We decided to do some washing to ensure that, on our return, our respective laundry piles would be the size of a small hill, rather than a mountain. Despite our less than smooth attempts at laundry on Guernsey, this should have been straightforward, as the apartment has its own washing machine and tumble drier. Sadly, the washing machine use was not without issues and at one point, we did wonder if our clothes would be permanently encased in a watery grave. With some not-so-judicious jabbing at random buttons on the controls, we seemed to do something right and our undies were finally freed and not even a hint of a flood. Next, the learning curve that was the tumble drier. I can count the number of times I have used a tumble drier, if not on the fingers of one hand, at least without taking my socks off. We did make the mistake of putting our synthetics in as cottons and what I thought was degrees turned out to be minutes but once the machine was in action, I dared not risk trying to change things. I am just thankful that the drier seemed to start and stop in the right places. I was half expecting the clothes to be lacking in elastic or be of a size suitable for a toddler once they were released but they seemed to be unscathed.

Another hike in to St Helier, this time to visit the Maritime Museum. Our now familiar route takes us through the attractive Howard Davis Park. This used to be a large residence and estate until it was purchased by Mr Davis. As a boy, he was caught scrumping and had been punished by the then owner. Young Davis had vowed that he would destroy the manor house and as an adult he was able to do just that once it came in to his possession.

The Maritime Museum is very well done, with plenty of automata and opportunities for interaction. This may be aimed at a rather different demographic than us but we set to to build a ship with gusto. Next is trying to rig and ballast a hull so that it will float; trickier job this one. Amongst other things, we find out about the legend of Lé Tchian du Bôulay, a cross between a man and a wolf who guards treasure and appears when a storm is brewing as a warning to fisherman. Tales of Lé Tchian also served to deter people from becoming too curious when smugglers were active.

In 1770, Customs’ Officers in Jersey strip-searched a woman who was suspected of smuggling stockings. This led to a public outcry and the officials were very wary of searching women too carefully after this. This gave women carte blanche to row out to meet incoming ships, don multiple layers of clothing and land back on Jersey unchallenged. Today’s historical interpreter is Sally Smuggler who illustrates this story and plays sea shanties, explaining that those of different tempos are designed to accompany different on board tasks.

There are several videos to watch, including one about the building of a replica of a small wooden boat called The Circassion. Later we see the boat in the Marina and talk to those who built her and who are now maintaining an old wooden lifeboat. It turns out that one of them knows people Chris knows – I thought I might escape that so far from home.

The Dunkirk evacuations are well known but after this heroic event, 200,000 allied troops still remained stranded in France. Operation Aerial saw the vast majority of these men successfully evacuated from ports such as Brest, St Malo and La Rochelle. A number of Jersey vessels were involved and the museum tells the story of one of them, The Diane.

We view the very impressive Occupation Tapestry, which was finished in 1995 to mark fifty years since liberation. There are twelve panels, one produced by each island parish. These depict various aspects of the occupation and parishes drew lots to decide which panel they would be working on. There were 233 embroiderers, who worked in groups in village halls. They had to produce a test piece before they were taken on a volunteers to ensure that the stitches would be even. There were also open days, during the construction period, when others could add a stitch making the total numbers involved far greater. In all, the project contains over 7½ million stitches and took nearly 30,000 hours. In 2015, an additional panel was made for the 70th liberation anniversary.

By the time we have walked back to the apartment, the weather is less certain, so we drive round the island again, catching up on a few bays that we missed on Sunday. Sure enough it begins to rain mid-afternoon.

Having vowed not to drive into St Helier ever again, we walked the two miles or so from the apartment instead. We pass numerous early retired couples revolving street maps in their hands and looking puzzled. We’ve cracked St Helier on foot and manage to aid one couple, who were heading for the Botanic Gardens. At least, they were heading for the Botanic Gardens once we had turned them round. Our destination is Elizabeth Castle, on the western side of the harbour. This is only accessible on foot at low tide. It is high tide, so we have to take the amphibious duck ferry. This is quite fun and the safety video features soldiers in Napoleonic era costume. We were sad to learn that the Master Gunner was off sick, so there was to be no mid-day parade today. Master Christopher did offer his services but ……

I am about to relate what we learned whilst on the Castle but we did spot a few historical inaccuracies, so, if this is total rubbish, don’t blame me! The rock on which Elizabeth Castle now stands was first built on in 1155, when an abbey was founded here and named after the hermit, Helier, who inhabited an outer rock in the middle of the sixth century. Helier was allegedly decapitated by a pirate and was able to pick up his own severed head, walking 200 yards with it. Helier was later sanctified and gave the principal town of Jersey its name. The Medieval abbey was later reduced to a priory for half a dozen monks and had been abandoned before threats from France and Spain made it advisable to fortify the island. Engineer Paul Ivy was responsible for these early fortifications in the time of Queen Elizabeth I. Labourers came from the parishes, who had to provide men to work twelve hour shifts for three days a week, thus allowing them to work on their own land the rest of the week. The project was funded by taxing island residents. The Governor of Jersey in 1600 was Sir Walter Raleigh and he named the Castle after Elizabeth I, calling it Isabella Bellissima (Beautiful Elizabeth).

There were several additions to the fortifications on the island in the seventeenth century. Fort Charles was built in 1646-7. The then Jersey Governor, Sir Phillippe de Carteret, was staunchly Royalist but there was significant Parliamentarian support on the island. In 1645, Elizabeth Castle provided sanctuary for the young Prince Charles (later Charles II). He returned to the island, with his younger brother James (later James II) in 1649, whilst he was in exile. James remained on the island for a year. The following year, the Parliamentarians captured St Aubin’s Fort and Elizabeth Castle, where nearly 400 people were taking refuge, was besieged. About fifty were killed when a mortar fell on the powder store that was located in the old abbey. George Carteret was forced to surrender. In 1652, a fortified windmill was erected to support Fort Charles. There was also building on Hermitage Rock. This is up some very precarious and narrow steps. It is there, so it has to be conquered and I set off womanfully and unaccompanied to scale the rocky staircase to look in a not very exciting construction. My companion sensibly decided to remain at harbour level. Yes, inevitably, I had the wrong glasses on again but I survived.

By the eighteenth century, Elizabeth Castle was the main fortress on the island. At this time, remodelling was carried out by John Henry Bastide. Plans, in the 1870s, to build a large, two armed harbour stalled due to lack of funds following a banking scandal. The Elizabeth Castle arm remains and we were able to walk along it. The Jersey militia, which has a very long history, manned the castle during the First World War and one of the Castle’s museums tells their story. Not surprisingly, the Germans commandeered the Castle during the second world war and added to the fortifications during the occupation.

I was very exited to find a duck from The Little Yellow Duck project, whilst at the Castle. These are made by anyone who chooses to participate and left in public places to raise awareness of the need for organ donors.

There was plenty to see and discover, even without the gunner’s parade and it was several hours, we returned to the mainland, spotting oyster catchers and an egret on the way.

We wandered back through St Helier, which seems to consist largely of high-end jewellery shops, so not exactly our thing. By the time we got back, we had been on our feet for five of the preceding six hours and had climbed up and down numerous flights of steps, so time to rest.

I had a meeting in St Helier at 9.30am in order to check my venue for the evening. We left in plenty of time. By 9.20am we were within 300 yards of where I needed to be and then the nightmare began. If you are ever contemplating driving in St Helier, don’t. Just don’t. Not ever, probably not even with the aid of a sat-nav. The one-way system was obviously designed by someone on magic mushrooms and the map only indicated some of the one-way streets and none of the pedestrianised ones. Then, just when we thought we had cracked it, there was a diversion. We managed to find our way out of town and tried approaching again, eventually arriving, very flustered at 10am. Needless to say, we overshot the only parking space and I bailed out leaving my hapless companion to attempt to drive ‘round the block’ without the aid of a navigator. I began to wonder if I would ever see him again. The car was necessary because we were carrying equipment and because we wanted to go on somewhere afterwards but it was a serious error of judgement. Never again. Well, actually, we did do it again later for me to give the talk but had it sussed by then and it was so easy when you knew how.

We drove north as our stress levels gradually subsided. Yet more diversions designed to confuse but I don’t think we actually got lost, or at least not much. I think there was only one three point turn when we missed the final junction. We were heading for ‘must see’ sight La Hougue Bie, which is allegedly one of the ten oldest man-made structures in the world, having been built long before the pyramids. La Hougue Bie is constructed on one of the highest points of Jersey (Hougue means mound in Jersey/Norman French, although the word is originally of Norse origin – sorry, no idea what Bie means). La Hougue Bie is a Neolithic passage grave; it was built some 5500-6000 years ago and was re-discovered in 1924.

The lady receptionist explains what there is to see. She adds that a reconstructed Neolithic house is currently being built on site. We have the ‘Neolithic house building’ tee-shirt and relate our experiences. In fact I do actually have the tee-shirt with me on the island but I am not wearing it today. It turns out that the project leader is Luke Winter, who also led our own Neo-building efforts (for full details of this experience and experience it certainly was, start reading here). We go to say hello to Luke and admire the start of a very impressive looking structure. He is only here one week in three, so we were lucky to catch him. Probably just as well I wasn’t wearing the tee-shirt as we work out that it was 4½ years ago that we were involved in our Old Sarum project. This actually makes the tee-shirt comparatively new in terms of my overall wardrobe but I expect it isn’t cool to admit that.

We look at the interesting museums. One relates stories of the archaeology of Jersey. We have already learned that, at low tide, the area of Jersey is 20% larger than at high tide and observations from our balcony confirm that the tide really does go out a very long way. Just popping out for a paddle at low tide is not recommended. Jersey’s archaeology is very diverse. In the nineteenth century, Jersey granite was used to build the Thames embankment. We also discovered that, in the eighteenth century, a passage grave from 4000-3250 BC was discovered at Le Mont de la Ville/Fort Regent and was presented to the then governor, General Conway. He took it apart and rebuilt it in Henley on Thames, where it still stands. Imagine trying to get away with this now; I am surprised Jersey hasn’t asked for it back!

The other museum was devoted to the story of the Jersey Horde. Initially, 12,000 coins were discovered in 1935. Then, in 2012, an enormous mass of coins were found by metal detectorists, in a field in a secret location in eastern Jersey. 66,898 coins (and counting), in a block weighing 1000kg have been excavated, along with gold torques and other jewellery. The torques were hollow to reduce the weight, an amazing feat of craftsmanship for something so ancient. The coins are about 2000 years old and are believed to have been buried by the Gaulish tribes from the St Malo area, fleeing from Julius Ceasar’s invasions. At this time, Jersey was controlled by Coriosolite tribe.

Next, to investigate the burial chamber itself. When it was constructed, the population of Jersey was likely to have been about 3000. The stone came from the eastern part of the island and some of the blocks weigh up to twenty tonnes. The chamber was covered by stones and then earth to form a cairn that is nine metres high and thirty six metres in diametre. The entrance to the burial chamber is a ten metre tunnel that is about three foot high. It is quite difficult to negotiate, especially as overnight rain has left puddles underfoot that need to be avoided but we accomplish this without injury. It was more than just a burial chamber and would have been used for various religious ceremonies. The entrance is aligned so that, on the equinox, the rising sun shines down the tunnel and illuminates the back wall of the chamber. The site was abandoned about 2500 BC and a belief grew up that it was home to a dragon. The legend goes that the Norman Seigneur of Hambye came to rid Jersey of the dragon but was himself slain by his own servant, who claimed the credit for killing the dragon and subsequently married the Seigneur’s widow. She discovered the truth, had the servant executed and a chapel erected in memory of her husband. An alternative story, told to us by the on site historical interpreter, is that it was a Viking pirate, rather than a dragon. Is this a case of make up any story for the tourists and they will believe it we wonder?

The first chapel, the Notre Dame de la Claté, is thought to date from 1155. It contains some Medieval wall paintings. These are very difficult to distinguish with the naked eye but the shape of an angel can just about been seen in the photograph that I took. The Dean of Jersey, Richard Mabon, was inspired to complete the second chapel in 1520, following a pilgrimage to Jerusalem. He staged fake miracles in the chapel to raise money from gullible visitors in order to pay his hefty tithes. The chapels were abandoned during the Reformation, after which Jersey adopted a Calvinistic stance. This led to the demolition of many chapels. At this time, there was a series of very severe winters to the benefit of the islanders’ knitting trade, much of which was exported to Iberia. The Calvinists however banned knitting in church and during the food and seaweed harvests. Knitting might be carried out as a communal activity and these were occasions for the singing and dancing frowned upon by the Calvinist church.

In 1792, Phillippe d’Auvergne acquired the chapel from his uncle, who owned the land at the time. He added a tower and converted it into a neo-gothic country residence known as the Prince’s Tower. It was derelict by 1821 and then became a tourist attraction. It was so popular that a small hotel was built on the site. The tower was finally demolished in the 1920s, to allow for the safe excavation of the remainder of the site. The Germans made use of the site during the occupation and the bunkers are now set up to commemorate the workers, of many nationalities, who lost their lives at that time.

We talk to the historical interpreter who is telling stories of the times of Dean Mabon. She tells us about the chapel and plays a recorder and a dulcimer using a goose quill. Well, obviously she doesn’t play the recorder with a goose quill; that would be weird and probably impossible. I decide that I’d really like a dulcimer and a goose quill, although I can actually play a recorder so maybe that would be a better option.

In the afternoon, we take a short stroll up the coast away from St Helier and then it is biting the bullet that is a return to St Helier by car. This time we know where we need to go but we do still have to circle the convoluted ‘block’, as the on road parking places are full and we need to return to the multi-story car park, which is fortunately free at this time of day. I give my talk to Channel Islands Family History Society. The topic is Writing up your Family History. This particular presentation is a bit full on but is well received. I am looking forward to running the full five week online version for Pharos in three week’s time, when I can go into a bit more detail. Join me, you know that you want to!

The weather forecast suggests that the rain will hold off until mid-afternoon, so we decide that we can choose an outdoor activity for today and opt for an exploration of the north coast, including a walk along some of the coastal footpath. We start to work our way up the east coast stopping at a few bays on the way, making the most of the fact that parking is free on a Sunday. We stop at Verulet Point and take a quick look at a small craft market. Then it is on to Rozel and Boulay Bays in the north east. At this point the direction finding gremlins strike again. I am sure St John’s village is very pleasant and all that but driving through it from different directions no fewer than five times might have been overkill. Just as we locate the proposed start of our walk and four hours before schedule, it begins to rain. We decide to drive along the coast instead, not that we can see much through the mist. Still, I guess we have been very lucky with the weather so far. A couple more passes through St John’s for luck and we appear to be heading westward.

We make an unscheduled stop at the Lavender Farm in the south-east of the island. We view the impressive herb garden in the rain. Even finding that from the reception was a challenge. ‘Turn left‘, the receptionist said. She must have as much difficulty distinguishing her left from her right as I do, as we nearly ended up in the café kitchen. Once we’d turned right we were on track. A video in the lavender distillery tells us that it requires a massive 100kg of lavender flowers to distil a litre of lavender oil. I have tried distilling herbs, seventeenth century fashion but if 100kg of flowers are needed, I don’t think I will be going into commercial production any time soon. Apparently this is the second oldest lavender farm in the British Isles. In the interests of trying local cuisine, I order some lavender and honey ice-cream. This is probably an acquired taste and one I haven’t quite acquired but it is not unpleasant and one can certainly detect the lavender.

We manage to navigate back to the apartment without incident and spot a red squirrel on the way. The rain sets in in earnest and the late afternoon is spent on catching up with paperwork.

The View from our Apartment

Time to move across to Jersey. We were obviously late for the ferry check-in as there were three vehicles ahead of us. The ferry left early. It doesn’t do to leave it to the last minute for boats round here. The voyage was uneventful and we disembarked to the challenge of finding our accommodation. Finding things has not gone well so far this holiday and I am panicking about the somewhat vague key collection instructions that we finally received after several requests to the agents. I have identified the road we need on the map. My companion is burbling on about Chinese restaurants. I think he has invented this but no. Sure enough, embedded in the small print (who reads small print?), are instructions to travel ¾ of a mile and look for a Chinese restaurant. What it fails to say is ¾ of a mile from where. Nonetheless, we find our way. We are too early and after a swift food shop in a nearby Co-op, drive along the coast to sit in the sun until it is time to collect our keys. The apartment is adjacent to the genial owner’s home and is on the sea front. We have a balcony from which we can admire the coast. Okay we can also admire the main road and the Chinese restaurant but there is, beyond doubt, a sea view and not just a glimpse of a distant ocean if one stands on one leg. The one bedroom apartment has no fewer than three televisions and our host is very apologetic that only one of them has Skye! No swimming pool here, so no obligation to freeze ourselves in order to get our money’s worth.

We unpack and ponder the mysterious disappearance of a packet of chocolate biscuits, which, to the best of our knowledge, have never been removed from the food parcel we brought with us. Tempting though it is to doze on the settee in front of the balcony, we decide to suss out St Helier. Parking is more of an issue on Jersey than it was on Guernsey and we have to guess how many hours we may possibly want to park somewhere in order to purchase scratch card ‘dials’. I can imaging that endevouring to not scratch off the wrong date might prove stressful.

The apartment is about 1½ miles from the centre of town and navigating on foot is slightly easier than by car, so we decide to walk. When I say slightly easier, I did have a near miss with a lamp post and late fell off a kerb that I didn’t notice as I was consulting the map but we did not get lost. St Helier itself is a little too large and city like for us. We found the tourist information bureau and spotted the venue for my talk on Monday and then went to find the location of the super league triathlon, which is being staged today.

In England, an international event such as this would be advertised from several miles distant but the triathlon is a well kept secret until you reach the course itself. Nowhere is the route advertised, not even in the tourist information bureau. It is being staged in a move to increase interest in Triathlon, I think they may therefore have missed a bit of a trick here. We enquire of a policeman, who looks like an immature twelve year old and position ourselves for the start of the women’s elite race. This is not a traditional triathlon, all the stages are much shorter and are repeated three times with ten minute breaks between each round. It begins at 4.00pm, expect when it doesn’t. We are some twenty feet above a very murky looking marina where the swim is being held. During the twenty five minute wait for the start, I am feeling less and less comfortable gazing down from this dizzy height – I get uncomfortable standing on a chair. Finally, we see the women set off and then we are able to move round to get a clear view of the circuit where the cycling and running take place. I am a bit sorry that this isn’t the men’s race and that we are going to miss Johnny Brownlee but I am pleased to be part of the event.

We have acquired a slightly larger scale map from the tourist information bureau and manage to retrace our steps to the apartment in time for an evening of Strictly Come Dancing, as the sun sets over the bay.

Today was our last day on Guernsey and we aimed for the south coast. On the way we called in at The Little Chapel. This is a fascinating grotto, decorated with millions of pieces of broken china. Low-key it’s not and probably not what you’d want in your back garden but well worth seeing. It was built in 1914 by Brother Deodat and was inspired by chapels at Lourdes.

We then tried and failed, to find the nursery from which Chris has ordered flowers over the years. We are certainly seeing the back lanes of Guernsey, many of them in both directions as we re-traced our steps more than once. I still haven’t really cracked navigating round the island. There seems to be a positive policy of not having road names and if there are road signs, they are so small that you can’t read them until you are too late to make the turning.

We did find our way to the Occupation Museum; it seemed important to respect this aspect of Guernsey’s history. This is a privately run labour of love and we learn about the five years of occupation – 1940-1945. Half of Guernsey’s population, including men of military age, were evacuated before the Germans took over. On Alderney only eleven islanders remained. The Germans changed the driving regulations, so that everyone had to drive on the right. This would not have affected the locals much as they were not allowed motorised transport. Cinemas remained open but showed German films. The islanders went round painting V for victory on stones and walls; anyone caught doing this would have been severely punished. The Germans painted laurel wreaths under the V signs, to indicate German supremacy.

Prisoners of War were brought in to construct fortifications round the coast, which was heavily mined, with over 66,000 devices. In 1942, all non-Guernsey born people were sent to internment camps. After D-Day the islands were effectively cut off and there were severe food shortages. By December 1944 the Red Cross began delivering food parcels and the island was finally liberated on 8 May 1945. The museum was full of poignant individual stories of both locals and occupiers.

There was a very amusing incident involving beige shorts (not mine) and missing melted chocolate peanuts but I have promised not to mention that so I will leave it to your imagination. There was, thankfully, very little work we must not mention today, so I took the opportunity to try to make sense of my family history notes from yesterday. The Huguenot connection looks even more interesting than I first thought and rapid contact with another researcher revealed why they were forced to flee from the Poitou region. One child had already been removed from the family as her parents had been married in a Protestant church, which was not legally valid. It is likely that they came to Guernsey in 1699-1700, when they realised that the wife was once again pregnant, leaving the oldest daughter with other family members in France.

No one has been rash enough to make off with our clothing overnight, which is a relief. All week the forecasters have suggested that this would be our rainy day, so we had earmarked it as the one to be spent in the Priaulx Library researching my children’s Channel Island ancestry. I had done as much as possible in advance and wanted to verify entries that were sent to me decades ago by a local researcher. I knew that, at £2.50 a time, I wouldn’t be able to afford print outs of the 40 odd parish register entries for direct ancestors that I had identified (which is what I would normally do) but at least I felt that I could satisfy myself by seeing the entries. A new archive is always a challenge, no matter how experienced a researcher you are. The added hoop to jump through here was that the civil registration and parish register systems are slightly different. Most of what I wanted was pre civil registration so it was on to the parish registers.

Transcribers had been hard at work, which was just as well as I had great difficulty seeing the microfilm entries. I began with the families from Castel parish. The library keeps files of all the work that their researchers have done for enquirers and these too were a great help. I managed to confirm what I had and make a few additions. My only regret is that I don’t know anything about these individuals beyond their vital events. If you’ve never researched on the Channel Islands there are all sorts of bonuses. Marriages, even early marriages, often give fathers’ names, burials usually give the names of parents or spouses and women seem to be buried under their maiden names. Baptisms give godparents, who are often relatives. Sometimes it even tells you they are relatives. For example, I have a couple where the godparent is identified as the grandmother.

I then turned to the Town Church (St. Peter Port) families. I knew I had people buried at Town Church. Town Church’s graveyard is conspicuous by its absence. I had thought it a bit odd that the lady at the archives on Monday seemed vague when I asked where the burial ground is. It turns out it disappeared during a road widening/development scheme and reburials were made in other cemeteries. These are unmarked. Maybe the archivist thought I might be over sensitive and didn’t like to tell me they’d been reburied! Although the Town Church records have been indexed, unlike other parishes, they haven’t been fully transcribed, which made life a bit more difficult but here the work of the official researchers came into its own as a guide. Several of their files contained transcriptions of all entries for a particular surname. On extending the Jamouneau line another two generations I was very excited to discover that they were born in Poitou, France and were described in the register when their children were baptised as Protestant refugees. I always wanted to find a Huguenot connection. Now I want to pursue this but I have to come back to the apartment to the job we must not mention instead. I just hope I can make sense of my hurriedly scribbled notes when I do have time to get back to this, like in about 2025.

As our parking place reconnoitres have been unsuccessful, we opt for walking to the ferry. We get up before dawn, rather more before dawn than necessary and reach the harbour just after sunrise. Even by my standards we have arrived early for our journey on MV Bon Marin de Serk. Finally aboard, we find that there are a few locals on the boat and a handful of tourists who, like us, thought it was worth getting up at silly o’clock to have two extra hours on the island, or, more to the point, saving £4 a head.

We arrive before Sark gets up but are first in the queue to book a two hour horse and cart tour of the island. We learn that we have narrowly missed Sark being inundated with cruise passengers. That is scheduled for tomorrow, as is rain and the residents are already girding their loins. I’ve never been sure quite how one accomplishes this (loin girding that is) but I am sure that that’s what they were doing. We take a stroll down the one proper street in Sark, The Avenue and see the golden post box associated with 2012 dressage gold medallist Carl Hester, who was born on Sark. Many of the businesses are empty and up for sale. We hear that the population has been falling rapidly and this is causing concerns about Sark’s economic viability. There are currently about 490 inhabitants, compared to 600 a few years ago. It is sad as it gives the island a run-down air.

We visit St Peter’s Church, built in 1820. Christianity came to Sark with St Magloire. Let it never be said that you don’t learn about obscure saints reading this blog. St Magloire is a sixth century Welsh saint who set up a monastery on Sark. Allegedly, he cured people of leprosy and deafness, miraculously saved a boatload of children and slayed a dragon on Jersey, obviously a multi-tasker. There are two special seats in the church reserved for prisoners. The current two-cell prison, built in 1856, is still used, although crime rates are very low.

We learn that Sark was first inhabited about 5000 years ago. The Black Death wiped out almost all of Sark’s population and it remained virtually uninhabited for two hundred years. The first Seigneur, Helier De Carteret, settled the island with thirty nine other men on behalf of Queen Elizabeth in 1565. Jersey legend says that the boat carrying the children of the first settlers was wrecked and that the cries of the children can still be heard when there’s a storm coming. Is this confusion with the St Magloire story one wonders? De Carteret also built the windmill in 1571. Its sails were removed during the German Occupation; we see what remains. Contrary to the evidence from Castle Cornet, information in the church tells us that Sark and Guernsey were Parliamentarian but Jersey was Royalist during the Civil War. Attempts at a Royalist invasion of Sark from Jersey was foiled. In 1833 there was a silver rush on Little Sark. The mines were short-lived, closing in 1847. Like Guernsey, Sark came under German occupation between 1940 and 1945. We also visit the archaeology room, which is sited in a restored sixteenth century cider press. Land use maps for Sark suggest that twenty-first century changes are causing concern and we find out that a recent unsuccessful attempt to introduce wine production to Sark has caused friction.

It is a shame that the timing of the carriage ride cuts across the day, so there isn’t enough time for a decent walk before or afterwards. We do take the opportunity for a short stroll and are waylaid by an eccentric local on the way. In general we have encountered many friendly people. We do almost make it to the coast, though somehow missed the Pilcher Monument that we were aiming for. Instead we round the Dixcart Valley, returning in time for an ice cream before our trip.

Our carriage ride leaves at 11.30am and we are with Winston aged seventeen (the horse) and Andrew aged sixty something (the guide). We spend a very pleasant two hours rambling round the island. Andrew, a native Sarkese, provides a commentary that needs, in places, to be taken with several large pinches of salt. He descends from one of the original forty 1565 settlers, although he keeps saying 1665. We stop at Banquette Landing in the north of the island to view an ‘Elizabethan’ gun. Said gun is inscribed GR but who’s to quibble; I am familiar with the concept of telling a good story to the tourists. Randomly, also at this location is a flock of emu; diversification rules I guess. There are two dairy herds on Sark and all have to be Guerseys. Sark dairy products resemble those from Guernsey but apparently the butter is different, I am not sure in what way. There are two levels of property prices on Sark and all property is leasehold. Those who have been resident for at least fifteen years pay about half the prices that incomers are charged. Planning permission is required for new builds and building is not allowed on the Cotil, or cliffs. Sark is independently governed and there is no income tax and only a small equivalent to council tax. This is offset by the need for hefty health insurance and private pensions as there is no state funded health or social service. Sark’s ambulance and fire engine are pulled by tractors and these are manned by volunteers. There is a private doctor and two nurses on the island.

After our ride we have some lunch and attempt to visit the museum, which is open between 2 and 4 pm, except when it isn’t, like today. We sit on the quay and relax in the sun. Some porpoises entertain us while we wait. Our ferry is early and although we were the first on the quay we fail to realise that the queue that is forming is for our ferry and not for one to France or Jersey. We hasten to the end of the long queue. The ferry is very full and the captain is gesturing that he will take no more passengers. This is the only timetabled ferry home. It is a long way to swim. Thankfully we are on the right side of the cut off point in the queue and our ferry, groaning with its full load, sets off twenty minutes before time. We do see a small boat heading out towards Sark so we assume that this has been sent to collect those who have been left behind.

We trudge back up the hill and I find a significant amount of the job we must not mention awaiting me, so much for relaxing. Whilst I am tackling this, I send a fisherman of my acquaintance to investigate the laundry in the main building attached to our apartments. He successfully negotiates the technicalities of the washing machine and then transfers our clothes to a dryer, as we have no access to a washing line. After an appropriate interval he returns to collect our clothes. The main building is locked. Efforts to break in via the fire escape fail and we are forced to leave our undies in the machine, hoping we can recover them in the morning.

Today was a day for staying in St. Peter Port. We still needed to identify a 23 hour parking slot for tomorrow. We drove up the town, we drove down the town, we drove round the town. I can report that this quest was a total failure, so, instead, we sought out anywhere where we could park for more than two hours today but this too was fruitless. Finally, we secured what must have been the last parking place in St Peter Port, up a less than savoury back street and on a perilously steep hill. The road looked too narrow for passing traffic but we took comfort from the fact that surrounding cars were wider than ours and that Guernsey drivers do take to the pavements in these situations.

We walked out to Castle Cornet, which guards the harbour. The first Castle was built in the thirteenth century. Initially, it was only accessible on foot at certain very low tides or by boat. Fortunately, there is now a causeway so we don’t have to paddle. Although, in theory, we allowed plenty of time, all the not finding parking places made us wonder if we would arrive before the ‘twelve o’clock gun’, a ceremony when a cannon is fired but we are just in time. A costumed gentleman marches about and does the deed. We are told that today’s twelve o’clock gun was ‘louder than usual’, they are probably not wrong; it was very loud and we are used to musket fire. The historical interpreter invites members of the audience to pose with him for photographs. We aren’t particularly bothered about this ourselves but we do have with us Captain James, who is the travelling toy for members of the Braund family. On the grounds that I am the photographer, I delegate a fisherman of my acquaintance to request that the Napoleonic era soldier poses with a knitted doll. On balance, this may be preferable to some of the over excitable tourists and he agrees.

The gun firing is followed by a living history performance and we have chosen today to come because this is the day for a seventeenth century story. In 1672, ammunition stored in the donjon exploded during a thunderstorm. Seven were killed including the governor, Sir Christopher Hatton’s wife and mother. The island’s governor never lived at the Castle again. The story-teller, from Guernsey History in Action, does a very good job. http://www.ghiac.org/

The Castle is home to several excellent museums and I especially liked the fact that named individuals were mentioned in several contexts. Castle Cornet was the last stronghold to surrender to Parliament during the Civil War and we admire various seventeenth century exhibits. I was interested to learn of Parliamentarian General John Lambert’s imprisonment in the Castle as I had just been reading about him in connection with John Tradescant in Phillippa Gregory’s excellent Virgin Earth. The reconstructed herb garden and plaisance were very well done. The garrison was largely manned by English, rather than local, soldiers. For many years Invalid Regiments (ie those needing light duties) were stationed here. Under German Occupation Castle Cornet was known as Hafenschloss (Harbour Castle).

One museum was dedicated to 201 Squadron but we found the Maritime Museum the most interesting. Here we learn that Guernsey has only been an island for about 9000 years, since after the last Ice Age. It was settled in Neolithic Times and we see a video about the recovery of a Roman ship from the harbour. This was done by the same team who raised the Mary Rose. The boat, nicknamed Asterix, had had a fire on board, which melted the cargo of pitch and helped to preserve the wreck.

Having exhausted the possibilities of Castle Cornet we visit the historic shop that is reconstructed as it would have been c. 1900. It appears that we missed a harbour yesterday so it was home via a quick trip to St Sampson, which is very industrialised.

Today was our day for the north coast and then as much of any other coasts that we could manage. We arrived at the quiet and attractive Bordeaux Harbour, the first of several, so the fisherpersons amongst us can admire boats. This is in the north east of the island and we have seen a good many island roads on the way, not all of them intentionally. Next, a hunt for another of the guide book’s ‘must sees’ – Dolmen le Déhus. This is a well kept Guernsey secret, so well kept in fact that it took us several attempts to find it. Then the only parking space within several hundred yards was taken by a hedge cutter’s van. Today was clearly national hedge cutting day on Guernsey as every hedge owing islander seemed to be out there with their clippers.

Dolmen le Déhus is a small burial chamber dating from between 2000 and 3500BC. Neolithic types were clearly short, or maybe it doesn’t matter if you are being buried but the roof height was about four foot and the ceiling was an unforgiving rock. It did not take long to exhaust the possibilities of this attraction. Having crawled right round and then exited without damage to our persons, I read the interpretation board outside and realised that I had missed some ‘remarkable carvings’. Supposedly, these look like a bearded man with a bow and arrow. My companion insists that I have seen them as he particularly put on the appropriate light. This escaped my notice so I insist that we re-enter. One of our party has clearly forgotten about the ceiling height issue but he seemed to survive. I look at the alleged carvings. I remain unconvinced. It just looks like a slightly uneven piece of rock to me.

We continue our drive along the north coast, stopping to look at various fishing boats at Grand Harve. Beyond Cobo Bay the coast is comparatively less attractive. On reaching the far north western corner, we start to head south. After a refreshment break at Pleinmont we rethink our plans to circumnavigate the island, as the south coast road is closed. I decide that this is a good opportunity to locate an ancestral church in an inland parish. Not helped by the fact that several roads are closed and the map has road names in English, when on the ground they are in French and vice versa, we eventually arrive at the very well kept twelfth century church at Castel. There are wonderful, commanding views across the island and you can understand why early settlers might have chosen this as a site for a place of worship.

We then go to purchase tickets for our trip to Sark later in the week. In order to save money, we book on the 8am boat. This means that we will need to find a parking space that allows us to stop for more than 10 hours. This is not as easy as it sounds. The ferry company direct us to ‘the eastern arm’ but this all seems to be 10 hours maximum. We give up circulating car parks looking for the magic ‘23 hours’ signs and call in on spec at the Guernsey Record Office, expecting to book an appointment for late in the week.

The record office is housed in a former church and it turns out that we can be accommodated today. The place is deserted and judging by the signing in book, our attendance has doubled the daily average for the past week. The adjectives ‘quaint’ and ‘Dickensian’ spring to mind and the lady who emerged from the bowels of the building did her best to help us. I was after records of the Town Hospital aka workhouse. My chap was in the indexes for four years and his death was recorded there but weirdly, the admissions and discharges book (which did include those who were discharged to the grave yard) only noted his admission. Looking at the records was not without difficulty as one of us had no reading glasses and some of the records were in French. Languages were never my forte but I could dredge up enough basic French to roughly work out what was going on. Interestingly, many inmates were discharged to go to Quebec and there’s a whole potential research project out there for someone, following these individuals up on the other side of the Atlantic. Sadly, there are too many things on the very long ‘to do’ list for the ‘someone’ to be me.

There is an outdoor swimming pool at our apartment. We are obviously paying for this facility within our ‘rent’ so our parsimonious nature dictates that we do actually have to use it. Over the past few days we have commented that no one stays in the ‘heated’ pool very long. We trip across the grass in a stiffish breeze. ‘Trip’ was nearly an appropriate term as I have neglected to bring my contact lenses so can barely see the pool at three paces. The water temperature is best described as ‘chill-off’. I brave it out for ten lengths and then hasten back indoors. We now know why there is a high turn over of pool inhabitants.

Unfortunately, the job that cannot be mentioned has tracked me across the seas, so that takes care of the evenings.