I hate it when I do this, but, well, it’s done now. I’m about to write about what we got up to on Sunday October 2nd 2022 in Jersey, plus our journey home the following day - and it’s Thursday morning three days on as I type. Much too much time has passed between then and now for this to be an enjoyable brain dump, it feels more like a chore that needs to be hurried through before I can fit in a run prior to starting work. Grr. Anyway, it is what it is so we’ll all have to deal with it, author and reader alike. Here we go!
Sunday
Despite all the exertions of Saturday, plus all the booze and incredibly unhealthy food, we both woke up Sunday morning pretty early and feeling chipper. There were no big plans for today - some consideration had been given to retracing yesterday’s steps but not on foot: a bus to St Aubin, le petit train to St Helier, the bus boat thing to the fort. But neither of us were particularly enthusiastic about doing those things, especially the last item, and anyway the route plus St Helier itself was going to be busy with marathoners.
Yep. Sunday saw the running of the Jersey Marathon, which takes in most of the island given how small it is. But I was more concerned with the performance of Ed in his London debut. First, though, I was concerned with breakfast.
Turns out Helen was right - the hotel breakfast really was magnificent. You’re seated and offered tea, coffee, and toast to order, and then set free to fill yer boots at the buffet. Cereals, breads, pastries, cold cuts, fruit, yoghurt, and a full English. There are also menu items from the kitchen if you so desire, but we did not. The full English was bloody lovely, and upon finishing it we instantly left the hotel to walk it off.
We wandered along the coast, then along the road and down next to the church at the end of the beach. Tide times were posted on the wall and it seemed like high tide was only an hour or 70 minutes away, and the water comes in / goes out pretty quickly in the bay. Despite my feelings of jeopardy Helen insisted a walk to the pier was perfectly safe, so off we went over the rocks and seaweed.
Mercifully my fears were completely unwarranted, and we retraced our steps back to the hotel in zero danger of getting stranded by the tide.
At the hotel, Helen was in full laptop mode so I put me headphones on and watched the BBC’s coverage of the London Marathon while writing up all the nonsense about flying and drinking from the Friday two days prior. Kept track of Ed’s progress, and he seemed to be absolutely motoring - started off at a pace more than half an hour quicker than what he’d said he’d be delighted with the previous night. I really hoped he could keep it up but worried he’d gone off too fast…
After an hour, 90 minutes or so, Helen was in the mood for a break so the electronics went away and we set off to visit “Reg’s award winning garden”, an award winning garden not too far away. Getting there involved walking up through Churchill memorial park, demonstrating to Helen just how bloody steep the whole thing is. Then it’s a fairly short walk along the main road from St Brelade’s towards St Helier before turning off down the path next to the housing estate. There’s a sign, see.
We didn’t know a great deal about Reg’s award winning garden as there’s no website, so we’d just gleaned that it was a great place to visit from TripAdvisor. After 3 or 4 more signs including a warning about chickens, and some chickens, we were at the entrance.
Reg’s award winning garden is, um, a bit weird. There are more … things … than flowers and plants. There’s a big pond with some lazy ducks in it, and loads of huts for hosting kids birthday parties, and a seating area next to a tea room that today was also hosting a “giant coat sale”, and there’s some, like, gnomes and mushrooms and a gazillion other … things. Here, look.
Look again.
It’s quite unlike any other garden we’ve ever visited. Certainly there was precious little for Helen to appreciate as a garden/planting designer. Best we could tell we were the only visitors there, perhaps there was one more. Dotted around were radios all tuned to different stations, and there was a therapeutic chair on a big swing that only the infirm were allowed to use. And terrapins, there were rescuer terrapins in a hut.
We were probably only there for about 15 minutes tops. It’s not a huge place, it looks fantastic for kids but there was not much to keep us two occupied. Still and all, if Reg and most visitors are happy then who are we to opine. We chucked a tenner in the donation box on the way out and sought out elsewhere to walk.
Kind of behind Reg’s award winning garden but accessed via a road we’d crossed en route, there’s a large woodland area. It flanks the disused railway line which Parkrun had partially used, and which today was part of the marathon route. We could hear loud announcements of encouragement as runners went past - their numbers being read out to acknowledge their efforts. I was still keeping tabs on my phone of Ed’s progress back in the UK and he was maintaining his pace. With 8km to go he could have dropped down by 3 minutes per kilometre and still beaten 4hrs. Go on Ed!
The woodland had red squirrels and a bit of bird life, but apparently nothing so picturesque as to warrant me taking any photos. As we left it a dog came up to make friends and we had a chat with its owner. It was a very handsome dog, a young and boisterous (in a friendly way) Japanese thing that I want to say “shinabatsu” or something? Haven’t looked it up. Anyway, the owner told us many tales of its disobedience. Perhaps that’s a bit harsh. It can be a bit strong-willed, let’s say.
We crossed the marathon path to head up a slope onto the road back to St Brelade, then set off back towards the hotel. I popped into a “Coop locale” for a diet coke. All the price tags on the shelves were tiny little animated displays, and the self-serve checkout loudly reads out the price of each item you scan. It’s all too overwhelming. Outside the coop was this display commemorating the Queen.
Back down the steepness of Churchill park, we decided against exploring the bit we’d yet to visit on account of access being via a never-ending set of steps.
Back at the hotel, Ed’s about the finish in London having maintained his starting pace pretty much the whole way round. He blasts through his target time and finishes under 3:30:00 which is a fucking masterpiece of a run. Awesome. I am first to congratulate him on Strava because I’ve been obsessing so much.
Helen’s back in laptop mode, I go and sit outside downstairs and have a couple of beers by the sea.
At 2pm I check in for our flight home the next day, and fail to order another beer because no member of staff comes close. Never mind. I notice the tide is now approaching its furthest out, meaning it’s possible to walk to the second bay and reach the Smugglers pub which had been recommended to us by Friday’s cab driver. Helen could do with a break so comes down and we set off across the sand, with hundreds of dog walkers.
It’s a nice walk, but the clouds are coming in and looking somewhat oppressive. Also the pub doesn’t seem too welcoming, so we head straight back. There are some large reflective puddles on the sand again.
The clouds are PROPERLY dark by the time we return. It looks ace.
In the hotel yet again, we have lunch. They only serve a single type of roast, beef, which I’m not keen on but Helen is. She says it’s delicious. I opt for catch of the day, a sea bream. It’s lovely.
Helen retreats for yet more laptopping; I have another beer. When I start falling asleep during the next pint I figure it’s time to retreat to the room. Headphones on, I doze while “watching” Kings of Pain on Sky Go until Helen wakes me up about 7pm.
Downstairs in the bar we’re seated immediately, then no-one comes to serve us. Eventually I order at the bar, except they don’t have the cocktail Helen wants. A waitress comes to the table to tell us what they do and don’t have, and the specials. I can’t recall what Helen drank but I went for a “rum and raising old fashioned”. It was lovely.
Popping out beach-side at some point for a vape, Helen sends me a pic of the glorious half moon and tells me it’s even better in person. She’s right.
A couple more drinks while earwigging the couples across discussing how acceptable tuna and banana sandwiches are. Wait, what? We end up drunker than on either of the previous days, and slink off to bed.
Monday
It’s been a great holiday, but it’s time to leave. Breakfast - fry up, and a plate of cheese and cold meats and fish - then a walk along the front, not towards the pier we visited yesterday but the headland between us and the Smugglers. I can’t resist climbing up the stairs to see what the views are like. It’s nice.
During the walk I’m prepared to discuss the idea of coming back - much more amenable to the idea than I was on Saturday morning. The hotel closes later in October until reopening on Good Friday, and while upstairs with a couple of hours to kill between breakfast and our departure Helen discovers that we can get a package - flight and this very hotel - for Easter weekend, at a price lower than that we’ve just paid for the Sept/Oct cusp. And just like that, we’ve booked to come back in 6 months time.
We’re fully packed and ready to go by 10am, but checkout isn’t until 11am and our flight is at 2pm. So we leave our bags at reception and go for one last walk along the front. A surf shack coffee hut is open so Helen gets a drink, then sits down to phone her Dad. He likes the sound of this hotel and might join us at Easter.
Our cab turns up on time and the driver is, as the others have been, very friendly. We have a good chinwag during the 10 minute ride to the airport, which seems deserted. Inside we get through security and my man bag is called out for secondary inspection - I forgot to remove two bottles of hand sanitiser. My punishment is for the staff to remove literally everything from all 6 pockets before putting it back through the scanner. FFHS.
Jersey airport is tiny. There are no international flights, unless you count the UK and Ireland as international, in which case there are loads of international flights. We pop into the Jersey Zoo shop despite not having visited the zoo, then we umm and ahh about buying litres of gin, eventually deciding against. In order to visit the lounge you have to go through one-way doors, and so we do.
Yay! Lounge! It’s pretty empty, though someone is making up for the quiet by having a loud, angry phone call with BA about their seeming inability to redeem some refund vouchers they’ve been issued. Sigh.
Round the corner we find space to sit. I go get a beer because yay, free lounge beer. I write about Saturday, then have a prosecco. Then another beer. I AM STILL ON HOLIDAY DAMN IT.
I’m really looking forward to the flight, because I’d managed to upgrade this leg to business class. Yes it’s only an hour, but it’s a way better experience than economy nonetheless and anyway I’d paid for it with a refund voucher from 2020 so it felt kind of free.
Boarding is on time and we’re in row one. Hurrah! I have the window seat and this time around we aren’t enveloped in cloud the whole time, making the whole thing even better. Oh how I’ve missed this. All of it.
What I’ve also missed is the free stuff on board. Service is fast but not hurried on these short flights, and we’re barely level in the air before they come to ask whether we want veggie or non veggie food - plus drinks. We go for one of each, Helen has a G&T and I obviously want champagne.
Helen’s tray arrives, as does the tray for those in 1A/C, and row 2, and row 3, and row 4 … and I get nothing at all. I mean, I have the sandwiches Helen doesn’t like plus half her scone, but I get no tray and no booze. Like, what the fuck? Eventually I catch the eye of a flight attendant and they are extremely apologetic. A tray arrives and I start wolfing everything down like the gluttonous twat I am.
It’s mostly lovely, tbh. I leave the beef sarnie but enjoy all the others and especially the champagne. I’d have had time for another if I’d been served properly - Helen does get a second drink! Damn it. DAMN IT.
Anyway. Calm down. I got my stuff, and outside is lovely. We circle for a bit so take longer than expected, eventually, and much to our surprise we fly east to west over central London. Turns out Heathrow changed the direction of runway operations mid-flight so we’d diverted. Huh. But that’s ace, because London looks amazing from above.
My phone is shit though. It’s the latest iPhone, the 14 Pro, but it takes forever to focus through the window. The iPhone X, which I had last time I travelled, never had any grief like this. It’s pretty frustrating tbh, along with a few other woes I’ve got with it (and/or iOS 16). Anyway, whatever. Hello, London!
Oh. Yeah. We don’t live in London any more. We’ve got a cab booked, with “meet and greet” - name on a card at arrivals. Except, despite the flight landing late and a loo stop en route to baggage reclaim, our driver hasn’t turned up yet. He’s sent a few texts and we’ve arranged to meet next to Travelex, and his “I’ll be there in 10 minutes” turns into 20. Without apology or in fact any conversation at all after the first hello, he leads us to the car and drives us home. The M25 isn’t as bad as on the way out, and the sun is trying to burn through the clouds on its way down.
The cat is desperately happy to see us and my neighbour is gonna come round with a box of beer. The dead blackbird outside the kitchen isn’t very pleasant, but even so it’s nice to be home. But it’s also very nice to have gone on Proper Holiday for the first time in almost 3 years. I’m already looking forward to the next one, roll on December.
Footnote: ugh. It’s taken me so long to write this I don’t have time to go for a run. Bah. Jersey was not good for me health-wise!