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Published: April 19th 2006
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It’s 28th June 1940. At German Naval Headquarters a man named Admiral Schuster has been given the task of capturing the Channel Islands from the Brits. He’s already ordered the bombing of St. Helier harbour on Jersey and St. Peter Port harbour on Guernsey. To his surprise the bombers returned from their mission reporting that not a single defensive shot was fired. His battleships are sat only a few miles from the Channel Islands all primed to go capture a small bit of Britain. But, Schuster’s not a happy chappy. He can’t believe that the Brits would just leave the islands undefended. He reckons that the lack of firing from the Brits must mean it’s a trap. He decides to have a Schnapps, go to bed with a few good intelligence reports and see how things look in the morning.
Anyway, its two days later and the Luftwaffe are getting a bit tired of flying reconnaissance missions over the islands. So while Schuster and his Navy chums read over the intelligence again and swither about this, that and the other, a bright young pilot who is fed up of photographing cow movements for the umpteenth time says “screw this” and lands
his plane at Guernsey airport. He gets out. Has a look around the hangers. Has a look around the terminal buildings. There’s not so much as a customs official. So he flies back to Luftwaffe headquarters at Cherbourg and tells his boss what he’s seen. His boss loves it. An opportunity to get one over on the Navy and be the first to capture British soil. He organises a landing squad and they head off to Guernsey. The rest is history.
What’s amazing about this story is that the British never kept their military withdrawal from the Channel Islands a secret. In fact, if Schuster and his Navy intelligence boys had just put away the David Hasslehoff records and flicked the radio over to BBC Worldservice they’d have heard all about it.
With this story in mind, I decided that our own personal conquest of the channel islands (or rather channel island) should begin with that young pilots “who dares wins attitude”. I planned a mission that would see us cycle the entire circumference of the island. My intelligence gave me conflicting information: I’d read somewhere that the distance was 26 miles, however a bloke at work told me
North Coast
A bit reminiscent of the Highlands of Scotland I thought. it was closer to 35 miles. Clearly Schuster and I used the same sources. I could have done the whole, piece of string and an ordinance survey map to get a more precise measure, but to be honest it wasn’t the distance that was driving me. This was about one man against an island. And I was gonna make this island mine!
Unlike Schuster, I had consulted the BBC and they reported that the weather wasn’t going to be favourable on Sunday. Strong winds and a risk of showers. A risk of showers? Ha! I chew risk up and spit it out!
Vik wasn’t quite so sure and dropped out of the mission on bad weather grounds. This was a terrible excuse. In actual fact she just wanted to stay at home in bed and watch the Bahrain Grand Prix.
I prepared like any good soldier would. Map? Check. Bike lock? Check. Water bottle? Check. Peanut butter with jam sandwiches? Check. Bus-fare home - just in case? Check. As with all good military men, I knew that a soldier is only as good as his hardware. So I checked that Poppins saddle was at the right height and her brakes
weren’t rubbing (I’d like to hear anyone try pulling off that sentence without sounding like they’re auditioning for a part in Will & Grace).
The first part went OK. The sun was shining as I left St Helier heading west along the south coast along the Esplanade to St Aubins and then on to Portelet Bay. However, there were a few… wake-up calls. Firstly, I’d shot along the Esplanade, dodging dog walkers and roller-bladers (Poppins bell saw its first action) in such an impressive time that my confidence was extremely high. It never really occurred to me that this wasn’t in fact down to my superior pedal power, but was mainly attributable to the really strong wind behind me. My second wake-up call of that first section along the south coast came as I climbed the ridiculously steep, winding hill on the far side of St Aubin’s harbour. I put everything I could muster into that hill and by the time I reached the peak I was so shattered that I stopped in someone’s drive way to vomit over their garden wall. Fortunately, as I stood there bent over the wall staring at the well trimmed rose garden below, I
Bunker
These gun emplacements are dotted about all along the cost. While there seem to be plenty of museums, plaques, statues and books recalling life during the German Occupation, I am yet to come across anything dedicated to the memory of the hundreds of Eastern European prisoners of war from the work camps on the island who died constructing these fortifications for the Germans. managed to convince my guts to calm down and avoided any embarrassing scenes. Instead, my legs begged me to just sit down for a moment, which I did. As I sat in that drive-way, my face the colour of beetroot and my lungs burning, I saw a man approaching along the road. I quickly dug into my bag and pretended like I was reading the map. He asked if I was lost. I said that I was just checking I was on the right road. I learned two valuable lessons on that first stretch. Firstly I learned that I’m incredibly out of shape. Secondly I learned that maps are a total bugger to put away in windy conditions. I got frustrated and stuffed the unfolded thing into my pocket; it ripped and a piece blew away. I stood, aching and swearing as a whole section of the East Coast of the island fluttered down the road and over a hedge.
The West Coast of the island was where things started to get a bit iffy. I’d banked on this bit being a piece of cake. After the hellish uphill before St Brelades in the South West it was down hill
onto St Ouen’s Bay which stretches virtually the whole length of the West coast. Its one massive flat beach. How difficult can it be? On an ordinary day it would have been great. But by now, the wind was coming from the North straight into my face. If you’ve ever watched the film Twister, just imagine if Helen Hunt had been on a bicycle instead of in a Jeep. I don’t think I exaggerate when I tell you that at least one small house, several vehicles, a number of farmyard animals and Judy Garland flew past me. Every rotation of the pedals was like a small victory.
It was as I approached the North of the island - a land of cliffs, moors and mythological beasts that a thick fog heavy with rain fell over the island. And as I worked my way through that fog, the giant northern hills appeared. At this point the road goes from Roman Road through Holland to goat herder trail through the Himalayas. Or at least that’s what it felt like. But here I have to put pride aside and make a confession. I got off and I pushed.
I’ll spare you the stories
of the North coast. You see, in my planning I overlooked one detail - if the wind was with me, propelling me along the South Coast heading West, it would be against me on the North coast heading East. Yours truly never thought of that. I also didn’t leave early enough, because as I made it to the top of those Northern cliffs, the fog that had threatened to become rain did exactly that. So as I made my way along the North coast, my legs hurting, my hands cold, soaked to the skin, I wasn’t sure that things could get worse. It was then that the flipping chain came off. I can assure you that Poppins wasn’t the only thing my bicycle got called. I was beaten. I accepted defeat. The island had won. In a way this blog is much like my cycle; I just got bored and stopped.
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