In an attempt to find something happening on this island, without having to hassle with going over to Tortola, we visited the Little Dix Bay resort, which is down in the Valley. Little Dix is one of, if not the first resort built on the island, and is still one of the grandest. We had tried to visit it and tour the grounds a couple weeks ago, but an unnamed visiting dignitary had reserved the whole place. Kathy guessed it was Prince Charles, and with no evidence to the contrary, that's who it must have been. Chuck had decided to close the whole place down while he and what's-her-name were there, so the guard at the entrance (the only guard for anything we've seen here) politely turned us away and asked us to stop by again.

So here we were. The hotel, villas, and restaurant at Little Dix (notice how I'm resisting the temptation to go for the cheap joke here) are well kept and elegant. The place has been there for quite a while, which was evident from the enormous cashew trees embracing house-sized boulders on the grounds. Laurence Rockefeller, the American cazillionaire, actually bought most of the island of Virgin Gorda back in 1960. He built Little Dix Bay resort (personally, I'm planning to name my legacy a little more carefully -- maybe the Wee Winkle Cove) and donated most of the rest of the land to the National Parks. That explains why there is so much undeveloped land, including the big national park on Gorda Peak, and also why, despite its being a British territory, the official currency on the island is the American dollar.

Anyway, the tour was worth it. We saw tamarind trees and blooming red Flamboyants. The guest rooms are all tastefully done, using native woods and rock, to blend in with the natural surroundings. However, the entertainment, which is the reason we went there in the first place, was sadly lacking. The place was dead, and the staff all seemed tired out from dealing with the Prince. We sat in the open-air bar and ordered two Cuba Libres, one for each of us, watched the sailboats, and tried unsuccessfully to make conversation with the bartenders. The fellow next to us at the bar got a delicious looking hamburger, and since it was past lunchtime, I was sorely tempted to order one as well. Kathy though wanted to wait and find an "island dive" where something was happening, so I asked for the tab. It was $18 for two drinks! Over twenty bucks with tip. The burger must have cost a fortune.

We drove back out to the Mahogany Rentals / barnyard because we had neglected to get a picture of the place on our first two visits. Upon leaving there down the famous one-way lanes, we got lost in exactly the same way we had the first night. Only now the sun was out and we were happy to explore. We came to a dead-end at a fishing wharf and Kathy spotted a bunch of people at the end of the dock where a rickety, homemade bar had been set up and someone was serving cold beer. We parked the jeep and walked toward the party noises. When we were almost to the dock, Kathy stopped and said she didn't think we should go there because it looked like she would be the only female at the bar, which was packed with local fishermen who were clearly well on their way to getting into the week's celebration. I spotted one other woman seated at a table, so I grabbed Kathy's hand and we walked past a bench where two fishermen were gutting and cleaning the day's catch. We sat at an open table and within seconds Clarence, the bartender, was taking our order and joking with us. The place was packed with partiers, but we were the only white people, and certainly the only ones wearing Hawaiian shirts and looking uneasy. Clarence immediately brought us two ice-cold Carib beers.

There was no sign of a kitchen, and nobody else there was eating anything, but I decided to yank Clarence's chain a little so I asked for the menu. He didn't miss a beat, and said, "I kin bring you any ting you want, Mon, as long as it's cheekin and chips." Apparently, there was a roasting spit at the end of the pier that we hadn't noticed. Having had nothing to eat all day, and thoroughly enjoying the company at the unnamed bar and grill, I said sure, bring it on.

It took nearly an hour to get the food (Kathy suspected they had to find and kill a chicken for us), but we had a blast sitting there, drinking Caribs, and watching the fisher folk and other locals clean their fish, collect their Periwinkles (really), and argue good-naturedly among themselves in Patois. When the food did come, it was delicious. The chicken was "free range" (I haven't seen any coops on the island -- apparently the chickens just roam around free until some tourist orders chicken and chips), roasted to perfection with Caribbean seasonings, and served with the fiery yellow Caribbean hot sauce. There was a TV above the bar that was loudly broadcasting coverage of the Carnival parade on Tortola, and occasionally everybody would stop and cheer for a cheerleader or beauty queen they knew. We stayed at the unnamed bar and grill for several hours, drinking and eating, and watching the spectacle. When the check came, we had had six beers plus a half a roasted chicken and chips (French fries) and the whole bill came to, you guessed it, 20 bucks -- exactly the same as the two rum and diet cokes at the fancy schmancy resort. We left Clarence a big tip and headed back home.

We weren't really hungry again for dinner that night. Instead, we split the remainder of the coconut cream pie and went to bed, still wiping meringue off our lips. Yum, yum!