Falling in love at the end of the road



David Whitley slips into island time, shambles along like no-one’s watching him shamble, and raises a glass to Key West

This is almost certainly a mistake. Those empty shot glasses can only lead to pain. But screw it – which five do you recommend, Mr Barman? We’ve stumbled, staggered and swayed our way into a place that is practically guaranteed to be my undoing. Five rums for $25. At a specialist rum bar. So that’s not going to be five Bacardis or roughly equivalent swill – it’ll be five of the best from around the world.

“I bloody love Key West,” I gurgle as I plough through a sea of new favourites. It’s not the first time that phrase has been uttered today.

Sometimes you just arrive in a place, and it fits you instantly. The drive down to the end of US 1 from Miami, through the Florida Keys and over giant horizon-grabbing bridges, will always be a spectacular one. But you feel life changing as you go along. The first few islands don’t really have an island feel – they’re essentially dormitory towns that just happen to be situated on islands. But as the bridges get longer, the islands get punier and the afternoon draws on, a different vibe sets in. You’re not going to the end of the world, but you are getting away from the bulk of it.

Key West is at the end of the archipelago, and hums along to its own tune. It’s the sort of place where you could wander into a bar in your dressing gown and slippers and no-one would bat an eyelid. If you did so, you might find yourself next to a major CEO or Hollywood star clad in shorts and a Hawaiian shirt, supping a frozen daiquiri. And you’d just chat like old buddies as if the whole situation was perfectly normal.

Long-standing Key West fans may say everything’s gone too commercial – they’ve got a Hard Rock Café, boo! – but the anything goes vibe still shines through. Hey, as long as it’s not hurting anyone, who cares?

It’s the sort of place where lots of things become good ideas; a couple of beers for breakfast, buying a garish multi-coloured hammock, mooching around cute Bahamian-style gingerbread houses for hours, bellowing along with a cover band as they belt out Creedence Clearwater Revival hits.

It really doesn’t matter that none of the museums are particularly brilliant, or that the beaches aren’t exactly world-beaters, or that the much-photographed ‘Southernmost point’ of the continental USA isn’t even the southernmost point of Key West. All that counts is being able to shamble along with a big simpleton’s grin on your face, ducking into any gallery, shop, bar or restaurant that takes your fancy.

Our boozy evening meander down Duval Street starts at the raucous end, and gradually gets classier. Think wine-tasting bars rather than downing buckets of cocktails. Of course, we’re sliding the other way; progressively sillier, louder and prone to talk to anyone with the misfortune to be near us. It doesn’t matter though. It’s that sort of place where everyone’s happy to talk back, tell you a story and give you the name of the barman you should speak to at the next stop on the crawl. And another rum ain’t hurting no-one, is it?

I bloody love Key West.




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