Guernsey

Østerport station, Denmark

 Before I bought my ticket for Denmark, I already had my ticket for Guernsey -- it was the side-trip Lauren and I most wanted to take together.  Years back, Lauren recommended the book The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society to me, and we both loved it.  How could I resist a book with this line in it:

"Do you suppose the St. Swithin's furnace-man was my one true love? Since I never spoke to him, it seems unlikely, but at least it was a passion unscathed by disappointment." 

If you have a chance to read it, please do so.  If you have a chance to visit Guernsey, please do that as well -- I promise, the descriptions in the book are not exaggerated.  As for potato-peel pie, I can offer no insights: it must be a wartime thing.

two gals, two bags, and an early train

But before we got to Guernsey we had to spend a day in train stations and airports.  The train wasn't so bad (we missed our stop and had to backtrack), but I must say that if Gatwick Airport has a fanclub, I'd like an official 'Not a Member' badge.  It wasn't just that we had to go through immigration there (which was pesky and time-consuming, but at least I understand the logic behind it), and it wasn't just that Aurigney Airlines doesn't bother to man their desk in between flights (they only fly to Guernsey, so: small company), it was the internal layout of the airport itself once you got past security.  It's basically a big room with insufficient seating, three screens with flight data, and two hallways labelled "Gates 1-9" and "Gates 10-95".  Then they don't tell you which gate is yours until ten minutes before you're supposed to be boarding.  So it's packed full of hundreds of people destined for dozens of destinations all draped uncomfortably over their luggage, staring up at the three screens like zombies.  And we got to be zombies with them.  Twice.  For hours and hours.  Also it cost about $6 to get a small bottle of juice and a mini can of Pringles.  Okay, I'll stop complaining now.

The wonderful thing was that we arrived in Guernsey, safely, with our one rolling suitcase and our one backpack intact, and we were picked up by our jolly shuttle driver and taken to our hotel.  The Pandora Hotel is basically adorable.  They give you honestly-real room keys, and they have a piano and armchairs in the lounge, have tea available all day long, and serve proper breakfast.  By 'proper' I mean you are seated at a small table marked with your room number (fully laid out with table cloth and dishes), served coffee or tea in a porcelein pot, given a little wire rack of toast (with packets of jam and Guernsey butter), and fed a hot plate of fried eggs and substantial bacon (or ham or kippers or whatever's your pleasure).  They also have Guernsey yogurt.  Lauren and I were penning odes to Pandora breakfast in general, and that yogurt in particular.

Pandora is also where all the older couples stay in Guernsey, apparently, so we were anomalous.  I think they thought we were cute.  The feeling was mutual.

random Guernsey doorstep

Our first dinner that night was at the Terrace Garden Cafe just down the street, and it was deeply confused: the decorations were Italian Villa meets Asian Rock Garden, complete with fake grapes on trellaces and golden statues of Buddha.  We had Thai food, and it was cheap, but dreadful.  Then we returned to our hotel lounge and realized that Lauren's computer couldn't connect to the wifi.  Mine could, but we couldn't recharge my battery because our adapter wouldn't work with my plug.  So no more internet after my battery died.  But we had two German couples drinking beer across from us, a quiet British couple drinking tea and wine beside us, and a boistrous crowd of French people further down, so we were not without entertainment.

Our first day we set out to see St. Peter Port, which is Guernsey's largest town.  It's all built into the hill, with narrow streets, cobbled sidewalks, and beautiful old houses with chimney pots.  Some of the narrow alleyways are actually staircases.  Space is at a premium, so it all crowds its way right up to the marina, which is full-to-bursting with boats.  We walked both ways along the town front, and out to Castle Cornet where we almost lost Lauren's lens cap into the Channel.  The water around Guernsey is impossible shades of tourquoise and emerald, changing with sun and shade, and I forgot until I was there just how happy the smell of salt water makes me.

 

 Heading inland again, we browsed the shops.  Guernsey's downtown is closed to cars and lorries and hung with flags overhead.  I stopped by the ATM (for some British cash this time) and the machine somewhat haughtily told me to, "Please wait while we deal with your request."  My word.  I was expecting to be knifed by British ninjas at any moment.  But it gave me a 10 pound note (roughly $15), and I must say that Queen Elizabeth is prettier than both Alexander Hamilton and Abraham Lincoln combined.

 

We had a lovely time browsing (and I'll admit that it was nice to have all the signage in English again).  I found some post-cards and a few souvenirs, and then we were abruptly starving, so we checked out a few cafes and they were all ruinously expensive except for one: Presto Pasty!  I think it may be the British equivalent of Panera Bread, only with pasties instead of sandwiches.  We each ordered a pot of tea and a pasty -- which is basically a turn-over with a flaky crust outside and meat and potatos inside (mine had apple, chives and pork filling) -- and we enjoyed our view and immitated British accents when we thought no one was near enough to hear us.

 

In the square we watched a band of seven old men called the Tom Cats.  They played multiple instruments, sang mostly in French, and when someone in the audience told them it was her birthday, they sang to her and each gave her two kisses, one for each cheek.  They made us laugh.

For dinner we considered trying somewhere new, but ultimately went back to the Terrace Garden because it fit our budget and the rooftop deck has a great view of the harbor.  We were complete tourists and ordered hamburgers and chips (that is: fries), and they were better than the Thai food but still not great.  Everything closes at 5pm in Guernsey, and then everything else closes by 7pm, so we crashed in our room, flipped to one of the 10 channels on the TV and watched-- but no.  I've been sworn to secrecy.  Suffice it to say that everything on that night was American, and two of the channels were running episodes of two different spin-offs of CSI, so that was sort of funny.

Next day was Sunday and all the shops were closed, so we found ourselves a bus schedule and determined to go see the natural beauties of the island.  We were sidetracked by a massive crowd in town, and we decided to line the sidewalks with them and see what was going on.  I don't think we realized what sort of event it was until the Olympic torch went by.  The games are being held in the UK this year, and apparently the torch is making its way through all the channel islands on its way there, making this a very big first-ever event for Guernsey.  Everyone waved balloons and ribbons on sticks, cheered in an orderly fashion, and then broke up very sedately afterwards and didn't leave any litter behind.  Gotta love the British when they go crazy!

 

The bus was great fun, and also nerve-wracking.  We went from St. Peter Port to Jerbourg to see the cliffs, then from St. Martin's to Cobo Bay, then from Cobo back home again, so that by the end of the day we had traversed the entire 26-mile circumference of the island.  That was wonderful!  The nerve-wracking part came in two forms:

First, Guernsey's roads are all narrow and hemmed, both sides, by rock walls -- no shoulder.  Whipping around a sharp curve with no wiggle room in a full-sized bus is a nail-biting experience, even after the first few compact cars have safely passed you (on the wrong side of the road) and nobody has died. 

Second, none of the bus stops are labelled.  They're labelled on the map, but there are no signs beside the road, and the bus driver won't stop unless you hit the button telling him that your stop is coming up.  And how are you supposed to KNOW that your stop is coming up if there are no signs...?  No clue.  We settled for a combination of guessing based on Lauren's previous trip, asking the bus driver to tell us (they wouldn't always remember), and getting out at the wrong stop and then leaping back in before the bus left.  It was eventful.

Jerbourg

The cliffs at Jerbourg Point remind me of the island in Jurassic Park: too pretty to be real.  We walked down a narrow trail, then across a narrow bridge all the way out to the point, and there we just sat awhile, soaking in the sun and the wind.  We bought Guernsey ice cream, and decided to walk to St. Martin's and catch our bus there instead of waiting for it to come back to Jerbourg.  All the little beach houses were named things like 'Lily May', 'Doyle Cottage', 'Serena', and a lot of French names I can't remember.  Not a one was named 'Sandy Claws' or 'Shell be Coming Round the Mountain', which made for a nice change.

Next we went to Cobo Bay.  It was never really warm, by our standards, during our whole visit to Guernsey -- but Cobo came the closest.  The beach is backed by a high stone retaining wall, with stairs leading down, and we sat on white sand and soaked up sun (in spite of the chill breeze blowing in off the water).  Up at the hotel behind us there was a band playing American 70s rock covers by AC/DC, Journey, and so forth.  There's moments in life which are rather exactly what they ought to be, and white sand between my toes, Lauren lying on the beach trying to soak up as much warmth as possible, black rocks, blue water, and Don't Stop Believing in the air was one of those moments.

When we were too cold to stay out, we went into the pub and ordered some chips and a couple pints of Randall's Patois, which is one of the few ales brewed on Guernsey.  I actually liked it!  You who know me know that this is a big deal -- I'm not much of a beer drinker.  Figures that I would finally find a beer I like, and odds are good they don't sell it back home...  *le sigh*

It was at the Rockmount (that's the pub) that we met Keiron, who was a Guernsey man born and bred, though he's lived in Cambodia and a few other places as well.  It was interesting hearing him describe small-town life when you don't even have the option of driving somewhere else for bigger stores because after a twenty-minute drive, you hit the ocean.  Guernsey, we found out, isn't actually a part of the UK.  It is its own separate entity, though you can use British currency there and suchness.  We talked music and running and accents (he said he loved hearing us talk because of our American accents, which was hilarious to us; apparently, my accent is thicker than Lauren's).  He also blamed us for the cool weather.  Apparently when we have a hurricane in the US, by the time it reaches Guernsey, it's warm weather -- and this year we haven't had any good hurricanes.  Oops.

photo credit for Rockmount shots: Lauren

We caught the last bus out of Cobo and rode home with a hilarious Irish family who all sounded like they were characters out of 'Brave'.  Back in St. Peter Port, we bought noodle soup in a cup to make in our room for dinner (to save money) and it was awful (truly), but we were knackered, so we didn't care.

On our last day we knew we had to catch our shuttle at 12:30, so we packed and went down to wait for breakfast, and a darling old gentleman asked us if we would like him to play piano for us.  He played us Chopin's Nocturne.  We walked around town and got a last cup of tea so that we'd have an excuse to sit and stare at people.  I'm telling you, families with small children are generally entertaining, but the cuteness multiplies when the kids have tiny British accents.

Guernsey airport reminds me of Asheville airport back home: only four gates, and basically all in one room.  We leaned against eachother, watching people get frisked by security, and marvelled at all the seeing we'd managed to fit into just two and a half days.  And then we had another day of airports and trains, in which nothing much happened.  Well, two different sets of airport security unpacked our very carefully packed suitcase looking for perfume or explosives or something (which was how we met Steve, the friendly airport security bloke)... and we barely got our carry-on onto our first flight (but DID, and felt excessively smug over it)... and then a drunk kid tried (very unsuccessfully) to flirt with us on the train platform in Copenhagen... and then a dude on the train offered us candy.  I wanted to laugh.  Fortunately, we were able to say: "This is our stop."  So I didn't eat the stranger's candy.

The next day, we slept.

...and then we went to Germany!