Short Break in Sark

[Howard]

Molly, Joss and I are off tomorrow for a long weekend on Sark, that tiny and rather remote (you can only get there normally from the mainland by flying to Guernsey, then by boat) member of the Channel Islands.

We're celebrating the 50th birthday of a mutual friend who lives there permanently.  Molly has been to Sark many times before, though not for several years, while it will a first for Joss and me.  Molly and I will try to contribute posts about our visit, she as an old hand, me as a beginner, with plenty of photographs.

I wasn't sure where to put this topic: should it be in 'Holidays in the UK' or 'Vacations in Europe'?  A more complicated question than you might think, because Sark is part of the British Isles, but not strictly part of the UK, though the Queen is its sovereign.  Interestingly, until 2007 it was the last feudal state in Europe! (See Wiki at http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sark )

We're very much looking forward to it.  Thinking about it, I've not been very good at visiting non- mainland British Isles, the only ones in my list so far being:

Isle of Man
Isle of Wight
Skye

(I'm not sure if mainland Ireland counts as one of the British Isles, but I have  been there.  Have never visited Anglesey, Shetlands, Orkney Isles, any of the other Hebrides, or Lundy, or the Scillies - and I don't think Portsea Island, Portsmouth counts!)

[steveg]

Isn't Sark the place where they don't allow motorised transport? (other than licenced tractors for the farmers etc)

Horse drawn taxi's and the like.....

[Lotus Freak]

have fun, can't wait to read all about it and have a lookse at the pics. I haven't been to any of the other non-mainland islands but someday I'll get there. I've had opportunities to go to Anglesey but ti was aminly for motorsport.

Steve, has the lovely Paula ever taken you to Mackinac Island? Lovely place, no motorised vehicles allowed, it's like it's stuck in Victorian times. We stayed at The Grand Hotel when my friend and I went. Very peaceful place

[steveg]

No, I've not been to Mackinac island (though it is on plan for one visit or other), I have read about it a few times in books - I have though been to a few offshore islands of the UK , notably: Anglesey - Skye - Isle of Man and Northern Ireland

[Molly Mockford]

That's right, Sark doesn't allow cars:  only tractors, and every one of those needs a good excuse.  Cycles are OK, and horses, and elderly and disabled folk are allowed electric BatriCars (known as granny-wagons).  Mostly, one just walks.  This isn't a hardship;  the island is three miles by one-and-a-half.

Anyway, here's my account of yesterday.  Today's journal will follow, tomorrow!

Friday 26th March 2010

It was one of those days when everything went so smoothly that one didn't dare comment on the fact, for fear of breaking the run of good luck!  The day dawned fair and clear;  the cats were breakfasted and boxed up by the appropriate time;  I took mine over to Joss and Howard's place, and she drove us to the cattery with her one and my two.  They opened ten minutes early, and checking the casts in took no time at all, and it was back home (no rush-hour queues, despite it being 9am) in plenty of time to pick up the already-packed luggage and be ready for the taxi.  He arrived early, and delivered us to the station with 20 minutes to spare.  Howard and I had come to the station the day before to buy the tickets, so we only had to stroll to the platform, and wait in the sunshine.  The train was fairly full, but we got seats without difficulty;  a pleasant young man with a laptop and *two* (count 'em!) mobile phones was in the fourth seat at our table, and we soon fell into conversation about the merits of the iPhone.

At Gatwick Airport, we checked in for the flight, and had time to mooch around the shops before going through security.  Howard set off the alarms, of course;  we have no idea what it was (his watch, coins in his pockets, whatever – but it was something that next time he will need to put into one of the wee trays) but even that didn't take long.  Through to the departure lounge, not long to wait, and onto the plane – which was only half-full.

A pleasant, though brief, flight.  In my experience, there is barely time to get a gin'n'tonic down one's next before the plane is descending for the landing.  In all the six flights I did during my Hawaiian holiday, I drank nothing but water and diet Coke – but it has always been traditional for me to have a G&T on the Guernsey plane, and I did so today.  Howard joined me, and Joss had a coffee.

The plane landed on time, albeit slightly bumpily (hey, it was two landings for the price of one!).  Howard reckoned it was the first time in 40 years he had flown on a plane with propellors – but they are the only planes which are really appropriate for such short flights.  At the airport, I was disappointed to find that they had changed the carpet in the 10-12 years (I can't quite remember how long it is) since I was last here;  it used to have the same pattern as the carpet in the corridors of "The Shining", where the wee boy trundles alone on his tricycle.  We picked up our luggage and got a taxi who took us to St Peter Port, where we left the luggage in the Left Luggage place – an open container on the dockside, unsupervised;  in all the decades I've been coming here, I've never known a single thing go missing from there.  Nevertheless, to be on the safe side, one always keeps essentials with one;  Howard with his camera and camcorder, me with my camera and laptop.

To the Sark Shipping Office to check in and collect our free tickets for the crossing to Sark (part of the package we have with the hotel, which covers three nights B&B, one evening meal, the boat crossing and the toastrack up and down the hill – more of that later!).  Then the heavens opened!  so we ducked into a warehouse doorway for ten minutes until the rainstorm passed.  We headed for the Esplanade, and into the Ship and Crown, which always used to do a rather good crab sandwich.  It still does!  Drinks prices were expensive, almost mainland-level, but the sandwiches we had (crab for Joss and me, egg mayo for Howard) were excellent value and delicious, on thick, freshly-made bread.  We chatted to a couple at the other end of the table, who were making their first visit to Guernsey, and enjoying it so far.

There wasn't time to visit the chandlers that I remembered, so we strolled down to the quay, where a few people had already gathered to await the Sark boat.  We took our luggage from the store and joined the queue.  There were a number of boxes of funeral flowers, marked for Mary Hamon ("nan and grand-nan");  I know a number of Hamons, but couldn't place Mary.  The boat, the Sark Venture, arrived, and the luggage was passed down the steps and loaded, and then the passengers boarded.  It's a basis sort of boat, just rows of parallel seating, and an area at the stern where you can go outside.  Howard and I went out to get photos of Castle Cornet as we left St Peter Port, but the water is always lumpy outside the harbour and it wasn't easy to keep a camera steady.  In fact, the crossing was rather bumpier than I had expected, given the state of the weather;  it was nothing unpleasant, but whenever I went outside it was necessary to hold on carefully, one couldn't just stroll around.  When we arrived at Sark, the boat had to make two attempts to dock in Maseline Harbour, going out after the first attempt and turning around, to come in the other way around.

We disembarked, and there was Alan waiting for us at the quay.  A number of his family were on the same boat as us;  he had told me that they would be, and to make ourselves known to them, but I had no intention of offending strangers by accusing them of being related to Alan!  However, I was glad to discover that the ones whom I had suspected of this heinous offence were in fact the guilty parties.

We were slow leaving the quay, and by the time we strolled through the tunnel in the cliff to the bottom of Harbour Hill, the first toastrack had filled up.  The toastrack is the local name for Harbour Hill Transport, or the island bus:  it is a rack of seats, open alone one side, which is towed behind a tractor up and down Harbour Hill.  The other other passenger transport permitted on the island (where there are no cars, and tractors are only allowed for agricultural or other official use) is horse-drawn carriages.  Cycling and walking are the usual means of getting about, but Harbour Hill is steep, and the island decided to permit the toastrack to carry passengers only on that piece of the island.

We went through another tunnel in the rock to take a look at the original 16th-century harbour, Creux Harbour.  It dries out at low tide, but is still in regular use for smaller craft, and occasionally conditions are such that the inter-island boats use it.  Maseline Harbour, however, built in the 1950s (I used to know the engineer responsible, a man called Reg Titford who retired to Sark after building harbours all over the world), is a deep-water harbour which can be used at any state of tide – although not necessarily at any state of wind.  Sark is not the most accessible of islands!  That is part of its charm.

Once the toastrack had disgorged its passengers at the top of the hill it came back down for us and another couple of passengers, and carried us as far as the Bel Air – one of the two actual pubs on the island (although one of the hotels, Dixcart, has a public licence in its bar, which is in effect a third pub – other hotels have licences for guests and diners only).  I encountered an old acquaintance (well, not all that old! – he was a schoolboy when I first came to the island, and was aware of me and Paul walking around the island from long before we were aware of him) and I was surprised and delighted to find that I was recognised and remembered, although it is over ten years since I was last here.  Joss, Howard and I went around to the little off-licence attached to the Bel Air so that they could pick up cigarettes and gin, and then we went into the pub for a few drinks, in traditional style!  Since it was Friday night, locals were pouring in;  there's a popular weekly raffle called The Meat Draw (you can win legs of lamb, fresh turkeys, stuff like that – ideal for locals and self-catering visitors, not so essential for those in hotels) and we bought out tickets;  if we win, we can pass the goodies on to Alan if they don't look safe to take home with us.  I met one or two other locals who recognised and remembered me, which made me feel very pleased and humble – I really hadn't expected to be recognised, I was all ready to give people essential details to enable them to remember me from way back, but it wasn't necessary.  When I was last here I had long hair, was a lot fatter than I am now, and had a husband;  and yet they still knew me, at once!

Then we strolled over to our hotel, Aval du Creux, and checked in.  Our luggage had been delivered by the carter who deals with Aval (amongst other hotels);  we had previously put the cases into the tractor's trailer, although it's not essential to do that.  We were shown to our rooms, which are very nice indeed – the hotel has been refurbished since I was last here, and the shower is like something out of the USS Enterprise!  There is WiFi in the rooms, so I was able to set up my laptop and get myself organised.  In the reception area the inevitable happened:  I encountered someone whose face I remembered, and who remembered me, but I couldn't remember her name!  I racked my brains, and eventually came up with forenames for her and her husband, so I checked with Reception, and they confirmed the names – which is a bit of a relief!

We were due to meet Alan and his other guests in the Dixcart Hotel bar, now named Hugo's (part for Victor Hugo who came to Sark, but really I think for a Bassett Hound who was hotel dog in the 1990s). "What is the path there like?" Joss and Howard asked me.  "Fine!" I said.  "Stone roadway for half the way, then a dry sandy-gravel path to the hotel.  No problem!"

Of course, it is probably 11 years since I was last here.  I knew that they were doing major building work at Stocks Hotel, which is next-door-catty-corner to Dixcart.  Nevertheless, I did not expect to encounter ankle-deep red mud for the last 80 yards of the walk!  I had made sure that everybody had their own torch (shared torches only lead to opprobrium, when Person A shines torch on own feet and Person B objects strongly), which was just as well.  It took us quite a while to negotiate these paddy-fields, and not only our footwear but also the bottom few inches of our jeans ended up clarted with mud.

Never mind.  It was a thoroughly good evening, and an excellent meal.  Most of Alan's family were new to me (and all were new to J&H);  it turned out that his uncle Maurice was somebody that Howard had sworn fiercely at on the boat over ... well, Howard's swearing was more of a "Thank you, God!" outburst, when Maurice walked in front of the view that Howard was busily filming.  It was fun watching him offer grovelling apologies, however!  (Not that Maurice needed the apologies;  he is a most affable gent.)

The meal was HUGE.  I started with chef-cured gravadlax;  J&H both had huge bowls of brown onion soup;  others had other things.  Then most of us opted for the cod and chips.  A crisp, light, beer batter surrounded ultra-fresh fish, cooked to perfection.  And not just one piece, but two!  On top of the most enormous mound of superbly-cooked chips!  (For the Americans reading this, we're talking French Fries.  No, none of your "freedom fries";  most of the cuisine on this island is French-inspired, after all.)  These truly were examples of the Piece of Cod Which Passeth All Understanding.

Not many of us could cope with the idea of a pudding/dessert/sweet after that.  I was one of the few, brave individuals who took on this task.  All of the others went for the Sark-made ice-cream (which I know to be fabulous);  adventurous as always, I wondered what on earth they would offer me by way of a Double Chocolate Crème Brulée.  (It was a luscious chocolate custard-y pudding;  but it wasn't in any way at all brulée.  Ah well.)

Drink and food and talk and laughter;  everybody getting on like a house on fire with everybody else;  it was a really wonderful evening.  When we left (before 10:30:  well, none of us is getting any younger!) we went around by a different route to miss the worst of the mud, and the walk back home was straightforward after that.  The night had mostly cleared, and stars and planets were doing their stuff in between a  few bits of cloud;  however, the gibbous moon was too bright for the starts to appear as magnificently as they can do in this clear night sky, so blessedly free of light pollution.  Most times, one can see the Milky Way as a definitely milky stripe across the sky;  there are extra stars in the Pleiades;  planets are clearer than anywhere else.  But the moon rather outshone then last night.  Alan's brother Chris is a keen amateur astronomer, and he and I walked out in front of the others, outpacing their torches (once you know the paths of Sark, you don't actually need a torch except in a very few places – even the dimmest starlight is sufficient) and when I saw a planet I couldn't identify (it clearly wasn't Venus, Mars or Jupiter) he identified it for me as Saturn – the first time I have knowingly seen it with the naked eye.  August here in Sark, with the Perseids meteor shower, is a magical time;  it's too long since I was here for that.

The party divided as we approached the end of the walk.  Joss, Howard and I returned to our hotel, Aval du Creux, and although it was only 10:40 we were ready for bed, after a great deal of fresh air (and very salty sea air;  compared to the Honolulu air, Sark air is much saltier, as the spray flies up all around the island) and several drinks.

Our keys wouldn't open the front door.

We had checked before going out that the keys on our rings which we thought were the front-door keys really were;  but they just turned and turned, and wouldn't unlock the door.

We walked around the building, trying kitchen doors and such.  No luck.

We hammered on the front door, and shouted.  No luck.

We phoned up Alan, who phoned the manageress (who doesn't live in the hotel), and within ten minutes a sheepish lady - who must have arrived at a staff entrance, because she approached from indoors - was opening the door for us.  She asserted that the lock itself must have failed, but we rather suspect that somebody had, carelessly, double-locked the door when leaving, so that it could only be opened from inside.  We had spent about 20 minutes trying to get in, and were pretty angry about the whole business – especially since we weren't exactly late getting back.  Trouble is, it's still the low season, and there is no night porter in this wee hotel.

OK, I knew I could have found us beds for the night.  But that's not the point.  If we had been strangers, if we hadn't known the island, we could have been outside all night.  Black mark to the Aval du Creux!

[Molly Mockford]

Saturday 27th March 2010

The hotel rooms are very comfortable and I slept very well indeed - however, the heating doesn't automatically go off, or even turn itself down, overnight, so it was rather hot until I threw off the coverlet. I woke at about 6:30, and knowing that breakfast didn't start until 8:00 I didn't hurry myself, but had a leisurely shower.

Before we left the mainland, I had had a rather embarrassed phone call from the hotel to say that refurbishment work they were doing to the restaurant had not been completed, and that we would have to eat in another part of the hotel. They confirmed, however, that their full menu would be available, so I reckoned it didn't matter where we ate it. I suspect, however, that (especially with it still being the low season) there were not many guests in the hotel. At breakfast I could see that, apart from us, there was just one other party, of four - there were two tables set up in what would normally have been a ground-floor bedroom! But there was a decent breakfast on offer - fresh fruit salad, yoghurts, cereals, three types of fresh juice, croissants, Danish pastries etc. I had fruit salad and a croissant, still warm from the oven; some of the cheese-and-ham platter; a couple of boiled eggs; and toast. The first batch of toast I had to send back, as it was stone-cold (this room was rather a long way from the kitchen); the second batch, sensibly, they brought under one of those silver dome-shaped covers, so it was a reasonable temperature.

Joss and Howard had slept late, and had only just woken up when I knocked on their door at 8am; so I breakfasted alone until the other party turned up. I finished before J&H arrived, and went back to my room to type up yesterday's journal. Once they had breakfasted, we went for a stroll up The Avenue (the concentration of a dozen or so little shops which makes up Sark's commercial centre), buying postcards and stamps in the Post Office and having a chat with Caroline. We also took a look at the new Visitor Centre, which has a pretty good display of stuff about Sark. It is in the old girls' school, next door to the prison (which holds a maximum of two people, and is still in use even if infrequently). While looking at the prison we fell into conversation with Joyce Southern who runs the Fleur du Jardin tea-garden (which is not, of course, open for business yet) and had a good chat about old times.

It was coming up to 11am, the time for which Alan had booked us a couple of carriages for a two-hour tour of the island. It's a long time since I'd taken a carriage ride; they're good, because you can see over the hedges and banks and get a much better view than walking around. Joss, Howard, Chris and I took one carriage and the others went in the other. The driver of ours, a Cambridgeshire lass called Hayley, had a fairly easy job of it because Chris and I were able to point out to Joss and Howard all the necessary things to look at, and give the background - only referring to Hayley for information on things which had changed. We did the full tour, up to l'Eperquerie Common at the north of the island, round and back south to the Seigneurie where we all got out and had tea and cakes at Hathaway's where we'll be eating tonight, but decided against paying £3 to visit the gardens - they are very attractive gardens, but no garden is at its best at this time of year.

When we returned to the carriages, we continued south to La Coupee. Sark consists of two halves, Big Sark and Little Sark, and they are joined by a narrow isthmus with precipitous sides, known as La Coupee. On the western side there is a zig-zag path down to a magnificent beach, La Grande Greve; unfortunately, a rockfall during the cold weather last December (it is rare for Sark to have snow and ice, but it had them that winter) had wiped out the lower part of the path. That could be cleared, but it is obvious when you look that a huge chunk of the rock face is unstable and could come down at any time, and it really needs to be blasted away before the bay can be re-opened. It'll be a huge, and expensive, job.

We crossed the Coupee on foot; carriages are not allowed to carry passengers over it, and cyclists have to dismount. Even with the railings which it now has, it would be only too easy to fall from a cycle or carriage, and falling down either side is usually fatal. After taking some photos from the Little Sark end, we returned across and rejoined the carriages, which took us back to our starting point. An excellent two-hour tour, and all for only £10 a head!

The party split up again, and the three of us headed for Bel Air, where we consumed spritzers and beer respectively. I wrote my postcards, and went back to the Post Office to post them and to buy a pair of dead-cheap gloves (Joss had bought a dead-cheap hat, to stop her hair blowing around in the carriage, and mentioned that there had been gloves too) which helped to stop me getting white fingers - the temperature is not high at this time of year. After an hour or two it was back to the hotel for a rest (and, in fact, an afternoon nap), after which we changed for dinner, and returned to Bel Air, this time for gin'n'tonics (or beer) by way of pre-prandial drinks.

It was a half-hour walk from there to the Seigneurie and Hathaway's restaurant, and we arrived at precisely 7:30. We knew that Alan had invited "a few people" for his birthday dinner; in fact, there were nearly 60, at two long tables in one room and one long table in an adjoining room. As more and more people arrived, we milled around with drinks in our hands talking to whoever ended up near us. Alan's daughter Abigail arrived, having caught the Saturday afternoon boat, and we had a good chat with her; she has stayed in Lewes, sharing Joss and Howard's daughter's room, and was eager for news of Julia.

At eight we all sat down at the tables, managing to sort ourselves out reasonably well. The meal was excellent, and amazingly efficiently produced and served; it cannot be easy to produce three starters, three main courses and three sweets for 58 people in one party! I started with a prawn cocktail made with vodka (although not enough to taste), followed by sea bass with a heavenly sauce, and then cheesecake. There were plenty of bottles of wine on the table, and these were replenished when they were empty. All in all it was a superb meal, perfectly executed; and once again there were quite a few people I hadn't seen in years but who hadn't forgotten me! In fact, as the wine flowed and people moved into expansive mode, some of them appeared so very glad to see me again that I felt quite guilty for having deprived them of my presence for so long!!

I think it was around midnight when the party broke up, and we wove our way homewards, to sleep very soundly indeed.

[Molly Mockford]

Sunday 28th March 2010

The clocks went forward an hour last night, so we are now officially in British Summer Time. I could have done with that extra hour's sleep! But I hauled myself out of my bed, and appeared in the breakfast room shortly after 9am, just a few minutes after Joss and Howard. It was a good breakfast, and more efficiently served than yesterday.

Most of Sark is closed on a Sunday, and it's a good day to go walking (although any day is a good day to go walking here). I planned a route which took us along the south coast of Big Sark, from a point above Derrible Bay (well-named, the path down to the beach is indeed terrible, and I have only had the courage to do it half-a-dozen times; however, the bay itself is sandy and beautiful, although rather small) westwards through a valley and up to a ridge called the Hogsback, from which one gets superb views of Derrible Bay to the left and Dixcart Bay to the right, as well as other islands. Sark being as small as it is, both sea-birds and land-birds intermingle; I was glad to see an old familiar pair of ravens (although very unlikely to be the same individuals) running the gauntlet of the screaming blackback gulls, as in the old days. There is even a gang of common-or-garden ducks which sometimes go swimming in the sea!

From there it was down into Dixcart Valley, across the stream (I think it's the only spring-fed stream on the island; all other water comes from wells or boreholes on each property, and one makes sure that one doesn't waste it) and up a long flight of steps to Dixcart Hotel, where we had drinks. Thirst dictated that I had water and Joss ginger beer, although Howard had beer. Because it is Sunday, and one cannot drink alcohol unless one is eating, we ordered the minimum lunch to keep ourselves legal: Joss and I had a wonderful dark onion soup with French bread and butter, and Howard had a ham sandwich. None of us was really hungry after last night's dinner, and this morning's breakfast.

Alan's family suddenly turned up, not to eat or drink but just passing the hotel, led by Chris on the section of the walk which I had in mind for after lunch. By this time it had started to rain, although only lightly. Unfortunately it was clearly set in for some time; the cloud was pretty much at ground level, and visibility was very poor. Nevertheless, after lunch we set off on the route I had planned. I hadn't realised that there was yet more building work going on west of the hotel; what had been a footpath had been widened to take tractors to the construction site, and it was all a sea of mud. Fortunately, it was only a matter of maybe 50 yards before we turned off the lane into a field, the other side of which we couldn't even see! But I knew that there was a stile, leading into path through a nice bit of woodland, opening up to good sea views. Of course, there weren't any views to be seen today, so I remembered them and the others imagined them. The path ends up at the Coupee (see yesterday's journal), and from there we returned via the roads, which meant we managed to avoid too much more mud.

Back at the hotel around 2pm, we went to our rooms, the others with a newspaper to read, and me to type up yesterday's journal, and start on today's. At 3:30 we put on our wet-weather gear again (because the rain was still coming down, although not heavily) and went to Alan and Caroline's place, which is large and superbly-appointed - and would have wonderful views, if only there had been any visibility! I suggested that they should photograph the view, have it printed on a roller blind, and draw down the blind whenever the weather is murky. All the rest of the party were scattered through the rooms (kitchen, livingroom, conservatory) so we were able to say our goodbyes to them as well as to Alan and Caroline.

Back at the hotel at 5pm, ordered tomorrow's breakfast (which will be served at 7am, and we have to be out by 7:30 to catch the 8:00 boat), and now I'm going to start packing. We'll meet again at 6pm for drinks; I may grab an hour's snooze before that.

Well, I got ten minutes, after I'd done the basic packing! I set the alarm on my mobile phone, and it went off the moment I'd closed my eyes, it seemed. I splashed my face with water, and dressed for dinner; since this was to be in the same ground-floor bedroom as breakfast, I didn't see the need to dress up more than clean jeans and T-shirt! The three of us convened at 6pm for drinks, and they brought us dishes of olives in olive oil to nibble. Now, I love olive oil, but I'm not at all keen on olives, so I asked whether some other type of nibbles might be available - maybe peanuts? The little French waitress returned after a while, full of apologies, because there were no peanuts. Along came the maitresse d', who was Irish, and I queried whether it was really impossible to produce any snacks that weren't olives; she spoke to chef, who promptly set to and created three different types of canapes, specially! By the time they were ready, of course, we were pretty much onto our second round of drinks, but they were delicious when they came.

At 7:30 we went through to eat. The meal wasn't bad at all, although the portion sizes varied. I started with a ragout of beef sitting on a huge helping of linguine; the others had a few scraps of skate wing. Then they had roast rib of beef with roast potatoes and Yorkshire pudding, enormous platefuls, and I had a "duo" of seabass and Dover sole, which I have to say was a meagre portion. The sauce with it was excellent, though, and the side vegetables were all very good.

By now we were all feeling fairly full, but the dinner was part of the package we have with the hotel, so it seemed incumbent on us to have puddings. Howard had sticky toffee pudding - three thick slices - with ice-cream; Joss and I both had Sark ice-cream, which is excellent.

I tried to settle up for the drinks and such, but the computer system won't let them produce the bill until tomorrow morning! We have alarm calls booked for 6am, breakfast for 7am, and will catch the toastrack down Harbour Hill at 7:30. So, although it's not yet 10pm (and really 9pm if the clocks hadn't changed last night), I'm getting ready for bed. After all the fresh air, I think I'll sleep well tonight.

We're all a bit weather-beaten from today's walk; the sun was strong in the morning, even though the rain took over at lunchtime. When I think how bitterly Mickey complained that I wasn't getting brown enough in Hawai'i, and wouldn't be giving people back home a good impression of the climate there, I suspect he may take it as a personal insult that I return from three days on this wind-blown fragment of rock sporting a very respectable tan!

It's been wonderful to be back on Sark, though. And I was, and remain, quite mindblown by the number of people who remembered me after all these years, and recognised me, and were glad to see me! I hadn't expected anything of the sort, and it is very heartwarming indeed. I am looking forward to my return!

[Molly Mockford]

A few photos are now at http://picasaweb.google.com/molly.mockford/Sark2010#.

[Howard]

What I'm going to try to do is *not* peep at what Molly's written while I write my account of our visit to Sark, so that I won't get influenced!

Preamble

I've known about Sark since I was a small child.  For some reason, at a time when other boys of my age were interested in cars, their makes and marques, engine capacities and performance, I was interested in horse-drawn carriages and their different forms.  I knew how to identify a phaeton from brougham, a curricle from a tilbury; I even knew a bit about American carriage forms like rockaways and surreys!  I collected photos, drawings of carriages and books about them  -- it was a real passion.  One day my parents jokingly said to me while I was sticking pictures of carriages into an album, "Why don't you go and live on Sark: they don't allow cars there, only carriages!"

Somewhat later I found out more about Sark: the fact that it had a feudal government (not quite true even in those days, and certainly not true since 2007), and that its overlord was the Seigneur who owed fealty to the Duke of Normandy, who then as now was Elizabeth II.  Also there was the strange custom (shared with the other Channel Isles) whereby if anyone felt they were being wronged, they could appeal to the Seigneur by crying out in front of a witness the Clameur de Haro, a ritual formula which goes "Haro, haro, haro! À l'aide mon Prince! On me fait tort" (which your resident expert ( ) in Norman French legalese will now translate for you: "Haro, haro, haro!  Come to my assistance, my Prince!  I am being wronged!")  What had to happen then was that the alleged offence had to be halted until brought to court. The Clameur was last used in 1993, and the 'tort' was successfully stopped.

Another odd thing was (and in some cases these survive) the public officials and institutions.  The Court of Chief Pleas is the island parliament;  the Seneschal is its speaker and chief magistrate of the Island; the Prévôt is responsible for collecting fines and looking after the Island’s one-man jail; the Connétable and the Vingtenier are the two elected policemen; and the Greffier who acts as town clerk and clerk of court.

[Howard]

Preamble (Continued)

Where was I?  ...

Ah yes, the Sark officials and institutions.  I forgot to mention the Treasurer, who is often the same person as the Greffier.  Also, the Vingtennier, the Junior Constable, gets promoted to Connétable, Senior Constable, after his/her first year of office.  Our friend Alan, whose birthday we had gone over to Sark to celebrate has held both offices.

There are (or were) all manner of legal customs and rights.  Here are a few: bails a rente; premiere saisine; le trezieme; contrat; conge; rentes, dime; droit de tavernage; retraite lignager, just to mention a few to wow you.  But don't worry, I won't be testing you on them!  (Apologies for leaving off the accent marks -- it gets tedious to insert them after a while.)

The more eagle-eyed among you may have noticed the preponderance of Norman French words.  Up until about fifty or sixty years ago you could still hear a Norman patois spoken on the Island (indeed I did hear two ladies talking in the Guernsey dialect of Norman at Guernsey airport) but not anymore.  If you're interested in the patois, I list a few examples:

English          Sercqais        French
after you        aprie tue       apres vous
basket            l'paunyi         le pannier
carpenter        l'tierpenti       le charpentier
coal                l'tierbon        le charbon
follow me!       sui'meu!        suivez-moi!

That's probably enough to be going on with for now.  Once again, no test!  But I have to remark on the Sercqais word for 'banker', 'l'bantyi'.  Does that imply that the word for 'wanker'* would be 'l'ouantyi'?  I'll have to ask Alan! 

I'm going to have a short rest now -- all this failing to put in accents has exhausted me!  I realize I haven't even got as far as the taxi to Lewes station yet, but more later!

[* I had thought that the 'Naughty Words Censor' might have taken exception to that one, but it seems to be unconcerned about it at the moment!]

[Howard]

Preamble (Continued)

Okay, okay, okay -- I'll get us to the point of departure in a moment!  Just bear with me while I tell you about another thing I knew about Sark before I actually got there.

In the mid-80s, I think it was, there was televised version of the novel Mr Pye by Mervyn Peake (he of Gormenghast fame) which is located on the Island, and was filmed there.  It starred Derek Jacobi in the eponymous role. 

As it happens I had never read the novel (nor indeed the Gormenghast ones -- they had been over-recommended to me while I was at university, and being a contrary sod I assiduously gave them a miss.)  I can't remember now much about Mr Pye except that it was an allegorical magic-realism type thingy.  But I do remember that in the dramatized version Sark seemed a pleasant enough place, an impression which may have been slightly biased by the fact that one of the characters was a beautiful young woman who tended to wander the lanes of Sark stark naked   (well, boys will be boys!) -- or Sark naked, if you will.  So all in all, Sark seemed to be a reasonably beezer place to visit sometime.

The only other thing I knew about Sark was that for the majority of the 20th century, the Seigneur had in fact been a woman (Sybil Hathaway), and her title was therefore the female equivalent: Dame of Sark.  Since I seem to be in a rather word-playey mood this morning, may I remark that 'there ain't nothing like a ...'?  No?  Okay, like our Steve says, "I'll get me coat"!  Joking aside, Dame Sybil was a redoubtable leader of her people during the German occupation of the Island during the War, and did much to assuage the horrors of Nazi invasion by treating the Germans with a lofty and aristocratic -- but always polite -- disdain.