Ferry 'cross to Jersey

See what I did there? Anyway, Jenny’s recent honeymoon blogging has awakened nostalgia and reminded me of my first (and, as I have just realised, my only) visit to the lovely island of Jersey (if I remember rightly, it was in 1972) and many of the places she mentions. It would be remiss of me not to inform you that my companions were my very good friends Andy, Bob, Colin and Dave. I won’t bore the pants off you with a full account but there are salient features of that holiday which are indelibly imprinted in my memory. - We arrive at Weymouth by train to catch a Sealink ferry. Never having been on any kind of ship before, I am apprehensive about the ability of my stomach to retain its contents for any appreciable period. I am even more apprehensive when we encounter a bloke who paints a black picture of Jersey following the recent murder of a young nurse in St Helier, condemning all aspects of life on the island as “bad noos”. - Having consumed a good deal of beer both prior to arriving at the ferry port and on the ferry itself, my earlier apprehension proves not to have been groundless and I am sick at about midnight, amid jeers from my companions (including Bad Noos, whom we could not seem to get rid of). - However, this has been a groundbreaking (seabreaking, surely?) voyage for me and one which appears to have given me sea legs, because I have never been seasick since, and, at about 7 a.m. as we approach St Helier, one by one, all my friends disappear on vomiting duties while I consume a hearty breakfast of tomato juice, kippers and toast! - We hire an “Economy 5” (Austin 1100) from a Lancashire immigrant, Tug Wilson, and wonder how that dilapidated excuse for a vehicle could have engendered such enthusiasm in him (“Eh, lads! This caaar…”) - We had arranged for the tent and all associated equipment – consigned to a large wooden crate - to be transported to the Rose Farm Campsite in St Brelade to coincide with our arrival. Amazingly, it worked! - We had been spending a lot of time on one of Bournemouth’s beaches prior to the trip. The tent (and a lot of the equipment) was Colin’s and, as he was the only one who knew how to erect the tent, it was unfortunate that Dave had to take him to hospital as he was suffering from sunstroke. It was dark (and late) when we eventually put it up! - During our stay, an Irishman called Dennis arrived at the site, carrying a suitcase. Much amusement ensued when he opened it and extracted a small one-man tent. Much, much more amusement ensued when he slept in it: most of his legs protruded from one end! When I say most of his legs, I don’t mean he had loads of legs, but that a fair proportion of the two he had at the time were sticking out. - We visited St Aubin, Gorey, La Corbière, the German Underground Hospital, Portelet Bay, Grouville, Mont Orgeuil Castle, spent a lot of time in St Helier and on the beach at St Brelade and marvelled at the ability to drink during the afternoon, yes, the afternoon! They used to chuck us out at about half-past four for half an hour while they swept up. We also marvelled at the prices! It’s a shame I can’t remember the name of the bar overlooking St Brelade Bay where we spent many a happy hour. It’ll come to me. - None of us was romantically challenged at that time except Dave, who was engaged. I remember he used to sit in the *wiggles two sets of two fingers next to ears* car, while we were in the club roistering the night away (a coloured girl from Durham kept asking me ‘d’ya wanner ‘ave a dance, Naagel?’). And I did.Thanks, Jenny!