What began as a hopeful search for local food turned into a sweaty odyssey across Princess Margaret Beach, up Heart Attack Hill, and through Lower Bay.

We left Sugarapple after breakfast with a loose plan and a hopeful appetite. My mum had given us a few suggestions—Petra’s for lunch, maybe Baywatch if Petra’s didn’t work out. She also mentioned that her cousin Fay had a little beach bar on Princess Margaret Beach and that we should stop in to say hello. So I called Curtis Taxi and asked him to drop us at “Princeton Margaret Beach,” a name I half-mangled from memory. Somehow he knew what I meant. When we arrived, we found Fay’s Bar—a loose collection of coolers, shade cloth, folding tables, and Fay herself, welcoming and full of good cheer. Her bar was nestled under a patch of seagrape trees, just beyond the beach umbrellas. To the left, we could see Jack’s Beach Bar, all polished wood and turquoise cushions, but Bhavna was set on finding local food, and Fay gently confirmed that Jack’s was more of a tourist spot. We stayed and chatted for a while before setting off across the sand toward Lower Bay. This stretch of beach—technically still Princess Margaret but also called Tony Gibbons Beach by some—was nearly empty except for a few families and a bar called Lion’s Den. Fay had said it was “just a little way up” to get to Lower Bay. She left out that the stairs were nearly vertical. Bhavna climbed slowly, her knees protesting, while I sweated through my shirt. At the top, we stopped in the shade of a power pole to catch our breath. A lone goat grazed between two hillside homes, completely unbothered. The view back down to the bay was worth the effort. The blues of the water changed from pale turquoise near shore to deep navy near the anchored boats. The path narrowed into an alley between two houses and led us out to Lower Bay Road. Thankfully, the rest of the walk was downhill. We passed a shuttered building with a sign that read “Provision Restaurant.” We pressed on, passing Baywatch Restaurant & Bar, its bright flags fluttering gently in the breeze. Then Keegan’s, with its cheerful patio and hand-painted signs, and finally De Reef, set right on the beach. But still no Petra’s. I started to wonder if it existed at all. Then we saw it—a small wooden sign pointing left: Petra’s. We followed it with a small sense of victory… and then disappointment. Closed. Next door was Dawn’s Creole Restaurant. A few people were eating outside under the shade of almond trees. Inside I asked about the menu. No vegetarian options. Not even fries. I learned from the hostess that Petra’s was closed on Tuesdays. I broke the news to Bhavna, who by this point looked wilted from heat and frustration. Back we went along Lower Bay Road, retracing our steps in the afternoon sun. At Keegan’s I asked to see the menu—nothing for Bhavna. The bartender didn’t seem to appreciate the question. We tried Baywatch one more time. A chalkboard menu had promised vegetarian roti, but inside I learned the chef hadn’t shown up that day. I must’ve looked defeated, because the owner—who’d been sitting at the bar—asked what was wrong. I told him the story: the walk, the heat, the string of closed kitchens. He nodded and said, “I’ll make you something.” He went home and cooked. Bhavna got steamed vegetables, plantains, pasta, and a small salad. I got the same, with grilled fish. We sat outside, watching the beach and nursing drinks while our bodies cooled. The food was fine—nothing amazing, but we were grateful. After lunch, Bhavna no longer wanted to swim. She suggested we walk to Port Elizabeth instead. The road out of Lower Bay was steep. A woman in a compact utility vehicle paused to chat with someone in a yard and rolled down her window when she saw us trudging up the hill. “Looking for a taxi?” she asked in a British accent. I nodded. “There’s a depot at the top of Heart Attack Hill.” We laughed, but Bhavna wasn’t amused. I convinced her to go back the way we came, through Princess Margaret Beach and then along the Belmont Walkway. At least that way we’d have the shade of sea grape and almond trees, the sound of waves, and the comfort of solid ground underfoot. We walked back down the steep stairs, along Tony Gibbons and past Jack’s Beach Bar. Bhavna’s mood lifted a little once we picked up the Princess Margaret Trail—a narrow footpath that hugs the rocky coastline between the two bays. It’s not long, but it winds in and out of coves, up small inclines, and through patches of trees and brush. In places, the trail narrows to just enough space for single file, with drops on one side and overgrown vines pressing from the other. There were handrails bolted into the stone in a few of the steeper sections, but most of it was just packed dirt, roots, and stone. Still, it was beautiful. Sunlight filtered through the leaves above, and now and then the trail opened to a view of turquoise sea and anchored boats framed by almond branches. Birds flicked past—gulls, mostly. Bhavna paused often, sometimes for the view, sometimes for her knees. But she smiled now and then. We passed back through the boardwalk, the boats bobbing in the harbour, and the birds—brown boobies—resting on the docks. I stopped for a few minutes trying to catch them in flight. Their wings moved like kites catching sudden bursts of air, then dipping low over the water. Somewhere along the Belmont Walkway, between The Fig Tree and Whaleboner Restaurant, Bhavna spotted an ice cream shop. I think she mostly wanted to cool off. I don’t remember what flavours we had—something tropical, maybe soursop or coconut—but it was cold and sweet and helped soften the day. We kept walking. Near The Frangipani, I told Bhavna that when we lived upstairs at the old Barclays Bank, we knew the family who owned the restaurant. We used to play on the beach with their daughters—three girls who, like us, spent most of their time barefoot and salty. I don’t think I’d thought of them in years. The Frangipani is one of Bequia’s most enduring landmarks—built in the 1950s on the foundation of a former coconut warehouse, it was run for decades by the Mitchell family. My parents had known them. The verandah, the breezy bar, the wide plank floors—they all felt exactly as I remembered, though time has certainly smoothed a few edges. It’s the kind of place where you might overhear a sailor from Norway talking to a retiree from Ontario, while sipping a rum punch in the late afternoon light. I didn’t know then how much of a fixture it had become to travellers who kept coming back, year after year. We continued along Belmont Road, poking into shops and scanning restaurant menus. I stepped into Maria’s Café to see if their menu had anything to offer. It did not. Still nothing for Bhavna. That was the final sign. We gave up. I called Curtis again and we sat outside Maria’s Café, waiting for the taxi. The sun had dropped low by then. Shadows stretched long across the walkway. We had spent the entire afternoon searching for lunch, and while we had found a meal, it felt like something else had slipped through our fingers. ### Like this: Like Loading... Travel Beach WalkBelmont WalkwayBequiaFay’s BarFrangipani HotelGrenadinesHeart Attack HillIsland LifeLesser AntillesLower BayPetra’s RestaurantPrincess Margaret BeachSaint Vincent and the GrenadinesWindward Islands