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.

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.

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…