On Monday 3 August, in an unsuspecting terminal at Albert Pier, my girlfriend and I waited in shared anticipation for a water taxi to spirit us over to the Island of Alderney.
While making arrangements for our trip, it had actually been the water taxi that most piqued our interest: would we wind up with a loquacious sailor who’d somehow “done the knowledge” on all the best routes through the English Channel?
In the end, we weren’t too far off. No cigarette-smoking wordsmith, but two businesslike young boatsmen who whisked us – and one other passenger – through the glassy-watered seas with a proficiency that at times bordered on panache.
To make things even better, the two guys seemed to share a genuinely eclectic music taste – the noodlings of Mark Knopfler and the suspended chords of the Beach Boys filtering down to us pleasantly from the helm’s speaker system throughout our journey.
As we approached Alderney, the waters became a tad choppier – and the tunes were briefly paused – but we soon docked and found ourselves gazing out onto a beautiful and sun-soaked Braye Harbour, the Island’s main port.
From start to finish, the journey from Jersey to the northernmost of the inhabited Channel Islands lasted a brisk 1 hour and 20 minutes; so less time than it took, during the eclipse, to get from one end of the Five Mile road to the other.
With four-or-so hours to spare before checking into our hotel, the two of us ventured into St Anne for an aimless mooch around – a good entrée for any holiday worth its salt.
The Island’s high street – named Victoria Street after Queen Victoria and Prince Albert visited in 1845 – was a cobbled delight.
We peeled off to take in the Alderney Memorial Gardens in full bloom, before perusing a close-by selection of homespun, independent shops selling clothes and trinkets.
An early highlight of the trip – and something I still haven’t stopped going on about since returning – followed a bit of idle, midday crate-digging at the Island’s only charity shop.
Having flipped past about 30 records all bearing the title Alderney ’83 – some kind of long-lost charity compilation recorded by a collection of long-haired les vaques folkies – I stumbled across my favourite Beatles album, the 1965 classic Rubber Soul.
“How much is this one?” I asked the store-owner, noting the lack of any discernible price-tag. “All of our records are ten pence,” she nodded. “I’ll take it,” I replied, while already shuffling back out onto Victoria Street before she had time to change her mind.
With my new purchase guiltily stowed under my arm, we made our way back down Victoria Street to our hotel – passing on our way, aptly enough, the blue-plaque adorned former holiday home of “fifth Beatle” George Martin.
Just when we thought nothing could surpass the Beatles bargain, we were checked into our ensuite double-room at the Braye Beach Hotel: a hotel room so picturesque that my girlfriend actually let out an involuntary squeal of delight.
On the dressing table, a handwritten note welcoming us to the Island accompanied a selection of complimentary – and delicious – brownies, which we promptly inhaled while enjoying the view of the white-sand Braye Beach stretching out into the middle distance.
Unpacked and revitalised, we set about throwing ourselves head-on into “Alderney Week,” the Island’s famous annual summer festival, and made our way to The Butes playing field for the Cavalcade Day Field Fest.
We soon found ourselves lost in a sea of live music, fairground games, local food stalls, and baroque-looking floats – even, at one point, accidentally colliding into a peloton of go-karting tweenagers rounding the bend of a makeshift circuit situated just next to the public toilets.
To decompress, we returned to HQ for a sunset meal at Braye Beach Hotel’s restaurant – which spills out onto an expansive balcony area looking out over the beach.
Two sumptuously cooked steaks and one bottle of red wine later, and we were ready to take on one of Alderney Week’s go-to after-dark festivities: the mythical ‘bunker party.’
The party, which kicked off at midnight, turned out to be a kind of Ibiza-meets-the-Jersey-war-tunnels arrangement – an arrangement that we both thoroughly enjoyed for a respectable two-and-a-half hours before traipsing back to the hotel and falling fast asleep.
The next morning we hoovered down our breakfast and watched on in rapt amazement as the “Man-Powered Flight” competition – which happened to be taking place only a stone’s throw away from the hotel balcony – got underway.
The competition – which involves Islanders leaping into the sea off a wooden plank while wearing homemade flying contraptions – truly has to be seen to be believed.
Perhaps it was the faint echo of a hangover, but the event felt to me like an almost philosophical celebration of the human condition; each splash and subsequent peal of laughter a reminder of our innate absurdity as a species.
On our final afternoon in Alderney, we rented a couple of electric bikes and took a whistle-stop tour around the Island’s many gorgeous beaches and historical landmarks.
During our bike ride, we were struck by how many different languages and accents we’d heard over the course of just a few hours – an observation borne out by the fact that around 2,000 visitors were also visiting the Island during Alderney Week.
José Simões, Hotel Manager of Braye Beach Hotel, described the annual migration of tourists from all over the world to Alderney as something “we all feel privileged to be a part of.”
“Alderney Week is the island’s biggest demonstration of the force of community we are so fortunate to have here,” he argued. “Welcoming visitors from all over Europe, and closer to home, to experience this much-loved local festival at our hotel is an honour.”
Our electric bike batteries depleted, we then trekked over to the Saye Beach Camping Café, ordered a couple of near-perfect pepperoni pizzas, and located a nearby beach to enjoy our last sunset in Alderney.
Checking out is never easy, and the warmth of the Braye Beach Hotel staff made it particularly hard to pack up and return home the following morning.
But with heavy hearts, we gathered up our backpacks and Beatles record, and set off for the 30-or-so minute walk to the airport: a surprisingly well-decked out building with an fully operational café that sells toasties and hot drinks.
As our Twin Otter plane took off into the sky, we glanced back at Alderney and made a mental note to return again next year… perhaps with our own flying contraption to boot.
