SOMETIMES YOU FALL in love with a place because you love the person who first took you there. And if, over many years, you keep returning to that place with the same person, the two become inextricably intertwined. I know because that’s what happened to me and a tiny island in the Grenadines called Carriacou. It all began almost a half-century ago when my father and I were having dinner in London and he started scribbling on the paper tablecloth. Hard to say what the scribble was, but as I looked more closely and he, swept up in his enthusiasm for this new project, began explaining, I could (sort of) see the outlines...

Source: Wall Street Journal May 09, 2018 18:11 UTC