Back in Tobago – and looking for a goat

It’s been a while since my last posting. Somehow my last two trips – to Paris for Robin’s birthday and to Meribel for a week’s skiing – didn’t make it to these pages. Mea Culpa. But I am now back at Villa Pelican, the house I bought in Tobago 11 years ago, and once again inspired to put finger to computer keyboard with a selection of random thoughts.

Pelican is part of a small complex of villas sitting on either side of a hill which slopes down into a bowl of vegetation. For the purposes of this story, I’m ignoring the unfinished hotel which sits at the top of the hill …. it may or may not feature in later postings, but has no relevance today. So – back to the vegetation.

We are nominally in dry season, but the La Nina weather system has extended the rainy season well beyond the norm. Instead of the parched ground we usually see in March, the gardeners are fighting a constant battle to keep down the lush grass surrounding each villa with occasional forays into the dense undergrowth lurking in the base of the bowl.

Much as we appreciate their efforts, it is definitely not conduicive to the peace and calm of our terrace life. Not for us the hurly burly of getting up early to explore the island and discover a secret cove – after 11 years, the pleasure of familiarity has replaced the joy of adventure. For the past week we have barely strayed from our terrace. Rising late, sharing our breakfast of delicious fruits with the local birds who visit regularly from the surrounding forest, then settling into our comfy loungers to download the Times, read the sackful of novels saved up for this trip, sip the occasional cold Carib and listen to the birdsong.

Then it starts. The groaning roar of our gardeners’ weapon of choice – the petrol powered strimmer. Even worse, its close-up screech is echoed by the insistent background buzz of a more distant strimmer – a harsh mating call drowning the birdsong, and causing a vein to pulse worryingly on Robin’s forehead just before he rushes inside to grab his noise cancelling headphones.

So here’s the plan. We buy a goat. They are noise-free, eco-friendly and you see them everywhere on the island. I saw three grazing by the side of the main highway only yesterday. And goat racing is a national sport. The island’s long standing goat racing track at Buccoo now boasts a new grandstand worthy of Ascot.

Think of the benefits. First and foremost, it would cut out the dreadful noise of the strimmers and restore peace and quiet to our villas. And the goat could be trained to compete in the Buccoo races. If it wins, we could put it out to stud and earn ourselves a fortune. If it loses, we can have a goat curry party.

Of course, we would have to add “goat herding” and “goat training” to the gardener’s job description, and the interview process would include timing them over a 100m run. But having run the idea past a few other owners, this idea has legs – at least 4 (the goat’s) and 6 if you add the gardener/trainer/jockey’s.

Terrace life is cancelled for the rest of the day. I’m off to buy a goat.