“Marked as medium-dry but not sweet at all. In fact, it’s sour … but surprisingly drinkable after the first shock. I could imagine enjoying it in sunnier climates mixed with mineral water as a tart wine spritzer.”

Why I would bother to write all that and not name the wine is beyond me. I don’t suppose it occurred to me that there would be more than one vineyard on the island. Or perhaps given my reaction I thought it was kinder not to be specific.

Anyone recognise it by the description by any chance?

A winter re-design. There were quite a few small things on the site that needed dealing with and Cliff volunteered to help with bringing Wordpress to heel. I have to admit I thought the grey was particularly appropriate, given the issues with winter flying in the UK. The categories and archives should be a bit more intuitive and I feel a lot more secure about the site working in various browsers/configurations since Cliff rewrote the CSS file for me.

Let me know if anything goes awry.

The Casquets, the set of towers we’d seen on the flight in, is not surprisingly an important figure within the recent history of the island but the most interesting and tragic story is told at the Maritime Museum: the wreck of the Stella.

In the 1890s the competition between the ‘London and South Western’ and ‘the Great Western’ railway companies was heating up. The route across the Channel to the Channel Islands became the main battleground, with the ships openly racing each other to get their passengers ashore first. A number of issues were reported (with the Captains generally claiming they were “racing the tide”) but generally this competition was seen as exciting and a newspaper article in the Guernsey Star reports on a race between the Ibex (Great Western) and the Frederica (London and South Western) as if it were a sporting event. “The Frederica, skirting near the rocks and crossing the Ibex’s bows, beat the latter, after a grand race, by one minute and a half at the pier heads.”

The Stella was one of three steamers put into service in 1890 by London and South Western specifically for speed; the company’s advertising focused on best crossing times. By 1899, however,  there had been at least one accident due to the competition (the Ibex struck a ledge going full-speed 40 feet from the Frederica) which led to an inquiry and the Captains certificate being suspended for six months. A sensible concern regarding the racing is beginning to arise and the two railway companies were “making tentative efforts to call a halt”.

However, the ‘Easter run’, the first daylight runs of the season, whetted interest in the best crossing times and spirits were high with special low fares offered for the holiday.

The Stella departed on March 30th under the command of a seasoned Captain within this context: a priority of getting the ship and her passengers to the Channel Islands as quickly as possible.

The ship met rail passengers from Waterloo at Southampton and then began the trip to Guernsey and Jersey with 217 on board. The weather was sunny and clear when they departed Southampton and continued to be fine as they passed the Isle of Wight. Shortly after passing the Needles, a thick fog began to form. The captain slowed to half-speed until they cleared the fog and then resumed his initial speed of 18 knots.

Shortly thereafter the fog descended around the Stella again but the Captain kept the ship at 18 knots. The Captain and various crew members, including the first officer, remained on the bridge, with a seaman sounding the fog whistle. At this point, the Captain and crew seemed to believe they were still half an hour away from the Casquets: a dangerous reef with three lighthouses placed upon it which was used as a standard visual turning point for the route to Guernsey.

It is unclear how the Stella had managed to veer off her course but at this stage she is still travelling at 18 knots in heavy fog. ‘The Wreck of the Stella’ by John Ovendon and David Shayer gives the following chilling account of Captain Reeks final moments:

“At 4pm three things happened simultaneously. Reeks heard — and the sound must have made the hair stand on his neck — a fog-horn blast of immense power from directly above his head; Hartup in the bow yelled ‘Stop her’ and ran back along the deck covering his head with his forearm; and at the same moment the men on the bridge and a handful of passengers on the deck saw, ‘as though a door had suddenly opened’, an immense rock loom out of the fog 80 yards directly ahead, towering over the ship.”

The Captain tried evasive action but it was too late and the Stella was going too fast. The dangerous shoals of the Casquets tore out the bottom of her hull. The fog was such that the keepers of the lighthouse never saw a thing.

Within 8 minutes the ship had sunk. 105 passengers and crew died in the worst disaster in the history of the Channel Islands’ mail steamers.

I sat on the concrete, trying to apply mascara and lipstick without a mirror, surrounded by parked planes. What the hell was I doing here?

A few weeks ago, it had all seemed sensible and, dare I say it? …fun. I was wildly optimistic about the whole idea and even invited Cliff’s mother to join us for the first trip to the Channel Islands. I bragged about my ability to get by on a wing and a prayer and even bought a jaunty little wheelie bag for the island flying. This lasted until it was actually time to pack. I sat at home on my bed, surrounded by piles of clothes — winter jumpers and summer t-shirts, walking clothes and dinner outfits and shoes for all occasions. I cut it down to half what I thought I needed and then looked at the dinky bag again. Not even close. I finally broke down and dragged a proper suitcase up from the garage and promptly filled it.

I was spending a week island-hopping in a small plane. The British Airways staff who checked me in for the flight to Heathrow marked my bag as “heavy.” This wasn’t an auspicious start.

The plan was simple: fly to Heathrow and get a lift to Elstree in North London the night before, make sure the Saratoga looked healthy and happy, then stay locally and leave for Guernsey first thing in the morning. We arrived at the airfield at dusk and I couldn’t help but feel that the big, bulky, heavy lump of a suitcase was over the top for the single night’s stay, so I shoved it into the back of the plane and left it there.

This led to me waking up in a small brick hotel with nothing but my flight bag. I am not really a morning person. At quarter to eight I lay there gripping the side of the bed tightly, willing myself to wake up and be functional. Cliff tried to tempt me with descriptions of a fried breakfast. I put the pillow over my head.

Eventually I forced myself out of bed. Bleary-eyed and out of sorts, I realised just how foolish I had been. No shampoo, no hairbrush, no toothbrush for God’s sake. Just me and some maps.

In an hour, I would be flying. Under the circumstances, it seemed a bad idea. I took a deep breath, splashed water on my face and considered flight planning, specifically the weather. The correct procedure is to check met reports and phone airfields directly. My handy-dandy copy of Pooleys Airfield information has the phone numbers. It also has two pages of instructions for flying into the Channel Islands, in addition to the standard airfield information. I felt intimidated. I decided to avoid speaking to them in case they noticed quite how incompetent I was and banned me from coming. I looked out the window instead. The sun was shining. A taxi was waiting for us outside. It was time to go.

That was how I ended up on the tarmac, brushing my hair and wondering if it was too late to cancel. It was: I watched another taxi deposit Cliff’s mother, Anne. She arrived along with her wheel chair and a tiny carry-on bag with everything she needed for the week. I blushed and hid my Samsonite out of the way and pretended to make a big show of how heavy her case was. It weighed slightly more than my make-up bag.