As is always inevitable, we had to turn for home. We could not see St Lucia across the channel – the haze was still too much, but it did clear as we headed back down the Windward Highway. We stopped off at Black Point, a renowned picnic site for locals. There were a few cars there with CD players belching out music, kids screaming as they ran around and several generations of adults fiddling with napkins, plates and hunks of food. We stopped to look at a dramatic tunnel gouged out of a headland.
It was apparently some sort of folly where a bunch of slaves were given the job by a colonel to dig a huge hole in the rock. Over twelve feet high in places and about 350 feet long, we stepped cautiously around the numerous puddles to the other end. The sea crashing on the rocks on the outside reverberated down the tunnel. When we reached the end, though, we saw what a folly it truly was, it opened out onto rocks and then sea. The intention was to help pass the sugar up and down the coast, but the sea had washed away the exit for ever. If it was useful once, now it just stood as another legacy of the slave era.
As we headed south along the coast the weather began to clear. We passed the rolling hills of Argyll, where the politicians were thinking of putting a new international airport. St Vincent is so short of flat land, the current airport sticks out into the sea and planes have to come in and out the same seaward way as the alternative is a mountain of nearly a thousand feet. Even in Argyll, which was fairly flat, several small hills would have to be demolished. The sun came out as we headed round the southern tip of the island, the silhouette of Fort Duvenette and Young Island against the sparkling calm Caribbean waters was incredible, hard to believe again that a few miles behind us the Atlantic pounded the beaches.