The day old Jersey died and Jersey plc was born

Such anthems are not necessarily the chart toppers of the actual times, but rather are songs that capture a special moment in a nutshell. They are the tunes we fall in love to, the tunes which brides and grooms dance to on their wedding day, the tunes we start belting out – usually out of tune and while forgetting most of the words after too much vino has flowed – when we get together with old mates.

Don McLean’s American Pie is a classic example, and is the anthem from my youth. Partly biographical and partly the story of the America in which he grew up, it was inspired by his learning of the death of Buddy Holly.

As a modern song it is far too long, with too many versus and a chorus that most can remember while forgetting much of the lyrics. Unless you have the lyrics in front of you, I defy anyone to sing it all the way through without stumbling over a line or two or mumbling when memory fails.

Don McLean was a newspaper boy, delivering that day’s edition when he read of Buddy Holly’s death. It was

the first of the many shocking and untimely deaths that would rock America in the 1950s and 60s. Moreover, from the historical perspective, it marked one of those life-changing, epoch-making moments that have come to define popular culture.

Holly’s death – like those of the Kennedy brothers, and the first moon landing, Princess Diana’s senseless demise in a Paris underpass and the tragedies of 9/11 and 7/7 – are all events in connection with which, for generations to come, people will remember where they were and what they doing when the news broke.

As McLean summed it up so succinctly: ‘Something touched me deep inside, the day the music died.’

I experienced one of those defining moments on Wednesday last week as I drove along the Five Mile Road. It was a brilliantly sunny November day; the shadows on the sand dunes were casting a deep counterpoint to the stark white streaks of sand and lush grass, as the Atlantic rollers crashed in on the incoming tide.

My bad news wasn’t found on the doorstep, nor did I read it in this esteemed publication. It came when I flicked on the radio as the trusty Clio passed the White House heading in the direction of Le Braye. I glanced at the clock. It read 1.54 pm.

Then I heard the bad news. Our beloved Environment Minister, he of the ever-curiouser decisions, had approved the building of new houses at Plémont.

Like Don McLean on hearing his bad news, I also cried, just as the person I was meeting said she felt like doing when I imparted the result of years of wrangling.

FOR me, it was the day old Jersey died and Jersey plc was formed. If somewhere like Plémont can be developed, what hope is there for other isolated beauty spots?

It was as if that decision crossed a line to send out a clear message that nothing is sacrosanct any more. The momentum that has been building of late in the creeping urbanisation of country lanes, the replacing of existing properties with ‘grand design’ mansions which sit incongruently with the local surroundings, town house terraces which are more at home in a UK city than overlooking quintessential Jersey meadowland, and the Costa del Solesque ruination of Portelet Bay finally reached bursting point when the minister opened his mouth, like a dam broken by a flood surge.

However, in this instance it was a flood initiated by a surge of change led by politicians out of touch with popular opinion, in the name of economic growth for expansion’s sake that most people do not want but are powerless to stem. It’s all about the money now, I’m sad to say.

I am even sadder that there are some among us who wouldn’t think twice about sticking a luxury housing development on a beauty spot with a stunning view. Where some see a precious piece of land to be protected at all cost, others see development potential and a nice big profit.

If the development season has now been declared well and truly open on pockets of isolated wilderness atop steep cliffs at the end of narrow Jersey lanes such as Plémont, what hope for the likes of Rozel, Gorey and St Aubin, which are already being transformed by multi-million-pound properties and apartment blocks?

There used to be a time when the Planning department could be trusted to be a bastion against intrusive and over-the-top developments. With a greater understanding of its workings in the past than most, I was confident that the process had the interests of Jersey at its heart. But no more.

The music that has been surely running down, gradually going off key as if played on an old gramophone in need of rewinding, has finally died.

If I hadn’t already given up on Jersey and decided in my desperation to move elsewhere when the time comes to claim the pension, the news I heard at 1.54 pm on Wednesday 16 November would have been the final straw.

To paraphrase Don McLean: ‘The three men I admire most – the Father, Son, and the Holy Ghost – have caught the last train for the coast.’ But not our coast, because I fear that is now beyond saving.

l Paula Thelwell is a member of the Council of the National Trust for Jersey. Her views do not necessarily reflect those of the Council or the National Trust.