Farquhar Atoll, southern Seychelles, Indian Ocean
A clear dawn, a pearly sky with barely a cloud, a brisk south-east breeze, and on the horizon a classic tropical, coralline island with an unruly mop of shaggy coconuts: Farquhar.
This atoll is the most southerly of the Seychelles group and over 500miles from Mahé where we started nearly a week ago. We came ashore on a blinding blonde beach, fine floury coral sand under our feet, and made straight for the shade of huge Casuarina trees on the beach crest. Those who were barefoot were soon stepping gingerly: the tiny fruits of this tree are hard on soft feet. Above us, the happy wheezing of fairy terns which are taking up nest sites on the high branches. Also the shrill calls of the Madagascar Fody, vivid scarlet sparrows flitting from tree to tree. And everywhere coconut trees, for Farquhar was once huge copra plantation where men toiled endlessly to gather their daily quota of 1500 fallen coconuts, then stack them, split them and remove the nut whose flesh provided the mainstay of a tropical industry that stretched from Tanzania to Tahiti.
The island today is a shadow of its former self, but some copra is still produced here, and around the workers houses, chickens and turkeys roam happily, huge Hernandia trees cast welcome shade, and pumpkins run riot from their garden plots out into the short grassland between the coconuts. We saw local men salting the fish they had caught offshore, the shed where the coconuts are split, the white cross on the shore which marks their traditional landing site and the tall mast which maintains their link with the outside world. Though their supply ship comes only once every 2 months, there is a plane each week which brings the tourists who now provide the island’s only reliable income.
But for us, it was the beach and the reef which provided all we needed: all the colours and carefree calm of the tropics. We walked on the beach, lay in the shade and read, bobbed like turtles in the cool waters of the shallows, and blessed the cool breezes which took the edge off a midday sun hot enough to roast a chicken.
But no need to roast anything: the galley crew swept in at lunchtime with a splendid spread of bread rolls, salad and cold meats washed down with cold beer. Have we died and gone to heaven?
Above us the deep blue dome of the sky, along the horizon a deep purple band of sea, the dark aquamarine mottling of the reef and then the impossible turquoise of clear water over coral sand. Framed by the feathered fronds of the coconuts and the bright green foliage of the shrub sea lettuce, our loyal ship waits patiently offshore while we frolic on beach and reef.
A clear dawn, a pearly sky with barely a cloud, a brisk south-east breeze, and on the horizon a classic tropical, coralline island with an unruly mop of shaggy coconuts: Farquhar.
This atoll is the most southerly of the Seychelles group and over 500miles from Mahé where we started nearly a week ago. We came ashore on a blinding blonde beach, fine floury coral sand under our feet, and made straight for the shade of huge Casuarina trees on the beach crest. Those who were barefoot were soon stepping gingerly: the tiny fruits of this tree are hard on soft feet. Above us, the happy wheezing of fairy terns which are taking up nest sites on the high branches. Also the shrill calls of the Madagascar Fody, vivid scarlet sparrows flitting from tree to tree. And everywhere coconut trees, for Farquhar was once huge copra plantation where men toiled endlessly to gather their daily quota of 1500 fallen coconuts, then stack them, split them and remove the nut whose flesh provided the mainstay of a tropical industry that stretched from Tanzania to Tahiti.
The island today is a shadow of its former self, but some copra is still produced here, and around the workers houses, chickens and turkeys roam happily, huge Hernandia trees cast welcome shade, and pumpkins run riot from their garden plots out into the short grassland between the coconuts. We saw local men salting the fish they had caught offshore, the shed where the coconuts are split, the white cross on the shore which marks their traditional landing site and the tall mast which maintains their link with the outside world. Though their supply ship comes only once every 2 months, there is a plane each week which brings the tourists who now provide the island’s only reliable income.
But for us, it was the beach and the reef which provided all we needed: all the colours and carefree calm of the tropics. We walked on the beach, lay in the shade and read, bobbed like turtles in the cool waters of the shallows, and blessed the cool breezes which took the edge off a midday sun hot enough to roast a chicken.
But no need to roast anything: the galley crew swept in at lunchtime with a splendid spread of bread rolls, salad and cold meats washed down with cold beer. Have we died and gone to heaven?
Above us the deep blue dome of the sky, along the horizon a deep purple band of sea, the dark aquamarine mottling of the reef and then the impossible turquoise of clear water over coral sand. Framed by the feathered fronds of the coconuts and the bright green foliage of the shrub sea lettuce, our loyal ship waits patiently offshore while we frolic on beach and reef.
