Jersey: Wine and fudge

Once Lauren and Suzy had had their fill of the shiny and the sparkly, we took the bus to La Mare Wine Estate, where Helen and Steve had got married two days before.

While there was sadly no sign of hors d’oeuvres being handed out, as during our previous visit, we took the tour of the vineyard, which culminated in a wine tasting. We were taken around the estate and shown the vines – with little baby grapes hiding among the leaves – and where the wine was made.

The tasting took place in a function room, with a video showing … something. I don’t know, it was a month ago and I was drinking wine and cider on an empty stomach. I’d be surprised if anyone remembered the content of the presentation. Once we were shown the where the brandy was made we moved on to see the chocolatier at work and tasted their special black butter fudge.

Lauren after white, rosé, red and cider

After spending a few pounds on traditional Jersey fudge we had lunch in the restaurant. No roses and peacock feathers on the table this time, and no speeches either. And for a very long time, no food either and eventually we had to chivvy them up – we have a plane to catch! It all worked out though and we had our food (very nice ham and cheese roll for me) and took a taxi to the airport.

We left Jersey and flew back to the mainland on the same little propellor plane, but this time we had a window by our seats – bonus! Aerial photography is that much more difficult when you’ve got a propellor turning up in every shot though.

When we reached the English coast the pilot told us we were over Bognor Regis. That white complex by the coast is the Butlins holiday resort. I love seeing the patterns of settlement and as we passed over Worthing Lauren even spotted her grandparents’ road.

- Shoreham -

- Preston -

- Brighton & Hove Albion Football Club at Withdean Sports Complex, centre right -

Back at Gatwick airport we avoided the big queues at passport control, being shepherded down through “Arrivals from the Channel Islands”, barely needing to even show any ID to anyone. Welcome home.

Jersey: Cows and paracetamol

On our last day we had time for a little more sightseeing before our flight home in the afternoon. After much consultation of the maps, we decided to head to the Katherine Best jeweller. We’d seen the adverts for the place everywhere we went and on the offchance that the lady did indeed own the entire island, a visit seemed the right thing to do.

Ordinarily catching the bus from our hotel to the jeweller’s would have been a piece of cake, but it just so happened that the road was being dug up and so the bus no longer came to the end of the hotel’s road. We got directions from the hotel receptionist and headed off through the country lanes, pulling our cases behind us. We admired the beautiful Jersey cows – who stood when Suzy mooed them the instruction to do so over the hedge – and when we realised that we’d been walking far too long with no sign of the windmill in which Katherine Best was housed, Lauren got (better) directions from a lady pushing a beautiful old-fashioned pram.

Suzy and I were lagging a way behind Lauren and Dave because my legs had decided to play up and hurt like hell. I was concentrating on walking and cursing my joints when a car horn sounded behind us. I looked round and the girl I’d seen at the airport when I arrived pulled up next to me. I crossed the empty road to talk to her and her friend, whom she was taking back to the airport.

Windmill

Caroline had actually come out to look for me at the airport, but we’d already got straight into a taxi and gone. And now we’d met in the middle of nowhere thanks to us being sent down the wrong road by our hotel receptionist. I wish I’d had longer to talk to them, but before we’d had a chance to swap much more than our names all the traffic in Jersey – including a tractor for extra dramatic effect – had piled up in both directions wanting for me to get my backside out of the way. We said goodbye, making promises to connect on Facebook – and indeed Annie was waiting in my inbox when I got home.

Eventually we found Katherine Best and I knocked back a couple of painkillers and sat outside in the sunshine with Dave recovering from the walk while Lauren and Suzy perused the jewellery. The grey clouds disappeared for a while and revealed a blue, blue sky and as I looked up at the great sails of the windmill against the blue I wondered if I’d find the energy to get up and take a picture of it before the clouds came over again. Didn’t happen unfortunately, as you can see!

Jersey: Sticky locks and cheeseburgers

Lauren and Dave had walked miles across the island and we all had a rest and replenished our sugar levels while we decided where to go for dinner. As our respective energy levels returned we decided to walk across the beach to The Beach House restaurant.

It was about 3/4 of a mile across St. Auben’s Bay and Ouaisne Bay and we took it at a leisurely pace, walking through the surf and enjoying the sunshine. I took some photos as we went and Suzy did her best to help me get the horizons straight.

I also saw my first sun dog in the sky and funnily enough Dad and Mum saw one the same day on their holiday in La Rochelle. I wasn’t even 100% sure at the time that it was a sun dog. I’d read the term somewhere, but hadn’t been sure to what phenomenon it had been attached.

Just before we reached the far side of the bay I found a sweet little footprint in the sand. I put my own print next to it and Suzy put hers next to mine.

We washed the sand off our feet and headed into The Beach House restaurant and took a nice table by the window, overlooking the bay we’d just crossed.

Before we ordered I headed to the loo. The lock was very stiff when I locked it and I wondered whether it had been a good idea to shut the door. When I came to leave the bathroom I learned that, no, it had not been a good idea. The little silver knob would not turn. I grabbed some toilet paper to see if I could get a better grip. Nope. I thumped on the door. Nothing. So as I was in a disabled loo, I pulled on the emergency cord. Nothing. The pull cord didn’t work and the alarm light didn’t come on. So I went back to thumping on the door. Unfortunately the loos were down a corridor away from the main restaurant, but soon I heard a little kid’s voice and thumped on the door again. His mother called, “Are you locked in?” and when I confirmed I was she grabbed a knife and opened the door from the outside. I returned to my table and told of my adventure. Lauren said that she’d noticed I had been gone too long, but her delightful husband had warned against knocking on the door in case I was just doing a number two. He’s a doll.

When the waiter came along I told him that I’d been locked in the loo and another patron had had to rescue me. He agreed that “yeah, that lock’s really stiff, isn’t it?” I’ve since emailed the restaurant about the lock and received a very speedy response from the manager to say that he had checked the alarm himself and had asked maintenance to change the lock. I’m quite judgmental of accessible toilets. There seems to be no standardisation as far as their construction is concerned. Some have alarm cords and alarm strips that run all the way around the bottom of the wall. Others have tied the alarm cord up, I imagine because it got in someone’s way. Standing I’m about the same height as someone in a wheelchair, but I can’t ever be sure I’m going to be able to see into the mirror. I’ve been in many loos where the mirror is way up high on the wall. But then there was the loo I used at the airport when we returned from Jersey, where the mirror was fine and then I had to bend down to use the hand dryer!

But enough about toilets. The food at The Beach House was great and I had a delicious cheeseburger and chips. We watched the tide come creeping up the beach and the sun set in a blaze of orange over the horizon. When we’d eaten our fill we had a taxi called for us to take us back to the hotel. A chatty blonde lady picked us up and it turned out that she’d driven Helen and Steve to their posh hotel the evening before. We were coming to the conclusion that there were only about 3 taxi drivers on the whole island. We got home safely – though there was one point where we were nearly driven into a wall as our driver was concentrated on fishing about in her top for the back of her earring that had fallen off – and collapsed in our respective beds. It’s all that sea air that tires you out. That and kilometre of war tunnels, the million steps down to the beach and the three quarters of a mile across two sandy bays.

Jersey: Nazis and toasted cheese sandwiches

The day after the wedding, Lauren and Dave set off to walk, I don’t know, miles and Suzy and I took a taxi to the Jersey War Tunnels. Of course, Jersey being the small island it is, we ran into our breakfast neighbours in the foyer of visitors’ centre.

The war tunnels are a partially completed network of tunnels used by the occupying German forces in World War II. The tunnels were built as an ammunition store and later converted into an underground hospital complex. They were constructed by a mix of forced labourers, POWs and volunteers (who “enjoyed” far better conditions than the other labourers).

The tunnels are now home to a large exhibition about the occupation of Jersey during the war and Suzy and I took the audio tour through the hillside. Even with incomplete tunnels still visible and the odd footprint here and there in the concrete, it was still hard to fathom that the tunnels really had been used by the German soldiers during the war, that we were walking where they had once walked. The occupying force on Jersey surrendered the day after D Day, but one thing the audio tour brought to our attention was a flight of steps to be used as an escape had the tunnels been invaded. They were unbelievably steep, impossible to descend without falling and even ascending would have been tricky.

While outside the summer sun was still shining, it was only about 17ºC in the tunnels. You needed to be dressed for it and though I was my feet were cold by the end. Suzy was in shorts and flip flops however and thus felt the cold that much sooner than me.

By the time we had worked our way through the tunnels and considered the tough decisions the audio tour posed us along the way – do you flee the island or stay? Do you resist the occupation? – we were ready for lunch and were pleased to fill up on toasted cheese sandwiches and Ribena for me and a panini and a pot of tea for shivering Suzy in the sun-filled café … where we saw Helen’s brother-in-law and his family.

While we waited for a taxi to take us to our next stop John rang from back on the mainland needing to know how I put together PDFs a certain way. Our cab turned up and I clambered in talking what must have sounded like a lot of nonsense about splitting and merging and placing.

We were headed to Reg’s Garden, which was marked on all the tourist maps. As we went along a coast road near our destination I spotted Lauren and Dave and called Lauren to let her know we were all headed in the same direction. The taxi driver knew where Reg’s Garden was, but had never been there in all his years on the island and thanked us for giving him a first when he dropped us off.

Reg’s Garden is the retirement project of Reg Langlois and he has opened his garden to the public free of charge, with donation buckets at hand for charity. There is a huge pond and waterfall, hundreds of flowers and shrubs, giant tortoises, an aviary and a (slightly odd) fairy garden. At the aviary we met a few waterfowl and a chick was running about loose. There was also Tutu, a cockatiel who said “hello” to you, but only once you’d turned your back on him.

After leaving the garden we spoke again to Lauren and Dave and arranged to meet them in St. Auben’s. Suzy asked a local guy for directions and we told to continue down the road, take a left and then head under an arch and down some steps. We followed his instructions, stopping only to admire the beautiful houses and photograph ourselves in a mirror. We found the arch and just as we were passing beneath it the guy appeared behind us in his car on the road, calling, “Yes, that’s right – down there!” What lay beyond the arch was a million steep steps down the hillside to the beach. We made it down them, making a mental note to order new knees and found Lauren and Dave in a café on the beach front.

Jersey: Peacock feathers and chocolate drops

Having filled our bellies with champagne, it was now time to sway into the restaurant for the reception. Each table was dressed with flowers and peacock feathers and Helen’s Dad had done the calligraphy for the place cards himself.

So let’s talk about the important stuff first: the food.

The starter: Pan roast hot smoked salmon, roast lemon aioli, grilled wild mushrooms and baby leeks with pecorino, pink pepper and parsley pesto. A dish for fans of alliteration.

The main: Pan roast corn-fed chicken breast with sweet potato mash, baby leeks, crisp pancetta and tarragon cream sauce.

And for dessert: Assiette of steamed raspberry sponge with advocaat cream, classic chocolate mousse and champagne and strawberry jelly. All three desserts were delicious and the sponge had lavender flower buds sprinkled on top – the first time I’d ever eaten lavender. If I’d had my laptop with me, we’d have been videoing a variety of approving noises for Helen and Steve’s choice of dishes. As it was, we made do with giving Helen our thumbs up across the restaurant.

The speeches came before dessert and despite leaving half his notes behind, Ricky pulled off his best man’s speech with panache and a lot of good one-liners. My favourite being “I’ve got a lot riding on this. Steve said that if I do a good job, I can be best man at his next wedding.”

Later on Peter, Helen’s Dad, did a quiz – clearly setting quizzes runs in the family. However Peter’s quiz was right up my street and my team ended up winning. There were a number of different categories, but celebrity trivia in cryptic crossword clue form? I AM THERE. We won chocolate drops made by the vineyard and could choose between bookmarks or magnets. I went for a bookmark – (a) because I like to think I might read a book again one day and (b) a lot of my possessions could be ruined pretty quickly by a magnet.

After dinner there was music and dancing and wedding cupcakes were laid out for those not completely stuffed already. I sat outside for a while with the others enjoying the summer evening. At one point I noticed that I was missing the top button on my dress and magically Lauren remembered that I had mentioned something pinging against me sometime earlier. I was still sitting in the same place and so we dived to the ground to look for it. Amazingly Suzy found the little green button by the light of her mobile phone, hidden in the grass under the picnic table.

At quarter to one the taxis arrived and we set off back to our hotel, wishing Helen and Steve a happy honeymoon – and promising to get together for food again soon. Because clearly we’ve not eaten enough yet.

Click the high-kicking legs for more photos from the reception

Jersey: Vows and champagne

At the vineyard we were directed straight to the wedding – hey, vineyard lady, what tipped you off that we weren’t here for the tour? The suit, dresses and hat maybe? We joined other suitably attired guests by the vineyard restaurant and grabbed drinks to keep us going before the bride arrived.

The bride’s mother was already there and I’d been looking forward to seeing her. I hadn’t seen Christine for years, but she was exactly as I remembered her. Mad as a hatter. For those who haven’t met her, I’d describe her as a mix between Sharon Osbourne and Julie Walters (ie, brilliant). One time in our early teens Helen was driven by Christine to my house to spend the day. She came round the back with Helen to meet Mum, but on stepping into the garden bypassed Mum, shooting across the lawn, exclaiming, “what a wonderful hebe!” But that mild eccentricity is nothing compared to the time she got her family thrown out of Czechoslovakia.

Soon we were being ushered into the small marquee on the pretty lawn; Helen was on her way. She looked beautiful – an elegant white dress, perfect makeup, peacock feather accessories and her nails painted a fantastic peacock blue. Steve’s tie was a similar colour, with a silver peacock feather on it.

The ceremony was simple and sweet, vows and rings were exchanged and soon they were Mr and Mrs.

Out on the lawn again we all sipped champagne and were served a few delicious hors d’oeuvres while photos were taken. I do wish people would serve me hors d’oeuvres more often. Just the occasional tiny tartlet during the working day would really keep me going.

Click the obscurely placed wine glass for more photos from the wedding on Flickr.

Jersey: Aeroplanes and ice cream

The same day that I headed to Jersey for Helen’s wedding, Mum and Dad left for La Rochelle, only they had the bad luck of having to leave at unreasonable o’clock to catch the Eurostar train. Meanwhile my alarm was set for 8am, giving me a leisurely three quarters of an hour to roll out of bed, get my stuff into the case that Suzy would be bringing and then head to the airport driven by Damian.

The only trouble being that my alarm was set to be off on Saturdays and thus didn’t wake me at 8am. Fortunately my eyes popped open at half past, I eyed the clock, swore and hurried to the bathroom. I got dressed, shoved my dirty stuff into the washing machine, dropped its heavy metal door cover on my toe for good luck and was soon opening the front door to Suzy, who packed the case while I ran around getting my final things together. Just ten minutes after I’d got out of bed we were in the car and leaving for Gatwick.

Once checked in – Suzy smugly travelling with just her driving licence as ID – we had a text from Lauren and Dave, who were having breakfast in a cafe overlooking the apron. We joined them and finished their leftovers before heading to our gate. A text from the bride-to-be Helen who was already in Jersey alerted us to the fact that there was bad weather in Jersey. BA had cancelled flights, was ours ok? Fortunately it was; it was about an hour delayed, as we had to wait for our aeroplane to return to Gatwick from Jersey, but after that we were fine. Fog in Jersey is a bit like in San Francisco – it rolls in off the water, makes a nuisance of itself and then disappears again.

Lauren had been somewhat nervous that we would be travelling in a little diddy propellor plane and unfortunately for her, yes we were. It was a Q400-8 with seats in two rows of two – and our row was without a window. So I entertained myself by sticking the camera through the two seats and pointing it at Lauren and Dave behind us. As we neared Jersey Lauren and I tried to get a photo of her pretending to stick her finger up sleeping Dave’s nose. But she accidentally touched him and woke him up. Such a rookie mistake.

In about 40 minutes we were flying over Jersey and descending to the airport. There were some big houses below us; we were clearly flying into a tax haven!

Walking through arrivals I saw a blonde girl with the same condition as me, but as there was the pane of a restaurant window between us we couldn’t do anything more than exchange a smile. We walked out to the taxi rank and were whisked away to Les Charrieres Country Hotel in St. Peter. We checked in and settled into our nice neighbouring rooms before heading to Grève de Lecq on the north coast of the island for lunch.

We had toasted paninis from a kiosk and sat outside on the patio watching the sea and people enjoying the beach. A proper holiday lunch. Especially as it was 3pm by then.

For dessert we treated ourselves to real Jersey ice cream with a Flake. There were all kinds of flavours such as toffee crunch, but we all went for plain old – but delicious – vanilla, before heading down the steep stone steps and onto the sandy beach.