Bermudiful Days

Belated Travelogue --

Bermuda…what can I say about Bermuda in the Spring? I loved it, it was close, and jumbled, and beautiful; terraced coral-color painted tumble-down architecture pressed up against crystal blue water and rocky ‘scapes. For fellow history geeks of the nth order I’ll say that crawling around huge colonial era forts built from a peculiar native limestone, peeking through gun embrasures and crossing moats guarded by grape-shot loaded cannon was a visceral thrill. Another shut-my-mouth opportunity just laying around was a near-full sized replica of a caravel-like ship that is full access for poking around and feeling below-decks geometry; a model representing two real vessels built from the cannibalized wreckage of a larger version by survivors of a locally famous shipwreck episode.

For the higher brain functions the colonial military facilities have also been converted to evocative museums, and the Commissioner's’s House was one of the most impressive presentations of the past I’ve ever immersed in (Victoria, BC’s National museum is another of note). The trusts that built it all are very very proud, particularly of their sailing history…there is an odd fetish with their national bird.

Food-wise…uh, I don’t mean to perpetuate a stereotype (English food is…) but the food was lackluster. Combined with the simple fact that local edible resources are not particularly diverse, that kept the palate pointed to standard fare that was flown in from elsewhere. There were some mussels that were as plump and perfect as I’ve ever had, but had to go to a roadside Italian joint to find 'em. No worries though as I wrangled a top-floor bivouac for the trip, which included complementary breakfast, snacks, hor’dourves, light dinner, cocktail goodies, and evening sweets served like clockwork throughout the day…every day, on-time…decadent. Nothing like walking down the hall and piling a sampling of goodness on little plates then heading back for a private balcony repose. The little local if-you-can't-get-it-here-learn-to-live-without markets also kept a decent liquor supply on hand…so reasonable.

Highlight…scooters. The narrow left-lane roadways were made for scootering, so I rented what I came to know affectionately as 'the Hog'. The traffic rules and governance are simple and practical, and it was liberating and comfortable getting from one end of the island to the other on a cheap (don't tell the Hog I said that) little bike. Things get crowded near the cruise-ship infested capital (though it is cool that the big ships could come right up to the quay), but were peaceful along the winding, rock-wall lined byways that make up most of the roadnet (if you get claustrophobic or agitated with informal road rules in tight spaces, not your scene). Ridiculously difficult to get lost on such a small island, and the one time the map had to be extracted and pored over a local espied the situation and U-turned his scooter (you will get scooter-envy if you rent, the natives buy some impressive bikes) to pop over and provide a nifty shortcut.

That really was the most memorable thing about the place. I would swear that the term laid-back was invented for the people on this rock. There’s a strong ethnic population (including a disproportionate number of Portuguese -for the whole story see the Commissioner’s House…but be prepared to feel something if you internalize the slavery exhibits and the stories of Boer war POW’s interned there…didn’t see that coming), but none of the tension a US Southerner is bred to. At no time and in no place was there a feeling of tourist predation danger. The locals reported that there are some problems; drug economics due to the Caribbean back-and-forth for example, but it felt really safe, and folks were happy to see your scooter-helmet headed self coming through the door.