ST LUCIAworldtravellermagazine.com 51spotted a likely suspect; 10 minutes east
of Balenbouche we nosed the car off the
main road and down into Laborie (‘Lab-
ree’), a drowsy wee town that was big on
its street names: Dame Pearlette Louisy
Drive, Martin Luther King Street, Elvis
Presley Boulevard. And the beach? You
might not spot it in the brochures — one
too many fondant-fancy houses on the
lush hills around the bay, perhaps; no
hotel staff to rake the sand — but it was
no scrub. Half a dozen little motorboats
bobbed prettily in the shallows, palms
leant protectively over the sand from
between fishing shacks and sea almond
trees. We paddled, sandcastled and
swam, the beach our own, frog chorus
forgotten. Lunch — grilled-fish wraps
— was a few metres away at palm-
thatched Salt Rush Café, where the
only other customers were Stuart and
Wendy from Alberta, house-sitting
for a friend on the island and back
here at Salt Rush for the fifth time in a
fortnight. They’d been to the volcano,
visited the botanic gardens, but were
happier here contemplating the horizon.
I asked Wilson, the guy in charge, if
it was always this quiet. ‘Sometimes
quieter in the day,’ he shrugged. ‘But
it’ll be different this evening...’
With that, Wilson had saved us a long,
twisty drive in the dark. Friday evenings
on St Lucia, as on other Caribbean islands,
mean Fish Fry — time for a barbecue-
fuelled street party. A few towns do
them; the one in Gros Islet sounded
cheesy so I’d earmarked Anse la Raye,
a 90-minute wiggle up the west-coast
road, as St Lucia’s best local-tinged bet.
But there was no need to go that far.
Laborie’s monthly Fish Fry was tonight.
And a very casual, community-spirited
affair it was —with twerk-along sound
systems turned up past 11. Even shouted
conversation was tricky, so I did well
to make out the verdict from Brad, my
picnic-bench neighbour: ‘The fish is
better at Gros Islet but you get lots of
tourists! Laborie is for St Lucians!’ Wegrazed on grilled fish, pork stew,
savoury doughnut ‘bakes’. There was
‘fig salad’, a mix of tuna and green
banana — like that ancient Yellow
Pages TV ad with the bloke ordering
pizza for his pregnant wife — which
actually tasted excellent (moral: never
doubt the pregnant lady). At half-nine
we called it a night; we’d had enough
of the volume, though my husband
found the silver lining: ‘Maybe the
tinnitus will drown out the frogs.’
That wasn’t the last we saw of
Laborie, but we did explore other bits
of the island, too. You’ll spot the twin
Piton peaks on everything from beer
labels to the masonic-looking national
flag, but you’re probably not allowed
to leave without seeing the west-coast
icons in the pointy, jungle-clad flesh.
Luckily they’re quite big, so we didn’t
have to switchback too far up the
west coast before they began sliding
in and out of our windshield view.
Petit Piton certainly looked pretty
impressive looming up behind the
seafront at Soufrière. Either we
arrived too late to see its streetside
market in full flow or it was having
an off day (whereas Alma’s tip about
Sulphur Springs, a few miles back,Opening pages: grilled
prawn salad; climbing a
tree against the backdrop
of a fiery sunset
This page: Petit Piton
above Margretoute Bay‘
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