Paradise and Pigs: One Year On

Trips to the Bahamas to see Daddy Mason have been frequently reported here. One of the earliest episodes of Kate in the Countryside saw me duped into a race with some swimming pigs. This week I'm back on Paradise Island with the luminous Americans and their burgers, determined not to repeat that debacle.

Oundle Pig

[True, the Caribbean is not The Countryside, as many followers of Kate in the Countryside have somewhat pedantically observed. However, since even in Oundle the pigs cannot swim we will overlook this for now.] 

In a trip riddled with sporting activity as usual, DM and I started the week with an extremely curious run. It was with a group of people (ranging from youthful to extremely aged) who do jogs interspersed with beer stops. To give you some idea, the running group is sponsored by Sands, the local Bahamian beer. Apparently these Hash House running things take place all over the world. They even  have  a song. This week's run bafflingly took us through rotting rubbish and snakes in one of the most beautiful places in the world. 

But afterwards there was singing and beers on benches in the darkness. It felt like university - though with old people and warm weather. It was brilliant. 

And yes, we did return to Staniel Cay to catch up with the Swimming Pigs and their offspring. Shoot the breeze, admire their athletic physique, that sort of thing. This time last year, the Pig Leaders were first to the boat, pounding the waves with earnest desire for food, while their sweet little piglet chums (see above) paced the shallows, dreaming of when they'd be allowed on the waves.

Feed me Seymour: Bahamian Swimming Pig

I'm afraid to report that on our return this year there were only four pigs to be seen. No piglets. A passing American told us he'd heard there used to be fifty Swimming Pigs on the island. Perhaps they were all resting?

'Where are the piglets?' wailed KITC (devastated).

'I imagine someone's eaten them for supper,' said DM.

Last time their efficiency at swimming / eating / fighting seemed pleasingly noble. Over the past year they have become more terrifying than you could possibly imagine. Hungrily scrabbling at the sides of our boat, they nearly managed to launch themselves in and topple us out.

'Hit them!' advised DM, eagerly taking pictures.

I tapped one with the scraps bucket, which only seemed to exacerbate the problem. 

An American turned up and fed his bacon sandwich to one of the marauding beasts:

'Hah! Look at that y'all - he's eatin PIG!'

We left, trying hard not to think of the implications of this for the missing 46.

Going Solo

Kindred Spirit

I don't much like flying alone. At least if you travel with someone else you can be certain that though you might end up sitting next to a bore or a snorer, you will be forewarned - you chose them. 

And, while I'm aware that travelling takes organisation and time management, I can't seem to achieve either unless there's some unlucky soul about (say BOF) to hassle me, or else start practising Bikram yoga poses with a freneticity that hints we're about to miss something again. 

So when on Saturday I was heading to the Land of the Swimming Pigs to visit Daddy Mason, I checked with BOF how much time I should leave for getting to the airport. 'Leave at half 6' was his response. I made it out the door just after 8, and spent the journey to Heathrow fretting that I'd miss my flight. It wasn't so much DM's rage when I failed to arrive at the other end that troubled me, rather the thought of BOF's weary disappointment when I returned to the Pad flightless.

Travel-sized toiletries:
what successful holidays are made of.

Another potential hazard is packing. Every time I pack I decide that this time will be when I really get it right. To this end, I'd bought a magazine containing 'THE' guide to the perfect capsule wardrobe. I then squandered precious packing time fretting that I didn't have any travel-sized perfume bottles or own a kaftan. 

Terminal 5 is very shiny and very distracting. I steamed through security with efficiency born of the fact that I was quite late. Then congratulated myself with a large latte from Pret. Large. It was much too big. I'm not in Friends. The resulting jitters made it difficult to carry my hand luggage or find my passport. 

Ever nervy about boarding planes after a recent flight marred by baby-vomit, I slinked on to find I was (astonishingly) seated beside a non-obese, sane-looking American woman. We even chatted as I sat down. 

This soon prompted internal disquiet. (Was I being too friendly? Would she tell her friends later about the mad girl on the plane who wouldn't shut up?) After take-off, I fell silent. More concerns. (Was I now being too standoffish?) 

It was at this point that I accidentally threw my drink over her [white] jeans. 

She squawked awkwardly and we didn't speak for the rest of the trip. This was something of a relief.

Fancy being Kate in the Countryside's chaperone? Get in touch. 

Suffering from the Cuts

Could this be Oundle?

Oundle is a quaint little place certainly. But what it lacks in size it makes up for in the multiplicity of its hairdressing establishments. And its microclimate apparently. ('It's always sunny here isn't it Kate?' MD regularly exclaims, through sheets of rain. 'Lovely Oundle.')

The other day, MD decided to take me along to a drinks party with some of her chums. This agreed, she started shooting me sceptical looks. She had realised she didn't like my hair: 'Do you think we've got time to do something about your hair before tonight?' she probed. Note the cunningly inclusive use of the word 'we' there.

I quite liked my hair. I've been growing it ever since MD stopped forcibly imposing regular trips to the hairdresser when I was sixteen. 'But you look so sweet!' she would croon of my painfully uncool bob. That, MD, was exactly the problem. 'Sweet' is not the ideal look for a teenager.

Oundle boasts no fewer than four hairdressers. One caters for grannies, one for the cool kids, one is closing down and one has nice premises in the middle of town. To that one I was sent. The uberstylist - we'll call him Bryan - does my mum's hair, and once gave her free highlights. Clever man. Now he is feted all around town, and MD thinks nothing of sacrificing her daughter's head to his whims.

In we go, Dogface in tow. 'What a beautiful doggy,' squeals Bryan, retreating behind the counter to prevent Dogface's beautiful paws from getting on his black Armani skinny jeans. MD says, 'Hi Bry, can you do something about my daughter?' They laugh gregariously. I am not going to like it here. 

My hair, innocent of the horror awaiting it, is at the emergency stage preceding wash-time. Bry looks at it; he looks at MD. They chuckle roguishly. 

A preferable hairdresser

'I just would like…'

Bry: 'That is a mess isn't it?'

'Yes,' chips in MD helpfully, though - for the record - I suspect it was a rhetorical question. 

Bry takes me delicately by the shoulders. 'OK, why don't we just shorten it up and take it back to your natural colour?' 

['Oh God no,' I think.] 'Er, I don't know,' I reply, 'I would just like…'

MD: Bry that's a great idea!

Kate: But

Bry: Thing is, I'm the hairdresser, so let's just trust me yeah? OK?

MD nods vigorously. MD is paying. K submits. 

Of this there will be no photos. Here are some more swimming pigs to take our minds off the horror that ensued:

Happy

Have you been injured in a hairdressing accident that wasn't your fault? Let me know.

Paradise and Pigs (Kate not in the Countryside)

Just tucking in to my burger

Daddy Mason (DM) lives on Paradise Island in the Bahamas. Excellent choice, you’d think. Chaps – the name is a con. Unless Paradise is a giant orange package hotel called ‘Atlantis’ with adjoining yacht park, packed out with obese Oompa-Loompa-like Americans gorging themselves silly on fluorescent burgers. The place used to be called ‘Hog Island’ anyway. Prescient.

So for the weekend DM excitedly booked a flight across to Staniel Cay, in search of ... The Swimming Pigs. Suppressing my fear that sun and solitude had driven him crazy, I packed for the weekend.

Staniel Cay, the island of sea-faring pork, is about half an hour away from Paradise via DEATH-plane. Not that I was nervous about it you understand, but most of DM’s favourite anecdotes involve near-death experiences in planes smaller than his suitcase, with no seats apart from the pilot’s, from which passengers merely hang, swinging from side to side to help with navigation etc etc. But it was mostly fine. Except when it rained on the way back in and I got wet. Bit of a shock that.

Picked up by golf-cart from the airport, we trundled straight to the beach and borrowed a pair of kayaks. Very into sport is DM. I’m quite keen on it too, if it comes to that, but rowing-based physical activity is sadly not my thing.

Then we went for a walk.

Then swimming.

He then suggested a bike ride, which was when I observed the heat of the day, the numerousness of the mosquitoes and the danger of calf-strain when cycling.

Instead, to cut to the chase with this pig thing, I suggested we head out to find them. Seated comfortably in a non-Mason-powered boat (at last), we rounded the bay into a cove of clichéd seclusion. And there they were. My first thought was ‘Blimey, they do exist.’ Closely followed by, ‘Oh God, they’re giants.’ Perhaps this would be less surprising, say, on a farm, but to see beasts larger and infinitely less suited to swimming than Atlantis’ Americans was disconcerting.

We’d brought scraps to feed them. Piggish as they are, they co-ordinated the implausible skill of swimming with the – frankly absurd – ability to tread water while lunging for food. Their nonchalant swimming action was the same as their walking motion. It was as if they had just forgotten to stop when they reached the shore. But, at the arrival of scraps, things turned barbaric. It was like watching porcine waterpolo. Each pig found itself submerged in turn by its fellows to act as a launch-pad. They were nearly in our boat.

‘Fancy a swim?’ asked my dad. Obviously.

I hesitated.

‘I’ll race you.’

I can’t believe I still fall for this. Without another word, I plunged into the water beside the marauding super-pigs and started for the shore. Did I win the race? No chance.

(DM had a head-start don’t forget.)

Once on shore, we found Swimming Piglets. But no – these were Non-swimming Swimming Piglets. How disappointing for their talented ancestry, I thought. But then a Piglet made for the sea. Immediately the largest Pig, squeaking and snapping, drove it back ashore.

Racing DM unsuccessfully back to the boat, I empathised with the youngsters. Covetous of their talents, these old Piggies.

Talented