I am finally ensconced quite comfortably in the Prince of Wales Hotel in Greve de Lecq. A small Pub/Hotel right near the beach and the path for today. Last night’s dinner was nice – good selection and well cooked. The aromatic and evocative scent of Gauloises smoke is wafting in through the open door – and, of course, the rugby world cup is on TV. Allez le Bleus. I gravely underestimated the trip today. Because I still think I’m working with Portugal fitness and the terrain is more like the Isle of Man than Portugal or Malta – downez and upez every fucking 100 metres. It was hot with no shade. My phone thermometer was showing 32 degrees on the cliff paths but who knows how accurate that is and, I’ve got a cold. This route is supposed to be 50 ish miles long which I divided into 3, and then very smartly started on the hardest bit. So, with the elevation changes and Mr Google, I’d reckon I’ve already done 14 miles and I am nowhere near St Catherine’s. Tomorrow morning means at least 3 more hours on the cliffs at a mile an hour, if I can mange even that, before I can motor on a bit. I was in a bad way when I got to Mad Mary’s café and had to give up. Dizzy as F and holding on to the counter like an old un (you are a fucking old un- I hear you say). I will not be able to keep to my original schedule but, hey! ho! I’m alive and can always come back.
That is a Jersey Tower just over the road. Not any sort of offspring of the Pisa dude, despite appearances. Built to stop that pesky Napoleon. He wasn’t interested in coming here.The hotel and Greve de Lecq. I’m on my way.The first few headlands simmering in the morning sun already.The boats bringing the Sturmtroppers back. They’ve decided that Jersey can’t leave the EU after all. I have news Herr New Hitler. Jersey was never in the EU – shock, I know. They are islands.Up on the cliffs. Nice warm ground and vegetation smell. Looking back. Cliffs here are granite not Limestone but much the same. That strange man with the funny shaped head is back.The next set of headlands and a level path for a bit – bliss. I’ve stopped reading the guide and am just wandering as close to the cliffs as I can. What can go wrong? F it is hot!Granite or no, still some steep ones.Had to stop. I am done. Luckily I’ve found Thor’s hammer in the shrubbery. I wonder if Mjölnir will let me pick him up.Plenty of these helpful steps. Those are staples, which just happen to fit nicely into the tread on the bottom of my boots. That – I’m stuck for a split second feeling – is disconcerting, to say the least.That is some kids shute. I wonder what is at the bottom? The cliff on the left is trying to grow a face.All the bracken is changing colour. Mixing the auburn in with the green.Now, look at this! Neither the Maltese nor the Portuguese believe in these. But we are sort of back in Blighty so, the odd seat to reward your hard work with a lovely view is priceless. Just in time – need another rest.All the place names are French. Well Norman French. Watch out, history lesson coming. William the Bastard (Conqueror) was Duke of Normandy and this fiefdom was passed down through his descendants until John the Pratt lost Normandy to King Phillipe of France. The Channel Islands were sort of forgotten, so continued with the Norman French until English took over.Loving the giant green earrings that beech is rocking.Will I even hear it? And why the fuck are they blasting on the path.This looked brill until I turned that corner, then! More downez and upez and a hard slog.Triathletes have been passing me for the last hour – good people – coming towards me. This is where they get out after their swim. Then they run along the cliff paths – mad, fit bastards.Some arriving now. A guy older than me passed me – Christ! Puts you to shame. Hoping a café with some shade for a sit down.No café. No Shade. Moved on. Decisions. High road or low road. I’ve had a read of the guide and he says high.Bet you the seagull wished he’d taken the low.Apparently the bay’s name, Bonne Nuit, comes from a comment made by King Charles II as he left exile to head back to the slum living and poverty of an English monarch.Desperate for a chair and voilà -as they say in these here parts – one appears.I’d like to see the bird that could take that Mexican caterpillar. I’d nick his Sombrero, but it’s not quite big enough. Guide Fucker! That low road looks a hell of a lot more pleasant than this thing I’m on.British Commando operations on Jersey – who knew?In Burley Bay at Mad Mary’s café. Been an hour since last photo – just can’t do it. It is taking all of my energy to just force myself forward a very small step at a time. Back to hotél , I think – note the Francais. I’ve had it. The paddle-boarding babes can’t wait to get out to an Oli lookalike just chilling and awaiting his harem.
