St Peter Port, Guernsey, Channel Islands

 

Guernsey, famous for its brown dairy cows, welcomed us with another ‘marginal’ sea state. Prinsendam anchored in the lee of the island and was barely sufficiently protected to tender the daring ashore. Now ‘dungeon like’ landing pier awaited us here, but a brand new floating dock with all the comforts one may wish for, except of course dry weather.

A lovely little port on an island close to France, which is obvious when strolling the local shopping scene which abound with boutiques inspired by French fashion and French prices. French language is evident in street names, names of mansions and of stores and restaurants, which often offer their fare on French menues with French fare.

I strolled along the harbour front, looking for the ferry to Herm Island close by (great for hiking its verdant 1.5x1 mile expanse) however, all ferries, including the ones to an alternative island Sark, were cancelled due to strong winds. Ok, land-based diversion it shall be.

Although there is a castle, a church, various museums e.t.c., I opted for a leisurely stroll through the quaint town streets, and a look at the many marina basins – many of them showing their low tide face with some boats resting on the mucky bottom. Birds, like oyster catcher, hunted and foraged in the seaweed, and one boater had driven his SUV down the boat ramp to park beside his grounded boat for some maintenance work.

Midtown has a busy bus terminal, with public transport reaching  the interior of the island as well as doing a ‘coastal’ route. One Pound Sterling bought an around-the-island ticket, and one could watch the scenery roll by from the comfort and dryness of a slow moving public bus.

One passes wild and rocky coast lines, long sandy beaches, protected and rather ‘open’ fishing harbours. In the latter the boats were bouncing up and down close to forbidding rocks, tethered to the sea bottom with long ground tackle, if not – as in many coastal areas here – firmly sitting on the sea weed covered sea bed at low tide.

The coast line is dotted with round stone watch towers and concrete bunkers, dating back to German occupation during WWII. There is a German built underground military hospital, which is located in one of the tunnel complexes underneath the bunkers.

Fort Grey, situated on a rocky outcrop and easily recognized by its white round tower reaching above the fort’s wall, dates back a little further.

Although Guernsey is famous for its dairy cows, I did not see a single one chewing her cud on the many fields. Neither could I track down a flower shop on an island that prides itself of its gardens, flowery adornments of its streets and widespread freesia producers.

A pleasant little town, picturesque harbour, sophisticated shopping and bistro scene, pleasant land and seascape….a fitting finale to a circumnavigation of the United Kingdom and Ireland….

The only tango in St Peter Port.....

Ilfracombe, North Devon, England

 

We anchored outside the rugged and windswept coast of North Devon. The sea-state was ‘marginal’ for tender operation, and drizzle and the odd rain gust made the transfer from ship to shore a bit of a challenge. The tender ‘platform’ is not more than a precarious step from a relatively ‘stable ship’ onto a tender boat that dances wildly upon every wave and makes its ‘hatch’ a rather movable target. Never mind, wheel chair bound passengers insisted upon being transferred to shore despite the conditions, which made for some dexterous maneuvering by attending crew members.

A bouncy ride brought one into the protected inner harbour, which at this time exposed it’s muddy bottom – very low tide. We disembarked upon a ‘pier’ which looked more like a drippy dungeon than a tie up point. During daily high tide the stone stairs and stainless steel railings leading to the top would be submerged in sea water.

Boats in the harbour all rested quietly on their keels – sailboats all seem to have double keels in order to accommodate the frequent tidal ‘groundings’ without keeling over.

Umbrellas proved almost superfluous, the gusts tried to turn them inside out, and the rain swept horizontally across the land.

Verity, and imposing metal statue of a highly pregnant women greeted mariners at the harbour entrance with upright sword pointing heavenwards and metal books crushed under her bronze feet. Half of her looked ‘normal’ i.e. her outside represented skin – the other half gave anatomical detail of her innards, from a muscle covered skull down to minute detail of a metal fetus.

She has been designed by Damian Hirst, as an allegory for truth and justice, and her stance is inspired by Edgar Degas’ painting ‘Little Dancer of Fourteen Years’ (1881). She stands over twenty meters high, and was fabricated from more than forty individual sand castings, her bronze body weighs more than twenty five tonnes.

A rather odd piece of public art, possibly not to everyone’s taste.

I walked through the still sleepy town – after all it was a Sunday and at 9 a.m. in the morning, most towns people are still enjoying a quiet morning at home. I headed for  Ilfracombe’s Tunnels, one of the town’s beach attractions. These tunnels were dug in the 1820’s by Welsh miners – by hand – to provide access to otherwise unaccesible beaches and coast line. In that early era, ‘bathing’ was still a rather daring activity, men and women took to the waters in separate ‘pools’ or beaches, bathing machines (changing rooms on wheels and drawn by a team of horses to and from the water’s edge) plied their trade, and peeking was definitely a criminal offence.

Today, the ‘gentlemen’s beach’ serves as a romantic wedding venue (if it does not rain) and the ‘ladie’s pool’ is open to anyone desiring to take to the water protected by a stone wall, visible 3 hours before and after low tide. The scent of the sea pervades the air, rocks clutter the sandy beach making for a rugged maze, birds scream insistently, and waves crash onto the surrounding rocks.

Devon is a hiker’s paradise, and I took in a small sampling of it, walking the cliffs of Torre Park near town – the rain fortunately stopped for a while.

The walk back took me past another one of Ilfracombe’s ‘unusual’ examples of local architecture, the Landmark Arts and Entertainment Centre, which look somewhat like nuclear cooling stacks, and have caused some lively local controversy since their stark conical shapes grace the town scape since 1988.

Back in town, the residents had woken up and the few town streets were filled with strollers enjoying the drizzly weather, and dipping into one of the many tea rooms for a truly Devon inspired scone and tea, accompanied by jam and clotted cream.

 

Fish and chips restaurants line the harbour, which by now had filled up some more with water, and previously grounded boats started to float again.

 

My preference was for Devon Tea and Scone, and with a bit of luck I found a table under a large umbrella, which barely kept the rain from dripping into my tea – but, the view was entertaining, and the fare simply delicious.

Holyhead, Wales, Anglesea Island

The town of Holyhead may be small, but it has a harbour large enough to accommodate Prinsendam and then some.  Being so close to Ireland, Holyhead was and is one of the most important harbours connecting to the Emerals Isle.

The harbour is protected by a breakwater all of 2.4 km long, the longest in Europe. When it was built between 1845 and 1873 it was the longest in the world. 1300 men were employed for its construction, and at least 40 of them lost their lives in work related accidents. They quarried literally mountains of rock: 6,990,862 tons were carried from the hills to the breakwater site.

Around 500 BC the Celts established their culture here in Anglesey (from the Norse word ‘ongull’ which means strait). By 150 BC the Druids began to exert their influence. By AD 61 the Romans turned up in force – Tacitus had 10,000 men lined up across the Strait to face the resisting Druids. The Druids raised a ruckus pouring out frightful curses with their hands raised to heaven, which did not deter the Romans who crossed over the Strait in flat bottomed boats – and the Druids took off in flight. The Romans dominated the area for several centuries, and built a couple of forts and a naval base here.

On nearby mountain aptly named Holyhead Mountain, one may find Hut Circles, as well as an ancient hill fort (Caer & Twr) which date back to the Iron Age. Thousands of tons of rock had been moved to construct walls, which are hundreds of yards long – an ancient engineering feat. One may still visit some of the ‘huts’, which still have stone benches and basins…people lived here continuously for two thousand years.

When the Romans abandoned their forts, the monks moved in and St Cybi, first cousin of Wales’ Patron Saint St. David,  built  a church on the grounds of the fort in the present town site around 540 AD.  The church was sacked by the Vikings in the 10^th century, and later in 1405 again by Henry IV army, which arrived from Ireland. That was not yet the end of assaults on the church. In the 17^th century Cromwell’s soldiers and their horses took up residence in the church for several years, and for party fun they destroyed stained glass windows, font, tombs and statues. The only artifact that was spared were the relief carvings high above the entry portal.

A Welsh lady choir (somewhat reduced in number as it was a ‘festival Saturday’ and families were out revelling along the beaches and fairgrounds) gave a small concert in the church and sang a selection of well known tunes – a friendly welcome indeed.

Leaving the church just in time to witness today’s festival parade which consisted mostly of imaginative floats loaded with ‘princesses and their attendants’ and quite a number of majorette teams marching to the sound of portable boom boxes, all headed for the fair. The sun was out, a perfect day to see and be seen….

The main festival action took place around long Newry Beach (location of a Maritime Museum, history re-enactments and Seaside Bistro) and the adjoining grassy park. A midway was in full action, dance competitions entertained on beach and grass, strongmen pushed half ton trucks loaded with barrels along the beach promenade, and a huge ‘marquee’ (beer and live music tent) was open to one and all, arts and craft tents dotted the grassy park, and there was certainly enough food to keep the entire population energized to enjoy the festivities.

I joined the fray with enthusiasm, indulged in a draft beer and listened to some of the bands of today’s festival line up.

For nature lovers,  Anglesea is a paradise for hiking coastal cliffs and heather covered hills, watch birds or amble through ancient stone circles dating from the Bronze Age. I made my way – about 6 miles of it via taxi – to the South Stack Lighthouse, which stands on a small island below a 200 foot cliff.

 Initially when the light house was built, the distance between the small island and Anglesey ‘mainland’ was covered by means of a basket suspended from a rope – people and goods thus ‘bridged the gap’. Since 1826 a real bridge makes access somewhat easier, albeit one still has to negotiate around 400+ stone steps to get down to the bridge and onto the island – and of course climb those very same steps again to return to ‘civilization’. The island is home to puffins, razorbills, peregrine falcons and guillemots.

Armed with binoculars, one may watch the colony for hours….this is also the spot, where one may catch a glimpse of Ireland 65 miles away – as it was a clear day the Irish coast rose faintly visible from the horizon of the sea.

I wished I could have wandered the inviting paths along the cliffs, but, as usual the ship won’t stay longer than scheduled, and regretfully one leaves Wales behind…