#rozell

Sunday 26 - Tue 28 July 2015

The wind arrived during the night, rocking Orion on its lines, and the rain started with a vengeance about 7am. Venturing outside was not an appealing option, so we spent the morning down below catching up on tasks and reading. It was no surprise to hear that the America’s Cup heat in Portsmouth had been cancelled on account of the weather. The weather station high above the marina displayed a ball and cone gale warning. 

Mid afternoon, the skies gradually cleared, and the sun shone intensely for an hour or so, although the breeze was still pretty stiff. Sam and I walked east from the marina, past a restored dazzle boat painted with fake, shadowed prows to confuse the enemy. That protective quality was never proven in combat, although the paint effect did apparently make the crew feel safer. 

We followed a path through some lush gardens and round to a slightly more sheltered bay, although out to sea the rocky reef was stirring up white frothy foam. 

The waves were washing along the concrete walls of the old and distinctly un-gorgeous lido. The respite was short-lived, though, as about 6pm the rain came again, so we hunkered down for pasta and chocolate. 

Monday 

Next day dawned grey but not raining, although westerly winds of Force 6-7 were forecast. We carefully picked a walk along the scenic North coast from Boulay Bay to Rozell. Dropped just next to the Water’s Edge hotel, we climbed a flight of wooden stairs below overhanging stunted trees, so it took a while to realise that it had started drizzling. 

As we wound up a vertiginous coast path through heather and gorse, the rain worsened, and it became hard to see the next headland. After half a mile, we reluctantly decided to turn back, and squander all the height gained. As partially drowned rats we crept into the smart hotel the back route and bought coffee to justify drying out and sneaky use of their wifi. 

After half an hour, the outlook had improved, so we re-started the walk, following a switchback path along steep valleys and rocky promontories, passing white-washed makeshift navigation marks, Victorian turreted follies and small farming hamlets, before descending into Rozell harbour, with the usual stone pier, fleet of fishing boats and run of pastel-coloured 18th century cottages, just as the sun ventured out. 

Rozell is famous for its Hungry Man kiosk, founded 1947, and we willingly joined the queue for generous burgers and crab sandwiches. The wind got up, and then the rain arrived again, so all the customers quickly decamped from the picnic tables by the harbour wall and crowded into a tiny covered area reminiscent of a bus shelter. The food was worth the slight discomfort though.

And then the sun really did come out and we were able to pass some relaxed time on the beach, sheltered from the frothy and choppy conditions out at sea, before being rescued by the bus and taken back to St Helier. 

Adrian went off to the airport to meet David and Jonny, and that evening we had an enjoyable dinner catching up on the news of their travels to Crete and Hong Kong. 

Tuesday 

More big winds and big seas in the forecast today, so we reluctantly postponed our passage to Guernsey to Thursday morning, calling for more research of the Jersey guidebooks and maps to identify new activities for the next couple of days. Still, I suppose there are worse places to be weather bound than Jersey…

With a 20 knot westerly expected today, we decided to face up to it and travel to Jersey’s biggest beach, St Ouen, which is exposed to the west and has a reputation for surfing. Tipped out of the bus at La Pulente, we walked across acres of yellow sand looking out to a Jersey tower and a veritable maze of rocky reefs – as it was low water. 

A group of sand yachts were circling to and fro, their loosely tethered mainsheets allowing them to tack and gybe without intervention as their drivers steered the low three-wheelers around a simple course. In the frothy waves, there were no surfers, just some chilled-looking body-boarders, and a couple of kite-surfers skimming through the shallows. 

After an impromptu long jump competition, we retired for coffee to a very smart canteen style joint, La Tico, where long benches allowed an extensive beach and sea view. There was some rain coming in off the sea, but it seemed to be dodging south, so we decided to walk along the coast path to Corbiere lighthouse, checking out some classy Aston Martins with very friendly owners in the car park en route. 

The causeway out to Corbiere was still dry, but with the tide coming in and the waves smashing around the rocks, it wasn’t an appealing route. While we ate our lunch in the lee of an old German bunker, we spotted a yacht sailing crazily close to the lighthouse, amid frothing waves crashing on the submerged spiky reef. 

They made it out the other side, but it didn’t look like a pleasant passage for the crew as it pitched in the rough chop. Dark grey skies on the horizon and a few warning drops of rain prompted a scramble to the sanctuary of the well-positioned Corbiere Phare restaurant, with a glass-fronted dining room which felt more like a ship’s bridge. 

The rain was so intense it almost obscured the lighthouse. Along with other refugees, we drank tea and dried out, till the squall had passed. By now the causeway had disappeared and Corbiere was an island again.