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to travel
Channel Islands
Channel Islands
Island happiness
Michael Schroder, Gerfried Vogt
09/02/1996
Early in the morning in St. Helier. Jersey’s capital and port city still looks sleepy, the wide streets lined with splendid and colorful Victorian houses are deserted. To the south of the city, on a reddish shimmering cliff and surrounded by water, the extensive fortress of Elizabeth Castle shimmers in the weak glow of the morning sun. Large, loudly screaming seagulls glide over the wide harbor basin, plunge into the sea in a flash, greedily snatch for the remains that are thrown overboard by returning fishermen. A mild wind drives the salty sea air through the alleys. A conciliatory mood after my frustration from last night, first the thing with the rental motorcycle. Instead of a MuZ Scorpion, new and yellow, I get a 125cc Honda, ancient and rusty. My fault – I should have made a reservation beforehand. But then the policeman who obviously doesn’t like motorcyclists. The uniformed man meticulously checked everything that was in my pockets. Routine, he assured me. “Have a nice day.” Shortly afterwards, the merciless doormen of the restaurants on the wide beach in St. Brelades Bay. “We serve no singles”, individuals are not served here. I was amazed. Three restaurants were closed to me as a single traveler, the fourth was closed. Great, but as I said, that was yesterday. Meanwhile, the first vacationers are strolling along the wide promenade of St. Helier, and an English breakfast is steaming on the plate in front of me: scrambled eggs, ham and bacon and a huge pot of coffee, with the waiter handing the last edition of the Jersey Evening Post. “The happiest people in the world!” Is written in large letters on the first page, and according to the following article, according to a survey by an English polling institute, the inhabitants of the Channel Islands think so. They swear by “the quiet life on the almost Mediterranean-style islands in the shadow of England and France,” it says, they pay no VAT and are proud of their independence, because the English government is only allowed to interfere in foreign policy matters – to rule the islands Its own laws, there is its own currency, and the islanders stubbornly defend themselves against acceptance into the European Community and against foreigners. Whoever wants to live here has to have a well-filled bank account and an impeccable repute and submit to a strict questioning procedure. Well then, I put the newspaper down and get on the little Honda to explore the wonderland. The four-lane road runs along the south coast of Jersey. French place and street names, spruced up English country houses, manicured gardens with palm trees, huge ferns and brightly colored flowers. The lush mixture is confusing, but the warm Gulf Stream guarantees an almost Mediterranean climate – on the latitudes of Central Europe. Hardly to see anything of the sea at the moment. The beach at St. Aubin’s Bay is so wide at low tide that it served as a runway for planes for years. Today, Land Rovers with large treads of tires bring bathers and surfers to the distant waves during the waterless hours. Behind St. Aubin, things suddenly get tight. The road runs almost in one lane through a small forest, then leads in sharp bends up a hill and down again into the next bay, St. Brelade’s Bay. One kilometer further I have already reached the westernmost tip of the island, which measures just eight by 16 kilometers. Rugged, razor-sharp cliffs protrude from the silt at Corbiere Point at low tide, a narrow path leads through the reef to a 30 meter high rock on which a snow-white lighthouse sticks. But it’s too late to go there. In many small channels the water is already flowing inland again, minutes later the first waves slosh over the path, shortly afterwards the lighthouse is cut off from the land. Not much longer, and the first foaming waves crash against the high rock, then only the tip of most of the cliffs can be seen. This is the moment the surfers have been waiting for on the five-kilometer-long beach at St. Queen’s Bay. Only a few meters separate the coastal road from the water. Immediately the stormy west wind inflates the countless colorful sails, which quickly disappear towards the horizon. With full throttle I rush north on the almost straight stretch along St. Queen’s Bay. Tempo 75, that’s all the rickety old single-cylinder does. Too little for a 125cc, but actually still too much for the streets of the Channel Islands, where there is a general speed limit: 40 miles or 65 kilometers per hour. On the first ascent, the rush of speed is over anyway, the carrot can no longer pack more than 65 things anyway. Behind L’Etacq, the road stretches right to the edge of the 90 meter high cliff in the north of the island. The smooth walls plunge vertically into the foaming sea, the surf thunders below, the noise reverberates many times over through the narrow gorges and cliffs. Every now and then angular, sometimes bizarrely shaped rocky outcrops on which thousands of seagulls nest. A few hundred meters away the remains of an old gun turret from the Second World War can be seen. German troops had occupied the Channel Islands for four years and expanded them with insane zeal into a gigantic fortress in order to be prepared against an English invasion. For this purpose, the inhabitants of the islands were forcibly used in labor services. Jersey and Guernsey were soon considered to be the best fortified areas in Western Europe, at times over 42,000 soldiers were stationed here. So you come across the remains of numerous bunkers and gun emplacements at strategically important points along the coast. The exaggerated zeal was more of a symbolic than a strategic value: with Jersey and Guernsey the Germans had occupied at least one – if only a small – part of England. Narrow streets, lined with low walls of thick stones, run south of St. John the center of the island. Past bright yellow rapeseed fields and gorse bushes until impenetrable leaves overshadow the way back to the south coast by the Waterworks Valey. Only now and then does the sun blink through the lush green onto the narrow, curvy asphalt. Soon I’ll be back on the coast, but this time in the east of the small island. The piece between Gouray and Rozel is fantastic, curve by curve, steep cliffs below me on the right, then again lonely and dreamy bays in which snow-white sailing yachts anchor. Finally the steep descent down to Rozel Bay. The view of the shimmering turquoise water is fantastic. Finally, at the end of the street, the wooden houses by Rozel, painted white, green, blue or yellow, crouch under a wooded hill into the narrow bay and around the small harbor basin. A few fishermen sit calmly in front of their boats, offering freshly caught oysters and huge lobsters. Two tiny restaurants, three souvenir shops, that’s all the short promenade offers, but St. Peter Port all the more. The narrow streets in the capital of the neighboring island of Guernesey are literally shaking. Hot-dip bikes, souped-up cars and karts let their engines warm up, then each one starts at the start, after exactly 760 meters and just under 35 seconds for the fastest, the spook is over again. Five times a year, the two local car and motorcycle clubs organize the Guernsey Hill Climb, a hill climb that has been held on the narrow and winding Le Val des Terres main street, which starts right at the harbor, since the 1950s. There is a festival atmosphere. The whole city, it seems, is on its feet, many are sitting with picnic baskets, beer crates and barbecues under shady trees somewhere on the edge of the track, applauding enthusiastically when the drivers literally fly over the asphalt with spectacular drifts. The next morning, the dreamy city was completely quiet again. Narrow streets and steep stairs lead up and down through the colorful rows of Victorian houses around the small harbor and on the slopes that rise steeply out of the sea. Almost like an excursion into the past, the setting looks so perfect and well-groomed. But behind the old walls of the historic buildings, modernity reigns supreme. Banks and companies from all over the world reside in this tax haven, the tax rate of which has not been increased since 1940. During the first few kilometers it is noticeable that Guernsey is very different from neighboring Jersey. Quieter and more dreamy. And more colorful. Against the colors in the large gardens of the old English country houses, even the lush Vegetaiton Jerseys no longer stand a chance, the splendor of the flowers is so overwhelming. Yucca palms stand in front of colorful houses, the narrow streets are lined with rhododendron bushes, the flowers of which give off a deafening scent. The old rental Suzuki with the smoking two-stroke engine that I got on this island does not at all fit into this oversized botanical garden, in which a simple vegetable has now overtaken all the tropical fruits growing here: the tomato. Plump and round, the fruits hang thousands of times in the greenhouses, endless green vines with thick red balls. The love for this fruit does not culminate in the production of ketchup, but in the production of tomato wine. Dozens of bottles of recent vintages are neatly for sale in the Guernsey Tomato Center. Full-bodied, but takes some getting used to. Past the wide sandy beaches of the west coast, then suddenly the steep cliffs in the south of the island, which is only half the size of Jersey. But more impressive. Below me small bays with tiny beaches, white sand or fine pebbles between jagged rocks, a handful of sinfully expensive sailing yachts in the turquoise sea, all around dense tropical green. Mediterranean mood in Moulin Huet Bay. No wonder the Guernseyians make it even more difficult for potential immigrants than their Jersey neighbors already do. For them, it seems, their island is one of the last oases in the middle of a restless world. Disturbing external influences are undesirable. In the opinion of many of the older islanders, the tourists would be okay too. The taxi driver who later drives me to the harbor puts it in a nutshell: “This island is a private world, perhaps even the visible remnant of the sunken Atlantis.” No wonder the islanders consider themselves the happiest people in the world.
Info
The Channel Islands Jersey and Guernsey are just off the French Normandy coast. There are no spectacular motorcycle routes, but the mixture of English style, French charm and Mediterranean climate is well worth a visit.
How to get there: Between April and November, a car ferry on the Emeraude Line runs twice a day from St. Malo in France to St. Helier on Jersey and St. Peter Port on Guernsey. The journey time is two or two and a half hours. The complete transfer from St. Malo via Jersey and Guernsey and back costs around 250 marks per person. For the motorcycle another 180 marks have to be calculated. Other passenger ferries steam from Granville, Cherbourg and Carteret to Jersey and Guernsey. Accommodation: There are a large number of simple guest houses and good hotels. In the holiday months, however, you should definitely make a reservation in advance. You pay around 25 marks per person for bed & Breakfast, from 70 marks you get a simple double room, 100 marks and more costs a night in good hotels. There are campsites on Jerseys in Rozel and St. Brelade, on Guernsey in St. Sampson. Further information on accommodation can be obtained from the British Tourist Office, Taunusstrasse 52-60, 60329 Frankfurt, Telephone 0 69/2 38 07 0, Fax 2 38 01 17. Motorcycle rental: Bob’s Motorcycle, 21 Glouster Street, St. Helier, phone 00 44 / (0) 15 34/58 25 5, various scooters from around 33 Marks, a MuZ Scorpion is available for around 65 Marks per day. Helmets can also be borrowed. On Guernsey you can buy a Piaggio scooter for around 22 marks and a Honda CB 250 for the equivalent of around 35 marks at Millard’s, 9-11 Victoria Road, St. Peter Port, phone 00 44 / (0) 14 81/72 07 77 can be rented per day. Activities: Jersey: In the northeast of the island, the Jersey Zoo offers an interesting change. Gerald Durrell has made it his life’s work to only breed endangered species. In the middle of the island is the German Underground Hospital, a huge, underground tunnel system that was built by English prisoners of war in forced labor. Surfers get their money’s worth in St. Queen’s Bay. Boards can be rented on site. Guernsey: In the Friquet Butterfly and Flower Center, large butterflies buzz around your head, along with the stunning variety of colorful flowers. The tomato wine in the Tomato Center at King’s Mills is probably unique. Roy de Jersey exhibits many historical motorcycles in his workshop in La Rochelle, Vale, visits are welcome. Literature: The APA Guide “Channel Islands” is detailed and informative for 44.80 marks. Free maps and other information are available from the tourist offices in the respective ports. Maps: Kummerly + Frey »Channel Islands«, 1: 25000/1: 27000, for 12.90 marks. Distance covered: 140 kilometers Time required: around five days
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