One day in September 2019, I sat down and wrote about Irie Bar in a piece which started as a travel article and ended up so personal that I felt unable to share it at the time. Over a few difficult years, Irie Andy became my friend and Irie Bar my happy place, where I
What happens to a freelance digital nomad during Covid-19 on a paradise island?
Playing the role of Caribbean Coronavirus Cassandra in the past couple of weeks has been less about a backslide into more negative-thinking periods of my past, and more about a sustained effort to join up my thinking as it relates to a world that changes faster than the dappled light in the avocado tree outside
I swear there are days when I slap my own head to make sure I’m not imagining the covidiocy streaming in from the outside world through my tiny cocoon’s ten inch tech portal. There’s no other way to describe it, I’m afraid, despite the fact that particular trite pandemicism was coined less than two months
I don’t know about you, but some days I don’t know whether I’m coming or going. You’ll know what I clumsily mean, despite realising that I’m neither. It’s that time vacuum feeling that used to be a feature of holiday planning-going-coming-home, when the months before departure were rich with hare-brained schemes and endless listing of
Less than four months into 2020, it’s become dramatically clear that world has gone insane, and lunatics have taken over to lead us into what history will no doubt speak of as ‘The Age of Dunning-Kruger.’ In the technologically developed world over the past decade, sufferers of this challenging psychological condition have presented in ever
Staying at home twenty-four seven is a breeze, isn’t it though? Not at all like Quarantine-with-a-Capital-Q ! After two weeks semi-self-isolating in Belfast, followed by two of all-inclusive non-Covid-Certified hospital[ity] courtesy of Saint Lucia government, I’m just effervescent with enthusiasm for staying home, back in my little pad-with-a-panorama where, as it also turns out, there’s
There were two dark days among the fourteen. It would be a lie to pretend it was a breeze from end to end, and I stopped lying about my mental health a couple of years ago. On day nine, things started off with my favourite ritual of sitting on the balcony watching the pink, fluffy,
One of my favourite feels is arriving at a new destination in the dark and discovering what it looks like in the morning. I realised asking the receptionist for a room with a view had been a wasted joke. The carpark crowd that had been so tired, anxious and hungry were now waking up to
The seat beside me was the last free one on the ramshackle bus. As we sat there baking in the full force of the afternoon sun, I secretly prayed that nobody would be forced to sit next to me – for both our sakes. The Universe provided, and I hugged my bags for comfort. Half
If you’ve never sat for an hour in the hot sun wearing a medical face mask, oversized shades and a black cap, you may think I’m exaggerating, but it feels like sticking your head inside the door of a sauna while your body stays outside in the 30 degree heat. There’s a point at which
If you were among the nine passengers aboard VS89 from LGW to UVF on Monday, March 23, I have a message: Swear to Jah I don’t always get on like Father Jack in an off licence. In fact it’s years since I consumed more than two adult beverages on a long haul flight, partly because
Stepping into one of the smallest hotel rooms known to man, I once again thanked the Universe for the power of technology. It was spotless, comfortable and all sorts of space efficient, like ‘tiny living’ for travellers. The young receptionist was apologetic about the lack of normal service, but breakfast and dinner were available if
St. Paddy’s Day was to be my first in Ireland since leaving for Saint Lucia in 1993. The parade and fetes were cancelled, to nobody’s surprise. After the boiled ham, cabbage and mashed spuds were devoured, we had the traditional family evening at home with a few adult beverages, great craic and a lot of
Sick of self-isolation? Kicking off in quarantine? Curfew causing you personal crisis? Here’s a new mantra to practice every time this crazy coronavirus messes up your plan: “It’s not all about me. It’s not all about me.” Eighteen days ago, I flitted off to Belfast to check in on my parents and family. A well-timed
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