Guernsey, Jersey, Underwear, and Socks

Holiday Reminiscences of Guernsey and Sark, from the Guernsey Press and Star of Friday 19th June 1903.

We reprint the following article specially written for the Liverpool Mercury: —When at school, one committed the nomenclature of the Channel Islands to memory by the repetition of “Guernsey, Jersey, Underwear, and Socks,” an ingenious play on the names of the chief islands of the archipelago. In a former article, the delights of a holiday in sunny Jersey were all too inadequately described; in this, it is intended to touch upon a visit to Guernsey and Sark. Alderney, our little party has never visited; it is not so easily accessible as the other islands of the group. We cannot, therefore, speak of its beauties from personal experience. All the same, a stayof a few days in this secluded gem of the English Channel is strongly recommended to those to whom time is no material object. The trouble they may take to reach the island will be amply rewarded.

First let something be said of the best route to the islands. Briefly, then, there is, during the season, an excellent daily service from Weymouth to Guernsey and Jersey by the steamers of the Great Western Railway Company, and another daily service equally good, by South-Western steamers from Southampton. To Liverpool holiday-seekers, after a trial of both routes, we unhesitatingly recommend the latter. Travelling with a Great Western ticket, it took exactly 24 hours to reach the Liverpool Landing-stage from St. Helier's; while with a North-western ticket, via, Southampton, Waterloo, and Euston, we did the journey in 18 hours, and had ample time in London to call at Gatti’s and enjoy a hearty and much needed supper. The cost by either route is the same. The service, both from Weymouth and from Southampton, is by night. Sleeping accommodation is limited; and it is always advisable, especially in the height of the season, to write well in advance to secure a berth. Should the weather be rough, a comfortable berth frequently means comparative happiness to the landsman; the lack of it utter misery. The return journey is always by day; and here the Southampton route is incomparably the more interesting.

We leave St. Helier on a bright Saturday morning, with a light southerly wind, which is all in our favour. There is every promise of a pleasant passage, and on the whole, the promise is fulfilled. Threading a way through the jagged and pointed rocks, which make the entrance to the harbour terribly dangerous to any but the most carefully piloted vessel, one has first a comprehensive view of the graceful curve of St. Aubin’s Bay and of its background of green and wooded hills; and a fleeting glimpse of the fashionable suburb of St. Heliers, Havre des Pas, with its fine promenade, sandy shingle, and bay plentifully besprinkled with black, rocky islets, which have all the appearance of volcanic monuments, or of ruins of some fine old cathedral over-whelmed by the, sea. Turning to the west, the Lydia closely skirts the lovely bay of St. Brelade, and we note the firm stretch of ribbed sea and the background of almost Alpine scenery. Rounding a precipitous headland, the small but surpassingly beautiful Portlet Bay is seen, its narrow strip of yellow beach glistening and sparkling under the witchery of the soft blue sky like precious stones in an Imperial crown. Then the rugged grandeur of the Corbière bursts suddenly upon us. Rising out of the sea are scores of foam-capped pillars and crested domes of hard, grey granite, and of graceful pinnacles and dainty minarets of purple porphyry, with minute facets of myriad felspar crystals glinting in the morning sun; while the kindly light towers high, the dominating mistress of all. Changing our course to the north, we enter St. Ouen’s Bay. Be the wind blustering as rude Boreas himself, keen as sorrow's edge, gentle as the breath of hope, or soft as the touch of a mother’s hand on the brow of her fevered child, the swell in St. Ouen's is heavy. 'Tis a Bay of Biscay in miniature. The incoming tide rolls up from the Atlantic in long sweeping surges, and chafing at the obstacle in its path, falls back, to return with renewed vigour. Tired at last of tilting uselessly at the adamantine coast, it flows north and south in tetchy and wayward currents, the while the bosom of the sea heaves in fretful sympathy.

Crossing the bay, the stately Lydia drops clumsy curtseys, as if in satirical mimicry of a polite but rheumatic oid countrywoman, buries her nose in the undulating sea, and waters her deck with drenching showers of spray. A few minutes of this capricious behaviour suffice to send many of her passengers below. Fortunately, a quarter of an hour takes us out of the infiuence of the swell; and we steam on a smooth sea direct for St. Peter-Port, the capital of Guernsey. We experience no more rolling and tossing, except for a few minutes when passing the Casquets, and again when rounding the Needles. At St. Peter-Port we take on board an immense number of baskets of tomatoes, and scores of huge cases of delicious fruit for the English markets. The delay is considerable; but there is too much of interest in the busy scene to leave room for tedium. Eventually we cast loose from the pier, and with the twin isles of Herm and Jethou on our starboard quarter, steer a course due north.

After an hour or more of pleasant sailing, word is passed that the Casquets are well in sight. Not a passenger but levels his glasses or strains his eyes to look on these seven rocks of deadly notoriety; rocks on which old Neptune's herdsman, the changeful Proteus, might bask in sweet security. Grim casques they are, stately helms of giant knights, with long trailing plumes of sea foam, and crests half-hidden by shivering spray-mist, flung up by restless breakers to the unceasing accompaniment of a hollow dirge, indescribably solemn. Interest centres chiefly in the battlemented rock, rising sheer a hundred feet, on whose craggy side the lonely lighthouse nestles; and in the enduring monument to the ill-fated Stella—the roque noire, in shape a gigantic beehive, and sombre in tint as the spreading wings of Azrael, Angel of Death, whose minister it is. In the distance, Alderney rises like Aphrodite out of the sea; and still further away, a bunch of mist low down on the horizon, lies the coast of Normandy. The Race of Alderney rushes between. Busy memory recalls the sweetly-pathetic poem of Dorothea Heman's, “He never smiled again”; and whispering fancy, in mournful mood, tells again the story of the White Ship, pride of the Norman navy, England’s youthful heir and his bonnie bride on board, lost in the treacherous Race with all hands save one. She also tells of the eleven hundred brave English tars who sank to their long rest in the gallant Victory, in the days when George II was King. The hours that follow are somewhat uneventful. We pass a few vessels, one a magnificent ship of war flying the Stars and Stripes, and another, an armoured cruiser, whose ensign we fail to distinguish. Then the Isle of Wight is sighted, and soon we round the Needles, pointing ever in silence to the sky, a trio of rocks, picturesque but deadly, whose reputation is ill as that of the Casquets, whose base has served as mortuary chapel for many a poor mariner. Thence, until we walk ashore at Southampton Docks, the varying panorama is of entransing interest.

First, the Isle of Wight, with its hills and bays, woods and fields, all mapped clearly out; and then Southampton Water, studded with steam yachts and sailing yachts, great and tiny, with ships of war and with huge ocean liners. Moreover, we get a splendid view of Netley Hospital and of its beautiful grounds. Taking it altogether, the crossing is infinitely preferable to the Weymouth trip, of which space here will not admit of a description. When the subject is agreeable, one writes with a running pen. Space is becoming limited ere yet the chief object of this article has been reached. Then to our muttons. There are those who prefer Guernsey to Jersey. Mr. Geo. R. Sims, for instance, has stated emphatically that if ever he can get away from the toil and moil of Modern Babylon, he will settle in Guernsey—it has such a delightful climate, is such a gloriously beautiful and romantic little island, and everybody is so jolly and so comfortable. Each one to his taste. Guernsey is delightful; indeed, some of its coast scenery cannot be surpassed; and its air is more bracing, more heavily charged with ozone, than that of Jersey. But in all the island there is nothing to compare with the lovely valleys of its rival. True, there are pretty lanes, bordered by rippling streams, whose wimpling waters are overhung with graceful ferns, charming grasses, and beauteous wild flowers in wanton luxuriance; while on the southern coast the tides and storms of countless ages have worn the frowning cliffs into wonderful caves and gullies, and cathedral-like crypts and vaults; and have ground the softer rocks into glistening shingle and finest sand. The west coast is decidedly uninteresting. St. Peter-Port is centrally situated, and the most distant parts of the island can easily be reached on foot. Once out of the town, in which the streets slope steeply from the harbor, the roads are good, and cycling is a delight.

The most picturesque bay in Guernsey is Moulin Huet, with its two curious rocks, carved by nature’s chisel in grotesque resemblance to a lion and a dog. Moreover, the approach to this bay is through one of the prettiest lanes we have ever scen. Of the visit to Guernsey the incident which lingers most pleasantly in the memory in our trip to lovely little Sark, which someone has aptly described as a “pearl of the sea.”

We left the white pier of St. Peter-Port early in the forenoon of a bright September day. A slight snap of the cast in the fairly stiff breeze made the air refreshingly crisp and pleasant. Our little steamer threaded a zig-zag course among the perfect maze of rocky pinnacles which dotted the blue-green sea. Passing through the deep, narrow channel, which separates Herm from Jethou, we weathered the south of Sark, and came suddenly in sight of a toy breakwater, enclosing a tiny harbour embayed by precipitous cliffs. Very pretty! we thought; a most effective picture; but not being endowed with wings, how were we to surmount the cliffs? On a nearer approach, the riddle was read—a tunnel had been cut through the solid rock into the smiling valley beyond. In the hours at our disposal we wandered all over the island, and were unanimous in our admiration of La Coupée, the narrow and lofty natural viaduct which joins “little” Sark to “great” Sark. Imagine a granite parapet about 100 yards in length, not more than six feet in breadth, one side a sheer descent of nearly 200 feet, and the other a steep, grassy slope, studded with out-cropping rock, and terminating in a lovely little semi-circular bay, with a splendid beach, an ideal place for bathers, but almost inaccessible. Truly, La Coupee is the boldest, most magnificent feature, not only of Sark, but of the Channel Islands. In Jersey and in Guernsey we had frequently noted the wonderful variety and abundance of the ferns; in Sark the riotous luxuriance of these lovely plants compelled our outspoken admiration. They grew everywhere, in the fissures of the furze-covered eliffs right down to the edge of the burnished sea, on whose surface their fleeting image danced in the sunshine; in wild profusion by the wayside, and as a thick undergrowth at the roots of the trees, sturdy oak, graceful beech, and stately elm—which stood out clear against the sky line on the crests of the broken highlands, or lent additional beauty to the sloping sides of the quiet glens. They were of all varieties—hart's tongue and adder’s tongue, horse-tail and elkhorn, coarse brake, delicate maidenhair, and scores of others whose names were to us unknown. Some had great thick stems and huge saw-like fronds, of a sombre green tinged with russet; some formed magnificent rosettes, drooping gently outward from the budding centre; others were forked, or lobed like an oak leaf; and some had fronds delicate in texture as softest pillow lace.Various in stature and aspect, some stood boldly erect, others trailed weakly along the ground, and all were beautiful. The majority of the little party which on that bright September afternoon stood lost in admiration of a singularly lovely patch, knew no more of botany than did the sleek Guernsey cow, tethered near by among the flower-enamelled grass.

However, a little lady of our number had given the subject some thought. She told us how, until the curious propagating “spores” were discovered, the seedless fern was for centuries an impenetrable mystery to botanists. The seed, said these wiseacres, must be invisible; and the belief became current that whoever procured some fern seed acquired with the possession its property of invisibility. Shakespeare, whose notice nothing escaped, referred to this belief when he made one of his characters say, “We have the receipt of fern seed; we walk invisible.” On our return we were surprised to find the harbour left dry by the falling tide, and our little steamer lying some 50 yards outside. The only way to reach her was by row-boat, at a charge of half a franc a head. The intention was to say something here about a visit we paid to St. Malo, a quaint, old-world city in Brittany, between which and St. Heliers there is regular communication. Lack of space forbids. J.A. M.