The Consulate Hotel in Jamestown doesn’t seem very keen on walk-ins. Sometimes it’s open, sometimes it’s not, and which is when is anyone’s guess. No one answers the phone, and the sign on the reception desk isn’t very helpful, either. “Some afternoons, mornings, or even whole days, we are not there at all,” it warns, “but lately we have been constantly open, except when closed, although we should be there, unless we left early.”
Did I step through a wormhole and end up in Fawlty Towers? It sure feels that way. But, no. I am in St Helena, a volcanic rock rising from the churning waters of the South Atlantic, somewhere between Angola and Brazil. Which is probably not any less weird, and still feels like I have travelled a…
