Guernsey weekend
On Friday, we headed off to Guernsey for a long weekend of Morris dancing and merriment. Starting from the island as we were, flying (from Southampton) turned out to be not just the quickest but the cheapest option, so that's what we did, flying after work on Friday. The flight was brief, with barely enough time for the cabin crew to whizz down the aisle offering us all drinks, before we were heading in for land, touching ground barely half an hour after taking off. The plane was 4 seats wide, but rather than call these seats A, B, C and D, they'd called them A, C, D and F, making me worry that once upon a time, there had indeed been a B and an E, but hideous fates had befallen them, and We Never Speak Of Them.
Guernsey roads are alarmingly narrow, full of blind bends, confusing junctions and buses forced to drive on pavements to merely get around. Our taxi driver spent the journey interrogating us about the price of bungalows on the Isle of Wight, and about our wildlife. "Do you have moles?" he demanded. "Foxes? Weasels? Squirrels? Deer? Stoats?" We had to admit yes to most of them, but declared ourselves innocent of grey squirrels and largely innocent of deer.
Most of the team was staying in bunk beds in a large dormitary in a scout camp, but having endured such "sleeping" arrangements in the past, I insisted on staying on a nearby hotel. It was a somewhat strange place, with something of an 80s feel, but at least it wasn't a dormitary. Since most of the side spent the entire weekend sleep deprived, stressed and touchy, I definitely made the right choice.
There were sand dunes and a beach across the road from our hotel, with rumours of great sunsets. However, there were also rumours of dinner being served at the scout camp, and eager as I was to see the sunset, I was far more eager to avoid the hideous doom of Missing Dinner.
On Saturday, we all piled into minibuses and were taken around the scarily narrow roads to dance in various locations: outside a folk museum, outside a palatial old people's home (for palatial old people, presumably), and on a couple of different sea front hotels on the north coast, one of which served us a lovely meal. The theme of the north coast was rocks and Second World War fortifications and rocks, and a very fast moving tide.
After the dancing finished, many dancers leapt into the sea, some in full kit.
Pellinor did a solo jig. Soggy breeches ensued.
Back at the hotel, I resolved that today, at least, I would capture the sunset, only for the sky to cloud over just before time. So off we went to the scout camp again for an excellent ceilidh. Pellinor and I hurled ourselves into it with our usual enthusiasm. My leg muscles still haven't recovered. Neither have Pellinor's other dance partners. One ran away from him, screaming in (mock) terror, when he approached her mid-dance for a swing, and he had to chase her around the dance hall. :-D
On Sunday, we all gathered in St Peter Port to dance outside a museum, then processed through the streets to the sea front, where more dancing happened in various places across the town. Then we all piled onto a ferry to Herm, a small island a mile or two away from Guernsey.
On Herm, we all - around 100 assorted dancers and musicians - took over the one pub on the island, for several hours of singing, dancing, eating, drinking and general merriment. There was also some free time to explore. Pellinor and I went for a walk, finding that the "tiny" island took a surprisingly long time to get around. It was also impressively varied in its terrain, with dunes, grassland, hills, meadows and woods, all packed into a space about half a mile by one a half miles.
On top of one of the hills, Pellinor decided to dance a jig on a rocky outcrop. The photo doesn't really do justice to the extreme tininess of his dance floor, and the distance he would have fallen had he slipped off. A passing musician from another side provided the music...
... but wisely moved on when Pellinor moved to an even more deadly looking rock, and seemed to be assessing its suitability for dancing upon.
It all felt quite exotic and Mediterranean. Here is Sark in the distance, seen from a beach.
After dinner, I headed off to - finally! - photograph the sunset. Many other dancers were doing to same.
We travelled back to Guernsey on a charter boat. Most people stayed below, but Pellinor and I went up on deck, where we sang songs with an assortment of other people, all done in total darkness, with no idea who we were singing with. The stars were excellent overhead, with the Milky Way clearly visible.
Yesterday, our flight home wasn't until 6.45, so Pellinor and I spent the day in St Peter Port, mostly at the castle. You can see the castle in the picture below, towards the right.
Until the late 19th century, the castle was entirely offshore, until a breakwater was built, connecting the castle to the mainland. A rather dangerous breakwater, as it appears.
It was built to defend Guernsey, but seems to have done rather a rubbish job, since at several times in its history, it was either captured by enemies when the port beside it wasn't, or vice versa. Throughout the Civil War, for example, it was in Royalist hands, while the rest of Guernsey was held for Parliament. A 9 year siege ensued, although it seems to have a very half-hearted one, in which every now and then, a token attack was made, a token resistance.
Nowadays, it houses several different museums and lots of scenic vantage points with lovely views over the port and towards Herm. So lovely, it seems, that although I spent several hours over the day just sitting there looking at the view (often with a cup of tea in my hand), I entirely failed to photograph it.
So have some comical lions instead.
Guernsey roads are alarmingly narrow, full of blind bends, confusing junctions and buses forced to drive on pavements to merely get around. Our taxi driver spent the journey interrogating us about the price of bungalows on the Isle of Wight, and about our wildlife. "Do you have moles?" he demanded. "Foxes? Weasels? Squirrels? Deer? Stoats?" We had to admit yes to most of them, but declared ourselves innocent of grey squirrels and largely innocent of deer.
Most of the team was staying in bunk beds in a large dormitary in a scout camp, but having endured such "sleeping" arrangements in the past, I insisted on staying on a nearby hotel. It was a somewhat strange place, with something of an 80s feel, but at least it wasn't a dormitary. Since most of the side spent the entire weekend sleep deprived, stressed and touchy, I definitely made the right choice.
There were sand dunes and a beach across the road from our hotel, with rumours of great sunsets. However, there were also rumours of dinner being served at the scout camp, and eager as I was to see the sunset, I was far more eager to avoid the hideous doom of Missing Dinner.
On Saturday, we all piled into minibuses and were taken around the scarily narrow roads to dance in various locations: outside a folk museum, outside a palatial old people's home (for palatial old people, presumably), and on a couple of different sea front hotels on the north coast, one of which served us a lovely meal. The theme of the north coast was rocks and Second World War fortifications and rocks, and a very fast moving tide.
After the dancing finished, many dancers leapt into the sea, some in full kit.
Pellinor did a solo jig. Soggy breeches ensued.
Back at the hotel, I resolved that today, at least, I would capture the sunset, only for the sky to cloud over just before time. So off we went to the scout camp again for an excellent ceilidh. Pellinor and I hurled ourselves into it with our usual enthusiasm. My leg muscles still haven't recovered. Neither have Pellinor's other dance partners. One ran away from him, screaming in (mock) terror, when he approached her mid-dance for a swing, and he had to chase her around the dance hall. :-D
On Sunday, we all gathered in St Peter Port to dance outside a museum, then processed through the streets to the sea front, where more dancing happened in various places across the town. Then we all piled onto a ferry to Herm, a small island a mile or two away from Guernsey.
On Herm, we all - around 100 assorted dancers and musicians - took over the one pub on the island, for several hours of singing, dancing, eating, drinking and general merriment. There was also some free time to explore. Pellinor and I went for a walk, finding that the "tiny" island took a surprisingly long time to get around. It was also impressively varied in its terrain, with dunes, grassland, hills, meadows and woods, all packed into a space about half a mile by one a half miles.
On top of one of the hills, Pellinor decided to dance a jig on a rocky outcrop. The photo doesn't really do justice to the extreme tininess of his dance floor, and the distance he would have fallen had he slipped off. A passing musician from another side provided the music...
... but wisely moved on when Pellinor moved to an even more deadly looking rock, and seemed to be assessing its suitability for dancing upon.
It all felt quite exotic and Mediterranean. Here is Sark in the distance, seen from a beach.
After dinner, I headed off to - finally! - photograph the sunset. Many other dancers were doing to same.
We travelled back to Guernsey on a charter boat. Most people stayed below, but Pellinor and I went up on deck, where we sang songs with an assortment of other people, all done in total darkness, with no idea who we were singing with. The stars were excellent overhead, with the Milky Way clearly visible.
Yesterday, our flight home wasn't until 6.45, so Pellinor and I spent the day in St Peter Port, mostly at the castle. You can see the castle in the picture below, towards the right.
Until the late 19th century, the castle was entirely offshore, until a breakwater was built, connecting the castle to the mainland. A rather dangerous breakwater, as it appears.
It was built to defend Guernsey, but seems to have done rather a rubbish job, since at several times in its history, it was either captured by enemies when the port beside it wasn't, or vice versa. Throughout the Civil War, for example, it was in Royalist hands, while the rest of Guernsey was held for Parliament. A 9 year siege ensued, although it seems to have a very half-hearted one, in which every now and then, a token attack was made, a token resistance.
Nowadays, it houses several different museums and lots of scenic vantage points with lovely views over the port and towards Herm. So lovely, it seems, that although I spent several hours over the day just sitting there looking at the view (often with a cup of tea in my hand), I entirely failed to photograph it.
So have some comical lions instead.