Month: October 2018

A Jaunt in Jersey

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On Saturday, like all the greatest rugby players, Southampton’s ladies hopped on a flight to fulfil their fixture. I was as excited as a dog in a cattery; I hadn’t played rugby for two months, hadn’t flown for five years and I’d never been to Jersey before.

We flew from Southampton, arriving mid-morning and walking the short distance to Jersey Reds rugby club. The weather was lovely – mid-teens and sunny, clear blue skies – and the club facilities were much posher than we’re used to. We kicked off at midday and played a tough, close game of rugby; we were 14-12 down at half time and it could have gone either way, but a really solid team performance saw us triumph 22-14 as the final whistle went.

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Having made the mistake of wearing silky, billowey, vibrant red trousers with a Turkish carpet-type pattern on the plane while everyone else wore trackies, I downed a pint for “fanny of the field” and my condition deteriorated steadily from there. The next twelve hours saw us taxied to our hotel in the island’s capital, St Helier, dressed up (American theme, I was a double-denim clad cowgirl), fed, very well watered (all alcoholic) and messy; we held a tour court, made lots of friends and otherwise “bonded”. At various points I found myself submerged in a swimming pool, a jacuzzi, a water fountain and a (group) bath – I’ll spare the details.

On Sunday I woke around 6.30am and climbed out of the bed I’d crawled into about three hours before, keen to explore. I stumbled out of my teammate’s hotel room and into my own (long and innocent story), pulled on any old clothes and headed out, free map from reception in hand.

St Helier wasn’t what I expected. To me, the style and layout of the streets felt much more French than English; the buildings were mostly quite new, smart and at least three stories high, and the roads were straight and very clean. There were a handful of independent newsagent-type shops open, rather than small chain supermarkets like in England, but otherwise most places were closed. I remember the area  around the harbour having a clean, modern, upbeat feel on Saturday night, but come Sunday morning the streets were eerily quiet.

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It took about 15 minutes to walk from the Mayfair hotel to the beach, and when I got there the view was lovely. The early morning sun was rising over St Helier’s C-shaped bay, glistening on the calm water and warming the sand. Four strikingly symmetrical tower blocks framed the south east of the city, silhouetted by the low sun, and jagged rocks jutted out of the sea as if challenging boats to get into the bay. I walked out to the end of the pier, impressed by the big bathing pool structure, and admired the view.

A couple of hours later I had explored a bit more, breakfasted, packed and met my sluggish friends. With some time to kill before getting the coach to the airport, a few of us headed back to the bathing pool and I braved a swim in the flat, fresh, salty water, wearing my now infamous silky trousers. It was cool (cold) but really refreshing. I swam around for a while and only stopped because my ribs were hurting (rugby) and my un-elasticated trousers started to rip, then shivered my way back to the hotel.

The coach picked us up and took us along the south coast towards the airport, on the west of the island. What I saw of the rest of St Helier looked clean and new, and the long, golden, sandy beaches were amazingly quiet given the clear blue waters, cloudless skies and warm sun. There’s an interesting looking castle and fort that can be walked out to at low tide, and I learnt from Saturday’s taxi driver that Jersey has one of the largest tidal ranges in the world. Looking out to sea, the clear, pale blue water looked shallow for a long way out, and the shores were guarded by jagged, dark rocks. This, combined with the pale pavements and  numerous palm trees, gave the place a really Mediterranean feel.

We went through the pretty, older-looking coastal town of St Aubin and, as we had plenty of time before our flight, our driver gave us a little tour south to Noirmont point. He parked the coach and let us out for ten minutes, after which time I think everyone was sold on Jersey. We could have been in Greece; the headland overlooked a clear, azure blue bay, skirted by reddish-brown granite cliffs topped by lush, green shrubbery, yellow gorse and purple heather. I scrambled down the grippy rock to get some photos, a little bit gutted that I wasn’t there to climb.

That was about as much of Jersey as I saw; the bus journey back to the airport was unremarkable – the buildings were new and clean and there were lots of palm trees. I learnt a lot about the island from talking to various people. They have £1 notes, and the watermark on their notes is a Jersey cow. You have to have lived there for something like 10 years before you can buy property, you need special work permits and the cost of living is similar to London. The  island is only 9 miles long and 5 miles wide, with a population of just 100,000. It has its own financial and legal systems, funny tax rules, and it’s about 15 miles from France and 85 miles from England. It has its own language, which is barely used, and lots of wartime history. Apparently it’s great for surfing (along the west) and climbing.

Overall, Jersey was totally different to what I expected. I thought it’d feel like the Isle of Wight – really just an extension of England – but it felt like a totally different country. We weren’t there for long and I didn’t get the chance to run around the island like I’d hoped (my ribs were too sore) so I only saw a small part of it, but I’d recommend a visit. I’d like to come back to climb, surf and explore the coast more…

Watching the World Burn: Science vs Politics

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I’m rarely one for politically charged blog posts but today I can’t resist.

A quick bit of (very basic) background info, feel free to skim over this:

[Carbon emissions cause global warming (thus climate change) by trapping heat from the Sun inside Earth’s atmosphere.

Under the 2015 Paris Agreement, 195 countries set the objective of ensuring the increase in average global temperature does not exceed 2°C – ideally 1.5°C – above pre-industrial levels. Pre-industrial is not defined, but probably refers to the mid-18th to early-19th century.

Last week the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change reported that we are likely to exceed the 1.5° limit within three to ten years, and we’re on track for a 3° increase by 2100. A 1.5° rise would cause devastating extreme weather events, habitat destruction, mass extinctions, food insecurity, poor crop yields, increased poverty levels, slow economic growth, unprecedented refugee crises, etc etc, which would be exponentially worse at 3°.]

That’s the science; now for the politics.

It’s pretty clear that immediate action must be taken to slash our carbon emissions, and even reverse the damage we’ve already caused by pulling carbon out of the atmosphere (which can be done).

Or I thought it was pretty clear. I’ve just watched Donald Trump claw, scrabble and grunt his way through an interview by denying that human activity has impacted on climate change. When challenged about the innumerable scientific reports detailing how we’re devastating the planet, he blamed the “political agenda” of scientists.

I could wear my fingers down to the knuckles writing about that man’s ignorance, incompetence and utter disillusionment. I’d love to know more about what would motivate almost every scientist worldwide to have the same political agenda, and how the correlation between industrialisation and unprecedented global warming is entirely coincidental. Unfortunately he doesn’t seem able to expand on those points.

No more about Trump, or my fingers might punch through the keyboard.

Today I read an article about how UK climate minister Claire Perry is refusing to advocate a lower-meat diet because she likes her steak and chips. Scientific evidence shows that the agricultural industry has an enormous (like really, shockingly big) carbon footprint, and that by reducing our demand for meat we can contribute massively to cutting emissions. (Watch Cowspiracy on Netflix for more info.)

I’ll reiterate – our climate minister – will not encourage people to change a small, inconsequential aspect of their lifestyle because it “is not the government’s job to advise on a climate-friendly diet”.

I mean, it’s not like issuing advice would be an easy and unintrusive way to educate people as to how they can better protect the planet. And as if it would also serve to reduce the number of health complications caused by diets high in saturated fat, thus the strain on the NHS… Ridiculous!

Hope you detected the sarcasm. There is no reason for the government to refuse to advise people to reduce meat consumption; it’s not like they’d be introducing quotas or bans. They seem perfectly happy prescribing advice, restrictions and taxes on alcohol, cigarettes and sugar – so if not the government’s job, whose is it?

I’ve used two examples but I’m certain there are many others, and I won’t keep you all day. The point is, it’s not just Trump; denial, blunt refusal to change, lack of accountability and willingness to turn a blind eye is rife everywhere, and I – along with the unsung heroes of our time, the powerless environment scientists – am tearing my hair out in frustration, despair and incredulity. Al Gore hit the nail on the head when he called his 2006 documentary film An Inconvenient Truth – please, please, please watch it, I think it should be mandatory viewing for everyone.

We’re moving way too slowly. It’s time for politicians to open their ears, take their noses out of their purses and look up at the world, ideally before it’s burnt to a cinder.

New Forest Bike Ride, September 2018

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When my outdoorsey friend from North Wales visited my humble little corner of England last month, I promised to show him the New Forest (National Park – absolutely not an innuendo). I figured the best way to do this was on bikes, so I fixed Rocky’s puncture and chain-lubed him up.

We met at Stoney Cross Car Park and headed West. I hadn’t planned a route, I just thought we’d go with the flow; naturally, after riding along roads, through trees and across grassy openings, we managed to end up in what is probably the least suitable part of the Forest for mountain biking and/or showing friends around: the Netley Marsh/Totton urban sprawl.

I have nothing against the area, but I’d wanted to show Mike  the New Forest in all its glory: heather-covered moors grazed by rugged ponies and edged by dark treelines. Purple-brown heaths, rippling golden grasses, trees every shade of green and open skies bathed in the translucent lilac-blue-gold of late summer sun. Netley Marsh/Totton was strikingly grey. And it rained.

Apologetically, I attempted to lead us back into the Forest and was unsuccessful for a while. However, we stumbled across a pump track at Totton which (in my opinion) made the detour worthwhile. I’d never been to one before but it was lots of fun – a couple of loops around and my heart rate was up, my arms were burning and I was grinning stupidly. It was sketchy at times, when I misjudged when to pedal and scraped the tarmac “humps”, but fortunately Rocky and I left in two complete pieces.  It turns out the track cost £43k and only opened a couple of months before. [See the GoPro footage from the pump track]

Playtime complete, we rode out of the urban sprawl back towards the Forest via Ashurst, travelling south through woods and across open heathland. This was more what I’d hoped for; I couldn’t call it mountain biking (especially not to Mike, hailing from Snowdonia) as the terrain was quite easy-going and there was nothing particularly steep. The most difficult part was the narrow section where the high, tufty “kerbs” on either side of the track meant I could only pedal in half-rotations, but at least I’d shown my friend some of the “actual” New Forest.

We went through Denny Lodge and stopped for a drink at the Mailmans Arms in Lyndhurst, then rode back towards the car park via Emery Down. The roads seemed long, and it was hard work having cycled a fair way on mountain bikes and empty stomachs. We cycled 40km in total; back at the van, I apologised for being such a terrible tour guide and promised I’d do a better job of showcasing the New Forest next time.

In the future I think I’ll show my “guests” the north west of the Forest, rather than the central east. I went for a lovely ride out Linwood/Mockbeggar/Fritham way  back in April, so maybe that’ll be my destination of choice… I’ve heard tell of a mountain bike centre in the south west, around Avon, so that’s on the cards for a future day out. In the mean time, I’ll work on my tour guide skills, and maybe I’ll prepare an actual route next time…

Endnote: Mike didn’t seem too disappointed  – we explored Corfe Castle afterwards and went climbing at Dancing Ledge in Dorset the next morning, so I think I made up for it!