Jersey and the Channel Islands

I’ve been loosely thinking of the little islands where I spent my youth. Split between Jersey and The Isle of Man, preferring Jersey for the climate and Man for the roads. I learnt to swim on Jersey, and to drive on Mann. Now I’m mostly in London, but the pull of these places has grown while we’ve been severed from each other and the things that brought me to the lights of the city in the first place. Wouldn’t it be nice to go back to Jersey and still get to make theatre and tv and movies? I guess I need to talk them into remaking Bergerac and casting me as a regular.

I made do this evening by watching The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society on Netflix. I’m not supposed to think of Guernsey as basically BEING Jersey. All the Channel Islands come in the same breath for me, and if I get called a crapaud by an ane I find it as silly and incomprehensible as football team rivalry. We aren’t supposed to like each other, Jersey and Guernsey people. They call us toads. We call them donkeys. I tend not to engage, I guess because it all feels a bit too small for my taste.

I’m missing the sea, the colour of the granite, the quality of the light. So I watched a movie set in Guernsey. It’s just a little north of Jersey. Problem is though, they couldn’t accommodate a film crew and all the things associated with such on the island without blowing up the budget and sinking the island. It’s a pleasant, thoughtful low budget British flick. It was shot instead in Devon and Cornwall. I still kind of got my fix. They found good granite walls.

I’d love to go back to Jersey and get to hang out properly but the place is locked down and I’m in tier 4. I’d need accommodation for a month at least so I could isolate myself for two weeks on arrival which is perhaps a little too involved. I suppose I’m just gonna have to wait for the angel to pass over.

About six years ago I took this photo of Minnie on St Ouen beach walking towards Corbière lighthouse. I still look at it from time to time as it keys into my memory of the light and expanse of the island of my birth. The longer this situation goes on the less purpose I find in the expense of living in cold hard old crazy London.

Author: albarclay

This blog is a work of creative writing. Do not mistake it for truth. All opinions are mine and not that of my numerous employers.

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