Notes From a (Very) Small Island¹

Work, rest and play.

Along The Waterfront

St Aubin's Bay is a 3 mile long arc of beach that stretches out like a vast amphitheatre hewn into - no, blended into - the southern edge of Jersey by the sea's natural forces over - presumably - thousands of years. (I deliberately say 'edge of Jersey' and not coast, because, well, because Jersey is tiny, and when you've stood on the North Devon coast on a windy day at, say, Hartland Point and looked down at the breakers smashing relentlessly into the cliffs all the way down to Cornwall, you've seen in one glance as much coastline as there is on all of the Channel Islands put together. But I digress. St Aubin's Bay is a different proposition. As we will see. If I ever get there.)

Down at the eastern end of the bay, where the beach ends and the Esplanade starts are Les Jardins de la Mer. Take a minute to stand at the entrance to the gardens, facing south - seaward - with your back to the offices and apartment blocks. This is just a small area of public space with some bushes and palm trees, paths curving off around to the fountain area, then running out across the grass to join the cycle path that runs along the bay. But step into this little piece of solitude here and the hustle and bustle of St Helier is behind you. Quite literally.

Walk through Les Jardins and out to the bay wall. To the right is La Frigate, a bizarre café designed to look like an upturned boat, all golden ship-lapped wood and little painted porthole windows. Parked behind La Frigate are a couple of Puddle Ducks: even bizarrer amphibious vehicles, half boat, half bus, that take tourists out to Elizabeth Castle on the causeway when the tide is low. Looking beyond La Frigate and the Puddle Ducks, the bay curves away and stretches off into the distance all the way round to St Aubin's Harbour. A three mile walk. Or a two and a bit mile swim. But we're not going that way.

Follow the path to the left, alongside the Waterfront, approaching the marina. We're already far enough away from the Esplanade to not hear the traffic. Instead there's the sound of a group of French kids playing football on what remains of the beach as the tide comes in. A lone backpacker sits on the wall, holding his mobile phone up at the impending sunset westward, peering into the tiny screen desperately hoping that the few thousand pixels he's just committed to Memory Stick with a press of his index finger will do justice to the view he's looking at: a 640 by 480 summing up of the sun, the sky, the sea, the sounds, the ambience.

Up ahead is a bronze tree. Yes, a tree, made of bronze. We'll take a look at that another time. Let's look past the bronze tree. Walk on a bit. Here's the marina. Water still. No activity. Boats all clean and white, luxurious and expensive. There's a ferry in the harbour beyond the marina. It looks huge, ungainly and mechanical compared to these sleek vessels in front. The ferry is unloading. The evening air carries sounds of lorries struggling down off-ramps, containers being winched off, and dock workers shouting instructions at other dock workers.

At the very end of the marina, where you can go no further, some guy has gone further, has climbed over the railings and is down at the water's edge standing precariously on some rocks - fishing. And what a place to fish! The backdrop is the English Channel, and off unseen in the distance is the French Normandy coast, but between the two, just a stone's throw away - well, a few hundred yards away - is Elizabeth Castle.

The sun is going down, and the lights are coming up on the castle. Golden outer walls. Silvery central keep. The causeway that leads from the castle creates a stripe of darker blue in the sea. The flag pole atop the castle keep points at the crescent moon, which in turn points at where the sun was.

Shhhh. The unloading ferry has quietened down. There's just the sound of the water lapping at the rocks around the marina wall on which our fishing guy still precariously stands. Lip lapping. Lip lap. And the dull sound of bells on boats tied up but rocking to and fro. b-dong. g-ding. And the breeze fluttering at bits of sail that have come slightly unfurled. Flitter flutter. And rope creaking as it is slowly stretched. Released. Stretched. Released.

Look back now towards the Esplanade. The lights have come on along the path, and all the way around the bay. Between the suitably olde worlde lamps are strung coloured lights, all the way round that 3 mile stretch to St Aubins Harbour.

Walking back - briskly now as the temperature is dropping out of the air now that the sun is well and truly gone - the other sounds of life return. The French kids are still there. Not playing football any more, but standing around in a huddle. Chatting, joking, sounding romantically French, although for all we know they could be being coarse and rude. Let's assume the best though. Back here the sea is not lip lapping, but is breaking against the beach in gentle wave after gentle wave.

Across the grass, into the Les Jardins, and out. Traffic. Not much, but there it is. Back across the road. Round the side of the office block. Up to the post box.

Finally posting that letter. Glad I went the long way today.