Islands In The Stream - Sark
How the tiny, car-free, fascinating Channel Island taught me to embrace feeling safe
When I get the opportunity to join a trip to the tiny, car-free island of Sark in the English Channel – I seize it. Only 3.5 miles long and 1.5 miles wide, with public transport consisting of horses and carts, or a tractor that takes you up the hill from the ferry port, Sark is a well-known tax haven, it was the last feudal state in the world (before embracing democracy in 2008). It lies next to a private island owned by the Barclay brothers and has no airport – you have to take a boat from Guernsey, which adds to the adventure….
People who talk about journeys being more important than destinations usually make me long to punch a wall, but in the context of a trip to Sark, the journey is quite something. It involves another Channel Island, Guernsey, so you can tick that off your list of islands to visit too. The boat from Guernsey to Sark is moored in St Peter Port harbour and on the day we travel, it lies in the shadow of a truly enormous superyacht, which well-bred passengers studiously ignore and nosey childish people (like me and some others whom I will not name) stare, take photographs, google the owner and speculate about how they have made their money. It was an excellent start to the trip.
The sea is mercifully calm as we sail past beautiful Herm, another of the Channel Islands and the strange, off-limits, private island of Brecqhou that is crowned by an enormous gothic hacienda, before following the coast of Sark into a sheltered harbour with deep, clear, navy-blue water. A large tractor is waiting at the top of the harbour steps – a luggage service that thoughtfully relieves passengers of their bags, delivering them to accommodation across the island. As it’s a steep climb along the harbour road to the main street, another tractor towing an open carriage bears passengers to the top, past roadside verges hemmed with wildflowers.
The main street, known as “The Avenue,” has a series of shops, galleries, cafes and restaurants. It’s the heart of Sark and home to a strange golden postbox. The colour references a Sark resident, Carl Hester, who won a gold medal in a 2012 Olympic dressage event. It’s a touch of bling in a rustic and old-fashioned street, another juxtaposition of simple and extravagant, like the superyacht that dwarfed our modest ferry. I feel this might just be Brand Sark – cute and chocolate box on the surface but seamed with gold. There is a parking lot with horses and carts, waiting to take visitors on tours of the island. Once the tractors shut off their engines, the island becomes instantly peaceful - birdsong, cows mooing and the sounds of conversations drifting across the late afternoon breeze.
We walk past a stone church, a government building, a dairy, before reaching a small village called La Moinerie. Owned by the Sark Estate, the whole village has been transformed into holiday accommodation. I’m staying in an enormous lodge, with an upstairs room with twin beds and the longest bath I have ever been in - perhaps Sark attracts tall visitors? The village has a charming stone pub, The Friar Tuck, complete with open fire and a stack of board games perfect for whiling away dark evenings. There is plenty of outdoor seating too. The Sark Estate owns another property over at Dixcart Bay – a lovely spot where we take a morning swim in the icy ocean. At The Dixcart Hotel, I stay in a huge room with doors that open out onto a vast terrace with views of the gardens and the scent of woodland trees
.A small track leads to a headland, where gorse bushes add colour with their acid yellow blooms. There is a large viewing platform called “Gusty’s” and from this point, the sun slips below the horizon in a golden haze. I get a fleeting pang of terror, the sense that I am far away from everyone in the middle of the sea, with no escape route. “Maybe it’s my fault, not the island’s” I think to myself and wonder if, over the course of my trip, I might relax.
A short walk away lies a quick history lesson. A grand building called Le Seigneurie (the Lord’s house) recalls the island’s feudal past. Later in the weekend, I meet George Guille, a descendant of one of the original forty families who came over to Sark from St Ouen’s in Jersey. They arrived in the mid sixteenth century to occupy the island at the invitation of the first Seigneur, Hellier de Carteret. Today, Guille and his son Morgan operate boat tours around the coastline. George Guille speaks the local patois, a strange form of Norman French – one of many constant reminders that Sark is a unique location with a very rich history.
We dine on the seafood speciality of the island – Sark lobster, pure, sweet and utterly delicious. We try ice cream made with milk from the Sark dairy – rich and comforting and handmade chocolate from the local chocolate factory – there’s quite a culinary scene on the island – it’s low key, no flashy fine dining, just some really lovely local produce and good cooking.
The best way, by far, to explore the island is on an electric bicycle. For people who like a workout, you can pedal it without the electricity on, for lazy people, you can whack the dial right up and climb the hilly roads without getting remotely out of breath. We cycle to Little Sark, crossing a dizzying isthmus called La Coupee, where cyclists are instructed to dismount. This extremely narrow high slice of rock is flanked on both sides by beautiful beaches. Fortunately, my paralysing fear of heights is overruled by the sheer beauty of the geography – it’s powerful, it is moving, it is terrifying and I just want to stand there and feel all those emotions. It may sound peculiar, but it’s a bit like being in love. I think that’s one of the wonderful things about travelling – how you can be hit by surges of passion for a hill, a narrow strip of rock, a footpath.
We take a boat tour with the Guille father and son, a round trip of the island on a hunt for puffins. The boat is named in the local patois “non pareil” which means unparallelled.
I have never seen a puffin in real life before and am ridiculously excited. A crucifix surveils us from a headland on the mysterious Brecqhou island and we catch glimpses of the gothic towers of the estate as we sail past. It feels like the perfect setting for a spy thriller. We navigate rock stacks which all have names – one resembles a cat; one looks like Queen Victoria, as the Guilles point out different bird species. We sail into a cave where the water is a brilliant teal colour. We surprise a swimmer on a secret beach, before finally the elder Guille points out a cluster of bathing seabirds with brightly-coloured beaks. I think to myself how tiny they are, how I must have muddled puffins in my mind with toucans and then I just watch them taking off from the water, landing, swimming – these exotic water creatures.
There’s a real sense of light and darkness about the place, which you feel strongly when looking at it from the water. The polarizing energy that Sark possesses is both striking and to be feared. There is the tranquility and calm of the flower-fringed dirt tracks, the tiny, postcard-perfect stone houses that remind me of a model village, the gentle curves of the roads as they dip into valleys and rise offering glimpses of neighbouring islands soaring from the sea, and then there is a constant, silent, pulsing sense of danger. From the sheer rock faces that plummet to secret beaches, to the violence of waters that can change in a heartbeat from shimmering turquoise to a dark churning grey and cut the island off – there’s a sense of order, of respect for the volatile uncontrollable elements of nature – which paradoxically feels liberating and childlike. It’s not a place for control freaks – or maybe it is, maybe it would do them good, maybe it is doing me good?
One morning three of us sneak into the beautiful walled gardens and maze of La Seigneurie, alive with butterflies and bees; jasmine and honeysuckle releasing their perfume into the early morning sky. As I stand there with the sun’s first warmth on my face, in the company of two lovely women, I feel a sense of innocence and freedom and realise that is the lure of the place. I don’t feel trapped. I feel safe. I must be less wild than I imagine myself to be.
Useful information
Getting there - fly to Guernsey (or get the ferry if you are feeling green)
Ferry to Sark from Guernsey here
Accommodation: La Moinerie Village and The Dixcart Hotel
Dine: Hathaways, Hugo’s Bar and Bistro, Time and Tide
Transport options here (carriage rides, bike hire)