June 25, 2013: Plémont to Bonne Nuit
La Grève de Lecq Harbor
To my considerable consternation there were unmistakable signs of blood on the bottom sheet of my bed this morning and it took me a while to discover the source of this problem. The bandage I had used on the elbow abrasion that I had experienced in one of my falls (on the first day of our walk) had worked loose and would now have to be replaced. (They replaced the sheet too.)
Our cab driver seemed to know a lot about the lost city of Plémont; the derelict buildings we had observed at the end of the previous day had once been part of a holiday village and now there were contending ideas for its redevelopment: housing, golf course, a reversion to nature? We got this chap to drive us up the road in the direction of this site, rather than down to the beach café, and – on a ten-mile day with plenty of ups and downs – were were able to start off on a level playing field. The cliff tops hereabouts had been visited recently by puffins – but we did not see any of these birds today. It was 9:40 when we began to walk.
We headed for a small stone lookout tower and tried to encourage Adrian to make a solo descent to the tip of the nearby headland, La Tête de Plémont, but he was having tummy troubles today and was not eager for extra assignments. He wore a short-sleeved shirt today but he complained endlessly that it had no pockets. Visibility was excellent today and we often had views of Guernsey and some if its small cousins to the north. It was also warmer than yesterday – though only rarely was Naomi willing to forego the comforts of her bright blue mac.
We now began one of those leg-wearying series of ascents and descents, often assisted by steps, as the route (dedicated in 1981) rose and fell with each seaward-tilted valley. The footpath was in good shape and brads had been nailed into all the wooden risers for better traction but it was still dispiriting to look forward and see the route slicing vertically through the bracken. The valley of Le Creux Gros was followed by that of Le Creux Gabourel and then we descended into a patch of woodland at Les Coupes. I must say we were not alone for there were lots of other walkers about and a great number of panting dogs – indeed I can’t remember ever walking a path with more members of the canine tribe than we encountered on our Jersey walk.
Flowers, La Grève de Lecq
Again I was taking a lot of photographs as each new summit provided a glimpse forward to a new, dazzling stretch of the indented north coast. It was gratifying, at about 11:00, to reach a point where the view now also included the small village of La Grève de Lecq. A steep decent soon brought us to the Prince of Wales pub, which was just opening its doors. We sat on the balcony and drank some welcome liquid and I bought two extra cans of Coke since I could tell it was going to be a warm day. There was a resident Jack Russell here as well.
We now walked up a road and turned left at an old military barracks (evidently used for accommodation now) to resume our adventures with the twisting footpath. After La Câtel Fort, an old guardhouse overlooking the harbor, we continued forward for some time on roads. This was almost a relief – even though it was necessitated by the presence of an active rifle range on our left. A left turn brought us into the precincts of the Jersey Pistol Club and here there were a lot of men mulling about – some in military uniform. (The macho image of one of these chaps was undermined by the Springer Spaniel puppy on his lead.) Now we turned back toward the sea, passing through Crabbé Farm and reached the coast again, with a dramatic sea stack, L’Île Agois in its harbor below us. Soon we could also see the Devil’s Hole ahead of us and this meant that our promised lunchtime spot could not be too far away. (We never had to bring lunches with us on this trip, but Naomi supplied packets of trail mix with nuts, raisins and chocolate chips.) After descending into a wooded valley we worked our way over to La Falaise and the welcoming Abbey Tavern.
There were a lot of people sitting out front in the sun here, but we chose to remain in the cooler interior. I drank a pint of lager and had a prawn in Marie Rose sauce-stuffed baguette. (And I managed to get through the meal without getting any of the sauce of the maroon sweatshirt I wore throughout this trip.) Again we all used the loos (a boon for the suffering Adrian) and after forty minutes or so we were ready to search out our continuation above the cliff.
Naomi on the cliff path.
We dropped down to cross the stream that ran down through the Vallée des Mouriers and climbed up again – soon greeted by the unusual sight of a tribe of four-horned sheep, evidently imported from the Isle of Man since they closely resembled a more native species now extinct. Up and down we went in our approach to the dramatic headland of Sorel – where there were plenty of people who had come by car. I was looking for a place with some shade and sat down in the shadows of a millennium stone (arising with mysterious orange stains on my left hand) but the suffering Adrian was again in search of a bathroom. Learning of this dilemma two local non-walkers, John and Shirley, volunteered to drive him to the nearby Les Fontaines Tavern – while Naomi and I had a rest. They waited for him there and then drove him back – an exemplary act of the kindness of strangers I would say.
Our way forward put us onto roadway again, La Route du Nord, a stretch of highway built by islanders during the German occupation. It was quite warm in the afternoon sun but gradients were fairly level and we soon reached the tavern on foot. Eventually we reached a turnoff onto the cliff path again, passing beneath the Frémont Transmitting Station and catching our first glimpse of our afternoon’s destination, Bonne Nuit Bay.
There was quite a surprise waiting for us as we made the steep descent down to the harbor for at 5:10, without any advance call on our part, we discovered our Citicabs vehicle already waiting for us. This meant that we were spirited back to St. Helier immediately, a lovely ride in sylvan scenery and featuring a field full of the famous sad-eyed tan and white Jersey cattle. It also meant that there was plenty of time for a shower and a nap on our return.
Once again we headed down restaurant row at dinner time, choosing Doran’s, where the Irish proprietor endlessly teased the Continental staff and Adrian, still bargaining with his tummy, made do with three starters. There was still light in the sky as we made our way home, passing Alfonso and the corner coffee shop where the louche lounge lizards occupied all the tables, puffing away. Gliere’s Third Symphony soothed me into an appropriate drowsiness.
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