Small island, big magic

October 01, 2016 04:05 pm | Updated November 01, 2016 10:16 pm IST

An idyllic coastline that is resplendent round the year

Well-marked cliff paths for walkers. Photo: Shobha Das

Well-marked cliff paths for walkers. Photo: Shobha Das

My first visit to Guernsey was for my 50th birthday but seriously, why on earth had I waited so long? This magical little island, all of 78 sq. km and 65,000 people, sits in an archipelago in the English Channel. You can see pretty much all of it as you fly in to land. “Hmm, it’s small,” I said to Chris, my husband. “Perhaps we were optimistic to book a whole week?” How wrong I was. Within an hour of landing, my vocabulary was peppered with “Wow”, “Gosh” and “Amazing”. I was utterly bewitched. By the third day, I was browsing local property websites and wanted to stay absolutely forever.

Getting here is easy. It is a 30-minute flight from Southampton on the south coast of England. U.K. visas work here, U.K. currency works here, U.K. language works here. So with very little hassle, you can add an extra country — technically it’s not part of the U.K. — and a small piece of heaven to your itinerary.

Guernsey caters to varied tastes: city life, sea sports, drier outdoor activities, gourmet breaks. To get around the island, there are hire cars, hire bikes, taxis, and buses. But my recommendation: pack sturdy shoes, good socks, hiking clothes, a pair of binoculars, and walk.

There are 39 miles of well-marked walking paths along the unendingly dramatic edges of Guernsey. We focused on stretches of the Southern and Eastern coasts which are high and rugged. On most days, we’d eat a hearty breakfast, pack lunch, put hats on our heads and sunscreen on our faces, and walk in whatever direction the winds took us.

Some mornings, we woke to thick fog pressing tight against our windows. I’d gently suggest a leisurely brunch and say warily that we should wait for better (any!) visibility before getting our walking boots on. But Chris said, “Nah, let’s go now, it’ll be fine!” And it was. In fact, it was quite magical. A foghorn sitting on a promontory loudly repeated a plaintive single note to guide ships into shore. The fog lifted and fell unpredictably, revealing and concealing little vistas. Here, a group of boats tied close to shore and bobbing on the calm sea. There, on the cliff, a concrete German fortification from World War II. Beside it a kestrel hovering still in the air, eyeing prey we could not see. And there, a little pebble beach shiny with thick green seaweed and lapping water.

On sunny days, everything was transformed. We could see for miles, sometimes even catching sight of the French shoreline. The nearby islands of Sark and Herm (accessible by boat and with more walking opportunities) stuck out brown and strong from the sea, which itself was a shifting patchwork of blue, green and violet. White froth crashed against savage granite rock formations slithering out into the sea like dormant lizards. Windows of cliff-top houses glinted at us. Those windows, I confess, were my enemy. They filled me with envy and made my perfectly lovely apartment in London seem entirely inadequate because it didn’t have That View.

Luckily, noisy seagulls often punctured my envious gazes. On one occasion when we were climbing, we got too close to a nesting site and were aggressively squawked at by a flock of gulls. With Hitchcock’s The Birds in mind, we beat a hasty retreat. A diving gull is, apart from film-induced phobias, a veritable missile. It is armed with attack talons and a sharp two-inch beak you really do not want to get too close to.

Along our walks, we sampled some of the lovely beach cafés. My favourite was the Moulin Huet Tea Rooms, hidden away down a little footpath which leads to Moulin Huet bay. The bay itself has a pebble beach where one or two fishermen generally stand around with rods, looking hopeful. The café sits above the bay and was so quiet that until we were right at the door, it was difficult to tell whether it was open or shut. But once we were seated outdoors with crab sandwiches and scones, the spectacular view sank in — jagged rocks, turquoise sea disappearing into a faraway horizon, kayaks scuttling along the crinkled granite outcrops inaccessible by foot. The South coast reveals another charming aspect of itself at low tide. As the water empties out to sea, long sandy golden beaches with steps leading down to them emerge like presents being unwrapped. The steps shout to us, “Descend if you dare!” Being self-proclaimed adventurers, we dared. On the beach, we paddled in the cold sea, picnicked on slippery rocks, and admired colourful sea anemones and crabs. And then as we prepared to head back, I looked up. I now had to climb an almost vertical ascent of 324 uneven steps! I’m fit enough, but I’ll admit there was a lot of huffing and puffing and much stopping “to take photos”. That’s what I claimed to Chris, but really, I needed to catch my breath. A word of caution: check tide times before heading down to the beaches, otherwise you can get cut off and find yourself inadvertently floating out into the English Channel.

Spring and summer are the best seasons to visit. But we are so in love with the place that we are considering a winter trip. If possible, we would stay exactly where we stayed this time, at a studio apartment on a quiet cliff-top road with breathtaking sea views.

Finally, in case you’re wondering, yes I’m still obsessively browsing Guernsey property websites.

Shobha Das travels extensively for work and leisure, and adores hiking.She lives in London..

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