Little Good Harbour. Barbados.

Little Good Harbour. Barbados.

Sunday morning, traffic is light and the turtles are having a lie-in.

So are the locals, except for the old fisherman rowing his way north to his lucky spot. It’s a tiny row boat, six foot long at most, and it takes him an hour to get there. He drops anchor, out comes the rod and he starts to fish, his back hunched against the sun.

He’ll be there all morning. A couple of good tuna though, and he’ll have money in his pocket for several days.

A cormorant floats on the thermals looking for breakfast. Then a silent kamikaze dives into the shallows. She surfaces, beak empty, and looks embarrassed - like someone who’s run for a bus and missed it. She glances round to check no one was looking and then takes off.

I sit on the plastic bench at the end of the pontoon. Sea crystal clear, one white sail on the horizon, a lazy swim.

Be grateful Dom. It doesn’t get much better than this.