) to her new home. She was completely freaked by overhead fans, doing a nervous tiger crawl across the tile floor. Of course, she hid under a bed and would only venture out for food or natures events.

Then after 2 days, she went onto the patio, down the garden, climbed the fence, over the wall into the empty overgrown plot and disappeared! Some 45 minutes later, I saw her climbing the fence, next to my bathroom, back onto our plot! Then back on the patio, yelling for breakfast!

Trouble was reborn. OK, it was completely different, no grass, strange lizards and Iguanas to look at it. However, the lack of grass, just gravel, turned our plot into the world’s biggest litter tray.

Socialisation
Trouble became so relaxed in her new home, scaling fences, creeping across the road, exploring empty plots that soon I thought she should have been born here! To see her sitting on our new apartment roof, nose to the wind, perhaps trying to seek an European odour on the Trade Winds was a joy to behold.

The new relaxed style was also enhanced by her new tolerance of Humans; she would now greet and talk to our guests and friends. She learnt to hang around the dining table, to wait for the BBQ to heat up, in all a sociable cat who had cast off her roots as an emigré and embrace a new life.

With the departure of X2, the household became reduced to 2. She became a reason to get up, to form a timetable of food bowls. But I was rewarded with companionship, the “twitter tail” when she would stand, tail upright and shake her hips. Or find me on the deck, rub up against me and flop on my feet, demanding attentions.

Tribulations
Sadly as I recovered and found my zest for life, the beginnings of dire times started for Trouble. Just a year ago, she had a stroke, rendering her blind. The treatment reduced her immune system and she caught pneumonia. With antibiotics, syringe feeding (for which I will ever remain thankful to Margot) Trouble regained her strength and ventured into a new dark world.

She amazed me with her bravery, travelling to all corners of the double plot, being found head into wind on the back of the furniture on the roof terrace still smelling the Trade Winds. She preferred me to walk ahead to the food bowl to aid her navigation but cat flaps were still in use. I would drive home, and having turned the car around, find her sitting on the path to say Hello! She was so brave and inspired me.

Terminal
Sadly, the brain damage was not repaired. Four months ago, she had a fit and recovered. Last month, the same but smaller time of health before the next reoccurrence. Last week, a brief recovery and then my heart could take no more. The Vet said, she had a powerful heart but the injuries to her head were too much.

I miss her presence, even the cat like decisions on when and what she would like to eat. The jealousy of acquiring a girlfriend and then insisting to share the bed, which was not the norm. The little chirp rather than Meow, the silent call, mouth open, pleading look with no noise.

Thanks
So, Little Girl, I hope I have said fair things. You break my heart with your leaving. I have a glass of rum and I will come and talk with you, just now

For those of you old enough, you will remember this as the title of a song by Crosby Stills, Nash and Young from 1970 on the Déjà Vu album; one of my all time favourite tracks.

Hair for me has been an awkward bothersome subject; I guess I am blessed that I still find it awkward at my age.  I was born the son of a military man, in the 1950’s growing up in the early-mid 1960’s where short hair was the norm.  I was a few years too young and didn’t do Uni so I missed the opportunity to emulate a Hippie: if I had grown the hair, I was mentally too immature to understand or promote their culture adequately.

So boarding school, grandparents and parents ensured my hair was short, very short: the well known short back and sides.  When I reached my majority I had one year of liberty to grow my hair and then I joined the Bank of England in the City of London.  So again my hair shrunk.

For the next 40 years, my hair, possibly longer than employees would like, was a length dictated by my laziness.  I always thought I was too busy to get a haircut. Hence, I commenced my path of exotic holiday haircuts; the most memorable being the reverse Mohican in Zanzibar, the cut throat razor in deepest Southern Egypt, many others from Thailand, Vietnam etc until I felt so comfortable that I visited the Turkish barbers in Germany.  The latter were cheap, always available (no appointment necessary) and I always believed my hair would grow back.

So followers on FB would have seen some haircuts modelled on Millwall Football Supporters, Jason Statham or for those not following these genres, very, very short.

These days, I have fallen out, even more with the personal planning saga.  My girlfriend is a particular fan of this and became a little exasperated, in our earliest days, of me trying to plan, pin her her down a week in advance.  So now I don’t book hair appointments, or I forget to book them, an my hair grows.

My partner, once an abject dissident of short hair is starting to comment that I need a haircut.  This is difficult for me.  My good friend and barber, Yasr, is bound to ask me, “How would you like it cut?”.  Honestly, I have no clue!  Having swung from Skinhead to Scruffy, hairy git, I don’t know where the line should be drawn.

My darling daughter also told me it was time for a haircut and for God’s sake don’t grow a pony tail!!  I have been thinking, never had a proper pony tail.  It will be hot and uncomfortable in this climate, need some housekeeping etc, etc..

BUT, my hair is an exhaustible resource, I have a window of opportunity and if, I keep up my indecisiveness, I have a chance to grow something long.  How long, I don’t know.  Will it look good?  Probably not as it is getting thinner and I have resorted to Conditioner.

I don’t wish to disregard the wishes and hints of my loved ones but I was far too conservative and law abiding as a youth.  I was always a bit lost, no independent original thought and a bit of a sheep.   So perhaps now, I just carry on forgetting to make a hairdressing appointment until I feel I look stupid.

Then if anyone wants some manky, knotted, grey hair as hair extensions, it will be free.  But I still won’t know what to answer to Yasr!

Its become a bit of a habit!  Normally, on a Sunday, just before 4pm, Margot and I load up Rusty and head for the beach.  Sometimes, it is just chairs and a cool-box; sometimes we add food and a barbecue.

We have mainly established ourselves at one spot, a small patch of sand on the coral strewn shore, where there is a nice entry point of smooth sand into the water.  We have built a small windbreak behind our chairs, from coral pieces that litter the shore. There is a bigger more established wall some 100 metres or so to the North but that is busier with a bigger parking space and frequented by divers.  So we have our little spot and by 6 o’clock, as we start thinking about replenishing our drinks to wish the sun adieu, the south of the island starts to empty out.  If we are barbecuing,  then by the time we eat, we are possibly the most Southern Residents of Bonaire.

Yesterday, our trip started badly.  We arrived just minutes behind a rental pickup.  A couple got out with snorkel gear, walked over to our spot and stood there.  They had no towels, no chairs or anything indicating that they would use the spot but it was obvious they were aware of our presence and wanted to claim, or deny us, the spot.

So we moved on.  Pink Beach, which has not been pink since Hurricane Lenny took the sand away in 1999, was busy with people occupying the good spots.  So we moved further south, down to Vista Blue and parked by the Big Tree – about 3 metres tall and so at least half a metre taller than the other bushes.  Its not so many months ago that Margot and sat there after celebrating someone’s birthday at Sorobon and also I sat there with Margot and her Dad.  A nice sheltered spot with good access to the water.  Sadly no more!  The current and waves are constantly changing the seafront.  Now there are exposed rocks and a 2 foot drop or more into the water.

So reluctantly we headed north again.  As we approached our usual spot, we saw the snorkellers in the water, some distance from the entry point and our windbreak was empty, nothing reserving it.  So, we moved in and everything was back to normal.

Going to the same place, every Sunday, means we aware of how things change.  How much sand on the beach, more than last week but less than 2 weeks ago.  We spot the resident birds, the Pelican that fishes that strip, the Laughing Gull that bosses the beach in the hope of scraps and particularly peanuts, the Least Tern desperately fishing as the light fades, hoping to take food back to his mate or young at the nest.

Some of them now have names, although the names are under review.  The Laughing Gull, was called Giuseppe due to his macho strutting on the beach, pushing away the competition.  Yesterday, we noticed that he has 2 black spots under his chin on the white breast.  So perhaps he may become Twinspot or Deuce?

The Pelican is, of course, Nigel from Finding Nemo.  He has a certain way of fishing; he flies into the water and, if has caught anything, keeps his head underwater, draining his bill, before tipping it back and swallowing the fish.  Other Pelicans tend to bring their head above water quicker, so we know this is our Nigel.  Yesterday, Nigel was fishing with a friend; a Laughing Gull.  They were both flying together in the same vicinity.  When Nigel launched an attack, the Gull would follow, landing on Nigel’s broad back or perching on his head, hoping for a scrap of fish to escape.

Yesterday, was a particularly eventful visit.  Ranging from a big bulk carrier moored at Salt Pier to take away our mountains of salt from the salt lagoons, the Dominican group who had locked their keys in the car and needed to borrow a phone to get someone to bring the spare keys, the kite surfer surfing close to the beach, too close according to the rules.  But the kite surfer stopped, turned out to be a colleague and friend of Margot’s who had just surfed along the majority of the stormy East Coast, from Playa Grandi and was meeting up with his girlfriend at the next spot next to us.  Incredible feat of daring do!

Perhaps I will add other happening in the future.  Its never boring sharing the beach with Margot, we have good conversations and see some wonderful things.  I haven’t written about the young Flamingo, struggling to reach the shore, flying against the wind or the Stingray that launched into the air.  Maybe another day.

My girlfriend is always saying that I use the “We” when I describe my country or football team.  I am British and I support Liverpool: the first since 1955 and the second since 1963.  I am a long term supporter but I fear I give up hope.  Not for my football team, who have suffered some incredible highs, some appalling lows but they are mine.  Perhaps tied to memories of a teenage girlfriend who pulled me up there for some time.

My country!  It decided, for stupid political reasons, that the best way to defeat the far right was to hold a referendum.  Because this was driven by the right wing, they weren’t really motivated or split, the left couldn’t be bothered and the middle, well no one listened to them.  So an advisory referendum was lost to a bunch of far right liars, the others were just pathetic or apathetic.

Sadly, only some parts of my Kingdom took it seriously.  Both Scotland and Northern Ireland decided that the sensible future was to stay with Europe.  I could only agree with them but as you read on, you will understand that.

Then WTF!  An advisory referendum, is taken as the word of the people!  It is taken as Gospel.  Government changes all its Ministers, new leader put in place, none directly elected by the people, but with a mission to carry out the result that was only a question never a decision.

The question was ” Should the United Kingdom remain a member of the European Union or leave the European Union?”.  No details on how, how much it would cost, what impact leaving would have.  But the new leaders have decided that we should leave the EU at any cost – even without any deal in place.

So Scotland who voted 62:38%, and Northern Ireland 56:44%, were so obviously keen to stay but will be dragged along as the total nation decided 52:48%.  So Scotland quite reasonably said, can we have another referendum for independence as you want to go and we want to stay?  This was dismissed by the new leadership as distracting from the bigger matters at hand – leaving the EU whether you like it or not.

I don’t really know Scotland but I feel for them.  This is despite, historically, they sided with the French against England.  But I understand their case and I find it reasonable.  So did people voting for Brexit understand that we would lose Scotland?  Probably not!  If they don’t leave the UK before the UK leaves the EU, it will be shortly afterwards.  The tough deal for Scotland is that they will have to apply to join the EU as a new independent country, although they are currently members.  This could take years of being in limbo with sulking southern neighbours.

Shortly afterwards, it dawned upon me, perhaps before the main stream media, that Northern Ireland is the critical issue.  Its always been a difficult issue but to date, the six counties of Northern Ireland have wished to stay united with the UK.  As time passes, with a growing Catholic majority emerging, this would probably change. But if we leave (Nota bene) the EU, Northern Ireland would share a land border with an EU state, Eire.  The softening of this border has been a major part of the peace that has emerged on this troubled island since the Good Friday Agreement of 1998 assisted by a Clinton.  So a critical part of the early EU-UK negotiations concerns how this border will be treated.

So it was quite reasonable for Enda Kenny, the Prime Minister or Taoiseach, to ask, that if Northern Ireland joined Eire, it should automatically be part of the EU as it would be part of an enlarged, existing, member state.  This was so reasonable it seemed to be agreed.  Even by the Minister for the UK Brexit negotiation, David Davies, who said “If a majority of the people of Northern Ireland were ever to vote to become part of a united Ireland the UK Government will honour its commitment to enable that to happen.”

In political speak, he has said that Northern Ireland could vote for separation although Scotland is not allowed to.  He has not dismissed the idea of a referendum in the same manner as Scotland’s stronger request, based upon their higher level of devolved powers.

I am often pessimistic, or rather I worry about future events.  The likelihood of the breakup of the UK, I think is highly possible.  The only party trying to keep us together is the middle party, who no one listens to.  There is no real reason to leave, apart from local politicians wanting to sound more important.  It was always a right wing stunt by politicians to improve their lot not for the benefit of the people.  Sadly the left wing are fixated upon socialist ideals and an egalitarian society, not pointing out this is more likely to happen within the EU.  Whatever happened to the Communist International?

When it all goes wrong, the politicians will blame the EU, as they do today, for enacting the clauses we signed up to.

So as a current passport holder of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, will I soon hold a passport for the Kingdom of England and Wales previously known as Great?

How can we be so duped so easily? Or should I say Trumped??

No, this is not about the Donald!  He may wish so but it’s my blog not his tweet.

It’s fairly late, I feel tired, I have been suffering from a trapped nerve in my neck for several weeks now, just cleaned up a dead lizard killed by my blind cat, then washed the patio tiles and I thought how lucky I am.

It’s a Monday night, but that makes little difference as I am retired.  There is a good Trade wind blowing, which together with the Saharan Dust, it feels cooler and fresher tonight.  The stars are not so clear as the sky is a bit hazy.  Oh yeah, my last remaining Wisdom tooth is pushing through again.  So all in all, mixed signals to have a rush of positivity.

But reflecting back a year, almost to the day, I got an offer, that if I had accepted, would have forced me off the island.  At the time I had considered returning to live in Germany, my home for the previous 18 years, and a country, I both love and respect. Of course, 3 months later, the British electorate, in my not so very bloody humble opinion, exercised their democratic right in saying let’s leave the EU and deny him the chance to settle there.

That was probably the only upside of Brexit.  What would have happened if I had returned?  My level of German, despite protestations from learned colleagues, is sub optimal.  However, I have good friends there and so, with their help would have probably ended up negotiating a rental contract for a small flat in the Frankfurt region, slightly ahead of the predicted influx of British Bankers.

So apart from avoiding the Newbies or telling war stories of how I singlehandedly solved the financial crisis for the Euro (well you do exaggerate with a couple of beers), living in a small box, going 150 metres to the local supermarket, waiting until my old work colleagues had finished work.   Then being the old bore with only old stories to tell.  I am also not so good with the long dark winters and could get fairly depressed.

I think you start to see where I am going! It would be so wrong for me to go back to Europe, although, given a chance I would still fight for a European Passport rather than the, more Trumpish becoming style, British one.  Not the Ivanka with rhinestones!

For a number of years before I retired, I had an app on my iPhone that told me how many days to retirement. I was committed both to work and retirement. My health suffered from my work commitment and I cheated on the leaving date, getting out early with a little extra.  My retirement app was quite famous with people asking me “How many days?” on a very regular basis.

My dream has very much changed as well.  Before it was having a circle of friends, probably similar expats, having dinner parties around the pool or their pool, eating out, in or at someone else’s house on a rotation.  But as you know things have changed.  The tightened circumstances, together with a significant period of anguish, some realisation and an emergence, have brought out new levels of satisfaction and expectations.

I can’t afford posh restaurants except as a treat.  Treats have to be counted with famine. Wine bottle reserves have shrunk to less than 3 on a good day.  There has to be a balance, bank balance.  What I want is strictly measured with the former.  So I build wish lists or just forget as it is a luxury and I don’t need it.  Pool time is now beach time!

So what makes me so positive?  The invitation of a 3 year old to her 4th birthday party. Absolutely yes! Because I know her parents, because I know her Opa. Opa is a very laid back, ex teacher, here for almost 30 years. He sails, plays golf, bicycles, still teaches and can stand one legged like a flamingo. What an inspirational friend.

A lot of this centres around my girlfriend.  She has lived on this island for a very long time and she has so many friends of all varieties. Her friends, and also the friends I had expected to have made, have made my life so rich.  My poor wages, for doing nothing, don’t exceed hers for being a guide to the youth, who pass under her watch, to  understanding and wisdom. She provokes, an old guy like me, to find energy and purpose.  She shares with me, her unbounding and constant love, for the island we live on.  An island that the sun shines on every day.

So live in a box that you feel is your own or live in a beautiful world with some uncertainty for the future?

I feel Brexit in a warped way could learn from me.  But I am busy being happy in love!