Hunter Davies on romantic surprises

"Where are we going?" I asked Miranda.

"Dunno," she said.

"How far is it?"

"Dunno."

"Will I be able to swim when we get there?"

"Doubt it," she said.

Oh God, I thought, sounds a mad surprise if even she doesn't know where we are going. What on earth can she have organised?

We were on hols in Bequia, my favourite island in the Caribbean. Miranda had secretly organised the whole of our last day.

We were driven on a tortuous winding road up the hill overlooking the town, and then suddenly dropped off at the roadside in the middle of nowhere.

That’s what young lovers do.

OK then, old lovers.

In my case very, very old lovers.

She hailed a taxi in Port Elizabeth, the main little town on the island, and I heard her give an address. We were driven on a tortuous winding road up the hill overlooking the town, and then suddenly dropped off at the roadside in the middle of nowhere.

Oh God, is this a trick, a trap, a test?

She had phoned the place we were going to, but did not know where it was, just told to follow the track through the forest. So off we went, me shambling along, dragging my feet, as I always do, stumbling over roots and branches, moaning and groaning.

Took us almost half an hour to get there, with lots of stops against trees. And then there it was, Tree House Bush Bar – a homemade wooden shack, turned into a little restaurant. No electricity except solar power, no water, no road to it, and no lavatory, but it was oh so romantic and genuine.

The young owner, Ken, said he lived on the streets till the government gave him this little plot of land deep in the forest, on which to build his own place.

Ken cooked out the back on his homemade barbecue, surrounded by hens running around wild, while his girlfriend was inside behind a little bar. I asked her to make me a rum punch before I collapsed.

I find rum punches very restorative. Doctors recommend them.

Who says oldies can’t have fun?

We had a lovely meal; barracuda for me, Miranda had chicken with fresh vegetables. The views down over Admiralty Bay were stunning.

There was another couple already there, Canadian yachties from a boat in the harbour. Nobody else came. How could they when the Bush Bar is so cut off from civilisation? Goodness knows how they make a living.

The meal was lovely, the experience wonderful, the situation unique, but I dreaded having to drag myself back along the rough path through the forest. Especially after my rum punch... okay – two rum punches.

But Ken came to the rescue. Guess what he did? Go on, guess.

He produced a battered yellow wheelbarrow, which he uses to cart supplies from the road to his restaurant.

And he put me in it.

The ride was a bit bumpy and I feared I would fall out, but Ken assured me he knew every inch of the path.

That evening there was another surprise. Miranda had prepared supper on the beach.

The table was made out of driftwood, but Miranda had covered it with a tablecloth and written a menu. She lit candles as it does get dark in the Caribbean around six. She didn’t want me falling off the rickety old bench, not after I had already survived that wheelbarrow ride.

Who says oldies can’t have fun?