Hamilton

Named after Alexander Hamilton's Father, this is the last village on the north side of the island. There is a Fort that is at the end of the main road that winds along the water. Old British Canons jut out from the point projecting towards the sea, covered in rust these weapons were once used to fight the French for control of the island.

I like to walk through Hamilton in the evening. Around six o'clock the sun is just disappearing behind one of the many hills that make up Bequia. The light is soft, diffused through the particals in the atmosphere as it slowly gets darker. Many people are sitting outside, making fires, smoking, laughing, hanging laundry, and a few guys are playing soccer on a beach no larger then the boats that are mored in the harbor. The loud WAP of dominos hitting a board, as the player's hand slams one down taunting his opponents, seems to sift through doors onto the streets. A man is bathing his dog in the ocean, the water is clear and looks soft.

Most people are taking in the view. The golden light reflecting off the boats in the harbor seems to direct their gaze. Sitting on their porches as dusk slowly fades into the sea.