Notes from a (Very) Small Island - Part Three
Created | Updated Oct 14, 2007
Your note-writer, Paff, works on the Channel Island of
Jersey, but lives in Devon, England. He spends most of his working
week looking at the inside of the airport, the inside of a cab, the
inside of an office or the inside of his eyelids. He must try to get
out more. When he does get out, these notes are the
result.
A walk in the park
One and half millennia ago a hermit set up his home on a rock in the
bay just off the island of Jersey. For a recluse, he did a sterling
job of attracting attention to the place that would eventually take
his name - Saint Helier.
The parish of St Helier is by far the most urban, built-up part of the
island. However, it also has its fair share of open space. Yes,
there is always the sea, always in the same place and always
stretching away to the horizon. But that's not it. Many of the
central streets open into squares or large paved areas with benches
and a statue or two. But that's not it either. There are a number of
parks and gardens in this corner of St Helier. And that's what it is.
There's nothing like a bit of grass and a few trees to sooth the soul
of a weekday apartment dweller.
This evening I took a turn around the garden.
In The Park
The short walk from Charing Cross up York Street to Parade starts and
ends with a square. In fact, it starts with a triangular square,
narrows into your common-or-garden shopping street, then opens up into
another triangular square. Clean, open paved spaces are all well and
good, but that's not what we're here for. We're looking for a bit of
nature. A bit of green stuff.
And here's a start. Lining the pavement between the two squares are a
row of circular concrete planters, the brightly coloured flowers
leading the eye up the road to the war memorial which stands proud in
front of Parade Gardens. Behind the Cenotaph, trees stand just as
proud, guarding the perimeter of a large expanse of freshly mown
grass, neatly trimmed up to the paved edges. Those proud trees have
dropped some leaves, softening (dare I say messing up) the tidy lines
of the large expanse of lush green. Suited office workers are dotted
around the gardens sitting on benches eating sandwiches; By the
cannons, under the imposing central statue, alongside the play area,
the good people of the world are catching some rays and eating tea off
their laps as best as they can in skirts and suits1.
A kid kicks a ball to his dad, who promptly toe punts it into a flower
bed. Dad: "Doh!" Kid: giggles.
Other end of Parade Gardens now and there's a less peaceful feel.
Maybe the sound of the traffic rounding the corner. Maybe the hoodies
sitting on the backs of the benches drinking beer. Moving on.
Out of the gardens, across the road, round the corner, across the road again.
Ahead is Peoples Park. The grass here looks as well kempt as that in
Parade Gardens. Small square stone bollards run around the edge of
the park, enticing you in, but requiring a commitment, not just some
vague wandering in off the street. Walk one side and you're in the
town. Walk the other side and you're in the park. Let's commit to
the other side of the bollards, onto the lush lawn. The commitment is
surprisingly un-rewarded. The green, green grass that appeared soft
and supple has had a severe trim and is actually quite hard under
foot.
Into the park proper now and the view opens up southward and runs down
through green parkland, across to blue sea, and up into blue sky
dotted with white cloud. The road noise drops as we move away and
through the trees. Off to the left a gaggle of silver haired men and
women play a friendly (one presumes) game of pétanque. Off to the
right a huge white marquee has been erected. The clatter and clink of
poles from within indicates that the construction is not yet complete.
A worker passes an armful of 6ft poles to another worker, who promptly
drops them. Worker: "Doh!" Other worker: mutters.
Along the eastern edge of the park a hill climbs sharply and paths can
be seen zigzagging up through the trees. Let's make a beeline to the
foot of one of those paths. Left, up steps. Right, up a sloping
path. Left, up more steps. Right, up more path. Amid all this
direction change there is one constant. Up. At the top, looking
down, (breathing heavily), St Helier stretches off into the distance,
with Peoples Park now below to the left (and Victoria Park below in
front, having been missed due to our uphill excursion). Looking
seaward, the tide is out as far as Elisabeth Castle and the edge of
the causeway glints in the evening sunlight.
The path continues high above the Promenade, looking down at the roofs
of the six storey development of luxury penthouses, which itself is
set back part way up the hill. There's an eerie quietness up here.
Distant sounds drift up from below; traffic noise; kids in the park.
Out of the park, join a road, leave the road, down a slope.
Into West Park. The path drops and begins zigzagging again, down
through the trees, down beneath the leafy canopy. Paths lead off, up
and down. Some paths less trodden than others. One in particular
beacons us deep into the undergrowth. A thick carpet of dead pine
needles covers the ground, although the path remains apparent. An
eerie silence of a different kind now. Footsteps muffled and muted by
foliage. Noise deadened by dead needles. This peculiar path winds
its weird and wonderful way back up. We arrive at a wall. With a
door in it. Glance over shoulder. Try the door. Locked. Good job
too, for all we know it might have lead to some undiscovered corner of
Narnia. Moving on. (Not spooked, honest). Back down, but this
doesn't seem the way we came. Wrong turn somewhere. Left. Right.
Left again. Keep going. One constant. Down. Ahead through the
trees a road appears. At the bottom, (breathing heavily, again,) real
life resumes. People go about their business. The curious door and
weird wood now seem like a bizarre disjointed dream.
Out of the gardens, across the road, down some steps.
Into Lower Park. A simple slim strip of grass (big enough to land a
Chinook on, allegedly) tapers off into the distance. The lawn is
bordered on one side by a path and the steep rise back up to West
Park, and bordered on the other side by a low wall then Victoria
Avenue then the bay. Let's walk the path back in the direction of
Victoria Park, the rise to our left and the sea to our right. The
evening sun warms the back of the neck, but the gentle sea breeze
cools it.
Out of the park, across the road, along the pavement, through a gateway.
Into Victoria Park. Small but perfectly formed, all geometric shapes
and vivid colours. A green tinged bronze Queen Victoria stands proud
atop a white stone four-sided column. The column is set in a circular
flower bed of pinks and whites and greens. Around the bed runs a
circular path, which itself is encompassed by a circular low stone
wall in which raised flower beds are set with the same pinks, whites
and greens. At three intervals around the wall there are openings out
to paths, and between each opening are two insets for wooden seating.
The three paths run straight out like the spokes of wheel into a
triangular lawn around which is set a low hedge.
The sunlight glares off one side of the white column and casts a long
evening shadow away from the opposite side. Queen Victoria's shadow
points the way home. Back towards the apartment blocks of concrete,
steel and glass. Tomorrow morning, her shadow will point back towards
the park again.
Notes from a (Very) Small Island Archive
Crow would have you know.
