Barbados: Yes Please

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If you want to feel the wealth and power that congregates in Barbados, it makes sense to investigate the Sport of Kings. I’m writing an article called Confessions of a Polo Virgin for a beautiful glossy magazine called Polo and More. In it, I confess that until I arrived at the stunning Waterhall Polo field at the Apes Hill Club, I couldn’t tell a mallet from a hockey stick, a chakka from the All Black haka. Briefly then: Polo is played on horses, galloping at high speed, whereby teams consisting of 4 riders each use mallets to knock a white ball through posts to score a goal. The field is 300 yards in length, and arena matches consist of four six-minute periods called chukkas. Right then. White pants on, polo shirt tucked in, boots strapped, on the horse, chase the ball, shwhack it, there’s a good lad! My instructors were two incredibly patient professional players, the brothers Jamie and Neil Dickson, who made me feel like I have potential with this sport. The way a kid playing with toy cars has the potential to be a Formula 1 driver. Shwack! Jolly good! Surrounding us is an immaculate virgin golf course, lined with $2 million villas that reek of money, taste, and the kind of high class one does not acquire. You’re either born into it, marry it, steal it, or trip over it. All at the same time. For the purposes of the show, I am wearing an Apes Hill polo team shirt, which recently won the Queens Cup, a clean sweep. If one applies the Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon to garments, I am exactly one degree away from the Queen of England. This does not help me shwack the ball any better, but I give it a jolly good go none the same. If I close my eyes, which I tend to do every time a horse breaks into a canter and I have no idea how to stop it, I can hear the chink of crystal champagne glasses, the muffled laughter of high court ladies, the thump-thump of hooves, refrained clapping, and the occasional tasteful cheer. Although most polo matches are open to the public in Barbados, it remains an elite, highly exclusive sport. The confession of a polo virgin? I’m a working class hack with a filthy mouth and cynical regard for elitism. And boy, I think I love this sport! Find me some kings to sponsor a horse, will ya?

I close on a catamaran, a treat of a half-day trip around the east and west coasts, with an open bar, reggae, lunch-time feast, and a final lucky break in the weather. The TallShips Tiami Catamaran Cruise is one of several operators who take tourists out into the waters, supplying snorkels and masks to dive around the reef, a shipwreck, a well known sea turtle hotspot. The captain has deadpan one liners that actually work, even if they largely fall flat on the all-English clientele, most of whom will return home pink and flabby. My shark phobia disappeared after watching a documentary called Sharkwater, which I nowadays prescribe as the Jaws antidote. Coincidentally, it stars, and is directed and produced by the nephew of Gail Stewart, our amazing and tireless host for the week. It allowed me to swim under the stars on our arrival without a second thought for what lies beneath the inky depths. It allowed me dive head first into the sea to swim amongst graceful turtles and gliding stingrays. Spectacular stuff. If I could insert a photo of that experience here I would. fFortunately, we captured some of it on video for the show. Viewers are going to shit a turtle shell when they see just how magical that moment was. At least I hope so.

We pack a lot into these weeks of filming, and I get to see and do more than most people ever should. A submarine and supersonic jet, horses and turtles, kitesurfers and watersports – there’s no rush, it’s all here waiting for you. Easily in my top three most romantic destinations, will I be coming back to Barbados? Yes Please!

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