The steps down from the clifftop were many and steep, but Portelet Bay, on Jersey’s south coast, was worth each one. The tide was out and a tentacle of rose-gold sand sliced the beach into two smooth curves, leashing tiny Ile au Guerdain to the land – for now; soon the leviathan tide would turn, making this tower-topped mound an island again. I stuck a tentative toe into the water and squealed.
The water’s sparkle belied the fact this was the brisk Channel and not, as it appeared, the Aegean. But I plunged in anyway, and surfaced just as – out of nowhere – the Red Arrows swooped by. I had deliberated long and hard over which beach to visit on my last day in Jersey, before taking a ferry on to Guernsey.
I was happy with my choice. In fact, I was happy with all my choices. It was early summer and I had fancied that most summery of trips – island-hopping.
But I didn’t want to travel too far. So, rather than jetting to far-flung parts, I caught ferries around the Channel Islands instead, hoping for a similar castaway feel without the flying, but still with a smidgen of “foreign”. Closer to France than England, the bailiwicks of Jersey and Guernsey have a Gallic air, with placenames derived from Norman French.
I focused on Jersey’s edges, which are variously sandy, dreamy, dramatic, history-laden and superbly strange My adventure began in Portsmouth, from where the slowly chugs to Jersey. There are faster boats but this overnight sailing seemed the most efficie.