Barbados

A LAZY WEEK IN BARBADOS

Seven days away from the freezing winter enjoying the Caribbean sun.

See below.

It was one of those chilly February evenings in Calgary when Eleanor and I sat by the fireplace with our mugs of tea. The wind howled outside, but inside it was warm and still. We'd been talking about a winter escape—nothing ambitious, just a week somewhere the sun actually shines and the sea doesn't try to knock you over.

"I want calm this time," Eleanor said, tucking her feet under the blanket. "No long hikes, no crowds. Just... breathing room. Somewhere we can walk a little, sit a lot, and feel the years we've earned."

I nodded. At 68, my knees remind me every morning that I'm not 40 anymore. Eleanor's 71, and she still reads poetry aloud like she's teaching a class, but she tires faster these days. We scrolled through islands on her tablet—Antigua with its 365 beaches sounded lovely but too spread out; Curaçao's colorful towns looked charming but hilly; St. Lucia's mountains were beautiful, but we'd done dramatic views before.

We arrived Sunday morning at Grantley Adams Airport. The taxi driver, an older gentleman himself, greeted us like old friends: "Welcome to paradise, folks." Our boutique resort on the west coast had ground-floor rooms—veranda straight to the turquoise sea, no stairs to worry about. The infinity pool looked like it flowed right into the horizon.

After the welcome drink and the installing in the room we still had time to enjoy the pool at the afternoon. Eleanor found some energy to participate a gym session inside the pool with other guests. I preferred to sunbath on a deck chair with occasional piña colada. After a cinematographic sunset we had a romantic dinner in one of the hotel’s restaurants. A moment for remembering why I chose that woman to flourish my life.

Next day, no alarms. We slept late, breakfasted outside with mango, papaya, strong tea, and coconut bread still warm. Mornings on the private beach: chairs and umbrellas set up, water so calm it barely moved. No news that day. Sun and sea. That was all. And, of course, some occasional snacks with piña coladas; Eleanor lost herself in Austen.

On the next day we decided to exploit the surroundings. We took a Taxi to the Hunte's Gardens. Paved paths wound through exotic flowers; benches waited at every bend. Soft piano drifted from somewhere. Eleanor photographed orchids; I sat and breathed the damp earth, remembering greenhouses from my engineering days. Light lunch—salad and passion fruit juice. Back by sunset, hands linked in the taxi. And, of course, another romantic dinner, full of lovely remembrances from our youth together.

The next day we took a catamaran for short 3-hour tour—no diving, just gliding. Turtles swam lazily near the boat. I took photos; Eleanor quoted Walcott about the sea. I wondered if I could still dive there, but there was no diving devices. Too bad. But It was not a diving tour anyway. We stayed on deck, breeze warm, lemonade cold. No need to get wet—just watch.

Back to the hotel, an afternoon at the pool and… a romantic dinner. That was becoming a routine.

On the next day, we took a short taxi ride to St. Nicholas Abbey, a beautiful 17th-century sugar plantation house. The guided tour was seated and unhurried—we sat in shaded rooms listening to stories of old Barbados life, admiring antique furniture and the windmill from the veranda. They offered a gentle rum tasting (we chose the non-alcoholic versions, flavored with coconut and spices—sweet memories without the kick). Eleanor loved the historic charm; I thought about how far we've come since our own early days building a life together. We bought a small bottle of spiced rum as a keepsake and returned by early afternoon for a nap and some pool time, hands still linked.

The next day brought another easy outing to the Barbados Wildlife Reserve. It's a peaceful mahogany forest where animals roam freely: green monkeys playing in the trees, tortoises moving slowly, peacocks strutting, and deer grazing. The paths are paved with brick (a bit uneven, but manageable at our pace), and benches waited everywhere under shade. We sat for long stretches watching the monkeys feed and chatter; a guide shared quiet stories about the wildlife. Eleanor spotted a tortoise she nicknamed "Old Friend" because it moved as deliberately as we do these days. We laughed softly, held hands, and let the calm setting wrap around us like a warm blanket. Back at the resort, we had our couples' massage (coconut oil, low music, pure bliss), then the veranda ritual: sky shifting from orange to purple, me sharing old lab tales, her reading sea poems. One evening we swayed gently to distant steelpan music—two slow steps, quiet laughter, no need for anything more.

The next day was the last one. We had to leave. We bought Mount Gay rum and a shell necklace for our granddaughter. At the airport, Eleanor turned to me: "The Caribbean isn't just sun, Harold. It's proof life can stay slow and lovely." I squeezed her hand. "With you, it always has been."

We flew back to the freezing Canadian winter tanned, rested, hearts full. In our 60s and 70s, the real magic isn't in rushing—it's in these gentle weeks where the sea whispers, time pauses, and we're still holding hands.