I'm not trying to crack on Roaring River. Later I'll mention some positive things my daughter said about her side trip there, but I personally had a weird experience, and an unaffected (Jamaican virgin) Mrs. Peel said it was less than overwhelming.

It was the early afternoon on a Monday and we were the only travelers there. As we hiked through the village even the locals were staying out of the sun. Occasionally someone would pop out to see if we needed a beer, but except for us the road/path we trod was dead . I was gently pulling on my new sub, as we walked along. Mrs. Peel and Rasta Robert share similar body types. I've noticed over the years that people with this body type seem to have to restrain themselves from skipping when they're on a long hike. I'm not troubled by this problem. If I set my pace at a plod I can go all day and skipping won't even pop into my head. I think people built like me are meant for the water.

Over hill and dale we hit that dusty trail. I was fanning myself with my straw hat. It was very warm. Robert and Mrs. Peel were unaffected. We approached a wide shaded spot in the road. There was a house (as my smoke fogged brain recalls it anyway) with a fence of planks surrounding the back of it. "This is the Blue Hole," Rasta Robert announced triumphantly. He inserted his skinny fingers between the planks in an attempt to pry them apart, thus affording us a view of this natural wonder. Our view was limited, but it looked like an empty swimming pool. The fence was chained, Robert did not have a key. I began to feel like a kid at a carnival side-show, when it dawns on him that the ballyhooed five legged pony is probably just a well endowed Shetland rather than a true freak of nature.

OK, we've seen the "Blue Hole", caves next? Rasta Robert said something about following the trail as it looped around and eventually wound its way back to the caves. I looked up ahead, addled as I was, my sense of direction told me any loop was going to be longer than simply turning around and heading back. We set out but didn't get too far when I started to worry about electrolytes and such (Yeah, I know I'm not supposed to mention electrolytes anymore but that's what was playing inside my smoked meat affected brain pan).

"Um Robert, why don't we just turn around?" This notion seemed to take Robert by surprise. I was already smarting a little over his promise of "THE BLUE HOLE" vs the reality of the blue hole in the ground behind a fence I could barely see through. Cold cut induced paranoia? Whatever the cause I was feeling a little scammed by the Blue Hole in particular and Roaring River in general. Alfred's look (at Robert), the fee taker's disdain, the waste of time that was the blue hole viewing experience, all fueled my growing cynicism regarding our guide.

As we walked back I began to feel panicky (cake anyone?). Fortunately we'd packed water. I was calmed by the water, it should be able to ward off heat stroke, right? We had to climb up the side of a rock outcropping to get to the cave's entrance. This where the key came into play. I was overcome with fear of heatstroke as we climbed up to the cave opening. I was counting on that Cave-of-the-Mounds rush of cool air upon entry. It was not be. The cave air instead felt hot and stale. I'm going to fall out any second was the mantra inside my head. The intrepid Robert pressed on into the bowels of the earth. The earth's bowels felt like bowels to me, hot and claustrophobic. I told Mrs. Peel my fear of heat stroke. She deflated me with the skill of a surgeon - "Maybe you got too high from that fatty." WOW, me a virtual walking "Jimi-Hendrix-experience laid low by a fatty? "No dude" to quote Brandt, "we did not consider that." Hoho!, how the mighty have fallen.

Mrs. Peel was up with Robert while I lagged behind considering my options. I followed slowly. We came to a low hanging arch, with maybe three feet of clearance between the floor of the cave and the top of the arch. Robert told us "to "bend down low", and we crab walked a good 20 feet through the arch. The other side opened to a huge room but the air was still stale and hot. There was a pathway off to the right that was artificially lit. I quit the tour here. Mrs. Peel and Robert followed the path. There was a murky pool around the corner (according to Mrs. Peel) where Robert told her she could take a dip. Mrs. Peel told me later she found the suggestion a little scary because the water was murky and the room eerie. The cave at that point reminded her of a bears den. She was afraid of what might (however irrational) pop out of the gloom.

We emerged from the cave and walked back to the fee taking building. There was some welcome shade there. The young man taking fees had been joined by another young man, both were seated at the admission table. Rasta Robert gave back the key. Then came over to where we were sitting and started some small talk. I peeled off 1000 J and gave it him for a tip - his only fee. I think it was a bad tip but at the time I was not kindly disposed toward Rasta Robert. Rasta Robert left the shade we were sitting in and headed toward the gate that led to the road. "Good bye Robert", we said.

"Yeah good bye Robert," the young men at the admission table said in a tone of voice that could be described as mocking or taunting, flavored with tones of unbridled disdain. We never uncovered their intent. It is a Jamaican mystery.

If the story has a moral, it's probably something like: The Schwag on the beach does not represent all Jamaican cold cuts, be advised.

In defense of Roaring River let me give my daughter's take on the place. She found the river roaring. She said when she went in the cave the water was above the arch. If you wanted to see the second room you had to swim under the arch. She said she'd been advised if she panicked while swimming through she was on her own. I'm so glad I didn't know she did this at the time. Her take was that Roaring River was totally worth the bother. Please consider her take as well as mine if you're contemplating Roaring River. If cave diving is your thing you might have a good time there - just make sure the river is roaring before you go.

The whole point of our junket was Rockland's so the lack of meaning we found at Roaring River didn't put a damper on our day and Mrs. Peel got a little come-up out of the whole adventure.