There are ninety minutes of genuinely challenging driving between Crown Point and Charlotteville, the last thirty of which involves a road so narrow and winding through the Main Ridge forest that I pulled over twice to let oncoming cars pass in spaces that seemed inadequate for the purpose. Then the road descends through cocoa and coffee groves into Man O’ War Bay and you arrive at a fishing village arranged around a horseshoe cove so perfectly proportioned it looks like a movie set — if the movie were about a place that had not changed significantly in forty years, and was content about this.
Man O’ War Bay
The bay is where life happens. Fishing pirogues — long narrow wooden boats painted in the colors that Tobagonian fishermen favor, royal blue and yellow and oxblood red — line the black sand beach in the mornings before the fleet goes out. The fishermen leave early, before sunrise, and return mid-morning with coolers they negotiate directly off the boats to women who come down with bags and cash. There’s a weekly rhythm to all of this that the village organizes around.
The water in the bay is calm enough for swimming at almost any tide; the hills that ring the bay block the Atlantic swell that beats the more exposed coastlines. I swam every morning at seven, the bay still in shade, the water warm enough to be indistinguishable from the air, with frigate birds turning in lazy circles above.
Pirate’s Bay
A forty-minute hike through forest above Charlotteville brings you to Pirate’s Bay, consistently listed among the best beaches in the Caribbean, consistently not overcrowded because of those forty minutes. The beach is a crescent of dark golden sand backed by forest, accessible only on foot or by boat from the bay. I went twice: once in the morning when I had it to myself for two full hours, and once in the afternoon when a group of six Trinidadian day-trippers arrived by kayak with a cooler of sorrel punch and invited me to share it.
The bay faces northwest and catches afternoon light in a way that makes the water go from green to gold. There are rocks at either end with snorkeling worth doing — hawksbill turtle sightings here are common enough that the locals name individual turtles and track them casually.
The Rum Shop
Charlotteville has one rum shop that functions as community center, weather station, and opinion exchange. I spent an evening there with a beer and a plate of oil-down — the national dish of Tobago, a one-pot stew of breadfruit, taro, coconut milk, salted meat, and various provisions, cooked down until the coconut fat is the only liquid left. Oil-down requires patience from the cook and from the eater: it’s rich and starchy and deeply caloric, and after a plate of it Charlotteville’s lack of evening activity becomes not a deficiency but a kindness.
The conversations at the rum shop ranged from fishing conditions to the Tobago House of Assembly to cricket to whether I knew anything about French cooking, given that I’m French, and whether it was true that the French didn’t eat breadfruit. This last question generated more discussion than I expected.
Staying the Night
There are guesthouses in Charlotteville, mostly small and family-run, some with unreliable electricity and all with good ocean views. The distance from the rest of Tobago’s tourist infrastructure means things run on Charlotteville time, which is slower than you’re used to and quickly becomes what you prefer.
When to go: Dry season (January–May) is most reliable for road conditions and sea calm. August and September can see the road through the Main Ridge affected by landslides in heavy rainfall. The village is relatively uncrowded year-round; the lack of infrastructure is the natural crowd control.