Mahatma Ghandi once wrote, “You must be the change you wish to see in the world”. And the world needs for us to change. Mother Nature is telling us so. She can take a breath, the atsomphere is clearing, there are signs of life in waters that seemed to have long sinse been clogged with human interventions and we are finding new and novel ways of interacting. How strange, the existence we have found ourselves in and how did we get to this point? The signs have been there for some time. She warned us, but we didn’t listen. Now is our chance to listen and act. And let’s have faith in faith. Gandhi also said, Ïn a gentle world, you can shake the world. We have innumerable chances to be better people, to be kind to ourselves, to others and to shake the world. Mother Nature. give us a chance.

This new world has shaken and scared me and I long for the chance to once again find that place where I can just be. As I’m working from home, my mind constantly wanders to a bright blue Ospray pack in a dark corner of my cupboard, a teasing pair of boots and a loyal drink bottle that helped me on the Cotswold Way. I can’t get the Camino out of my mind. I want to be able to grow in the open air, not hunched over my computer. I want to sleep with the snoring (well, not really, but it sounded poetic). I want my pack on my back (carrying only 10% of my body weight – yeah right) and I want to walk. Just walk – and eat tortilla of course. It’s the inner spiritual peace that I’m craving.

I want to learn that I can once again fall gently from the sky and land on my feet, instead of my head. My physical scars are healing but I think the mental scar of facing death needs some gentle nurturing. In a way, I feel like I have lost my life’s purpose, it’s like I’ve been given a second chance but can’t quite figure out what to do with it, hence the Camino call. I just want to put one sore foot in front of the other and exist day to day.

They say never look back, but for now I’m going to keep looking back to my Camino journey because I intend to go that way again. But in the meantime I’m going to do my bit to give Mother Nature the space to breathe, do what I need to do to be kind to my neighbours and cats and try to get a wee glimpse into my life’s purpose.

I’m blessed to be living in New Zealand at this time and I worry for my family and pals overseas . (I always seem to be worried about someone!) I feel so lucky to be able to work from my amazing home where I can see the tidal changes each day and hear the tui calling. And Camino de Santiago, I’ll be walking your path once again. Have patience, Mother Nature will let me be there when she is ready.

And the inner peace? It will come, I have faith in faith.

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The Winner Without a Doubt

We have searched throughout the lands. It’s not been easy. There was a lot of suffering; dry, day old scoans, no cream, very expensive trials and the occassional slit my throat now momentss from Pearla and Pearla.

But a winner has been found. And close to home. We know his scoans were fresh out of the oven because we witnessed them going in. We know that they were holesome and even plant based. Yes a bit of Vegan thrown ino the criteria at the last minute. And they are the BEST because we know they were made with love and passion. So the winner of The International Scone Bakeoff (TISB) is Pat Cody. (Pat, seriously, it was a toss up between your scoans and the Welsh Teacakes, but after many hours of deliberating we decided that Welsh Teacakes aren’t really scoans – lucky for you).

Pearla’s Taken a Fall

Poor Pearla. She’s taken a fall. Taken a fall. It’s interesting, isn’t it, that when one reaches a certain age, defined by society of the time, that one no longer falls, trips, slips or double somersaults into ravines, but ‘takes a fall’. I wonder what that exactly means. When we reach this undefined age, do we have a choice? Hmm, no I won’t take this fall, I’ll take that fall, which fall will I take? Or you are now aged in the eyes of society, so take that, just take it, you have now taken a fall, take it with grace, take it like a man. Anyway, I’m sorry, I digress. Poor Pearla has taken a fall. I hope she won’t mind me sharing. Poor Pearla had only been back just over a week when she was having philosophical thoughts whilst gardening on a steep bank. Her thoughts were wandering along the lines of, is there really a higher being, a universe where we are guided, are our paths mapped for us, you get my drift. She had come to the conclusion that maybe life is random and let’s just muddle along. The very moment she had made this conclusion, the universe decided to teach her a lesson and oopsy, over she goes, rolling down the hill and onto the concrete path, breaking her wrist. Poor Pearla.

And Pearla’s Taken a Fall

And I have taken a fall. I chose the double somersault into the ravine option. One Armed Plastered Pearla and I decided to take a walk into the Pukenui Forest. We chose the 3-4 hour option. I made a bad choice around footware, took the said fall and was followed by poor one armed Pearla, clambering down the rocks to the rescue. (although, truth be told I wasn’t really aware of her plight for a day or two. It was all about ME). As I lay there in a pool slowly turning red, Pearla did a sterling job of assessing the situation, checking the vitals and between the two of us we decided that the only thing broken were my glasses, evidenced by glass embedded into my face. It didn’t occur to me as I was trying to climb out of the ravine, that Pearla would be struggling with her one arm and as she was trying to wave down the rescue helicopter I didn’t think how frightening this all was for her and how scary it was for her that I was totally relying on her. As we were waiting for the helicopter, I asked Pearla if I really needed to go to hospital. Surely I can just go home, I can walk out. No Jules, you need to go to hospital. She took a photo but I told her I didn’t want to see it. It took a long time for the helicopter to find us in the bush and poor Pearla had to hug me to keep me warm and try to guide the rescue team. An angel for sure. Helicopter rotor noise will never be the same. We had spectators. Honestly. I just don’t get how people can openly stand and watch. I didn’t have the will to tell them to f*** off.

Richard was winched down to resuce me and he was so CLEAN that I was worried about getting blood on his spotless kit. Look at the view, look at the view, spreading his arms out wide to indicate the tree top view as I was being winched up. Bless.

The A&E team were amazing and thought we were a right pair when Pearla later walked in with her plaster. You, too! What have you been doing. You are a couple of tough old birds. Tough old birds. Another comment reserved for the ‘aged’ and particularly women. Hmm my mind goes to the Sunday roast. Mum, this is a tough old bird. I’m guessing women move on from being Spring Chickens to Tough Old Birds. I felt I was in no position to lecture about ageist and sexist language. Just shut up Jules, you need those stitches in neatly. The less scarring the better.

We managed to laugh our way through the afternoon whilst waiting for scan results etc. Seems, despite the doctor’s view that I had broken my nose, there are no broken bones. I was lucky that the bangs on my head were largely on my forehead as that is supposed to be the thickest part of the head and that the gash just below my eye from glass wasn’t actually in my eye. When tumbling, I really thought I was going to break my neck. So stitches, grazing and massive bruising is all I have, however, I think it’s going to take a while for both of us to get over the reminder that life is fragile. I will have some excellent facial scars for some time, but come Saturday night, I had decided that I was the luckiest person in the world (to be alive).

The spooky thing is, the night before, as I was watching TV, I had two visitations from a person in a medieval cloak. At first I thought it was the trick of light, but when it happened the 2nd time a few hours later, I knew it wasn’t. Some would say (and have) it was the grim reaper and I have defied death; I wondered if it was an ancestor warning me, but the best answer that we have come up with is that I picked up an ancient pilgrim on the Camino who was hanging around to look after me. Thank-you fellow Pilgrim.

(Guest Blogger Astrid Van Holten, aka Pearla provides us with her perspective of our travels and how she managed to put up with me).

Day 1 in Berlin has been grey and a chilling 4 degrees. It is 4.30pm and utterly dark outside, but I am in a warm apartment with my son and daughter-in-law, nice music, slippers on and coffee on the stove. All three of us are at our computers, them doing real work while I half-heartedly read New Zealand job ads. Saying good-bye to Pearla yesterday in London was heart-wrenching so dealing with the anxieties of travel was a good distraction. And anxieties they really are when one chooses a cut-price, non-customer focussed airline.

Yesterday marked the end of the “Pearla and Pearla do the UK” journey. We have been in each other’s company pretty much 24/7 since the beginning of June, working and living together (sometimes with our own rooms, but many times sharing), travelling, driving, walking, cooking, crying, laughing, singing, inventing names for our own cafe (“Burnt out and Bitter” is the favourite so far, or in Germany, “Burnt out and Bitte”…lol, clever), discussing our futures, visiting historical sites, uphill walking in exceptionally beautiful places, imagining ourselves in our own reality show (if you want to know, The Truman Show crossed with Survivor), talking about relationships, trudging with luggage (often), eating, a little drinking and generally living a life neither of us would have considered a few years ago. Deciding where to have coffee has always taken an inordinate amount of time counter to the time spent drinking it (and with dubious criteria, like what does “nice” really mean?), itineraries have been planned around what picturesque spot we might stop for lunch. We’ve had muesli and yoghurt for breakfast almost every day, sampled scones all over Scotland, England and Wales and gazed out at many an entrancing view while eating home-made egg sandwiches. I won’t even mention some of our more interesting driving experiences. (Editor’s note – thanks Pearla).

But boy have we met some people! Everywhere in trains, boats, cafes, trails, hotels, villages, cities…..they have been customers, co-workers, strangers, house-sit owners, friends-of-friends, shop-keepers, even in places where we know you’re not supposed to engage (anywhere in London). We’ve had delightful conversations, helpful chats, friendly banter, invitations to visit all over the UK and Europe and other job offers. We’ve talked to strangers (in English) and not understood a word they said. Absolutely everyone knows someone who emigrated to New Zealand and everyone has either been or wants to visit. How many times have we noddod sagely and said, “Yes, it’s a beautiful country, you must visit”. But let’s have one story about Pearla….on a long traintrip from Bournemouth to London, Pearla went to check on our bags in the vestibule. She didn’t come back…and didn’t come back…We stopped at a station, people got on and I had to repel several who tried to take her seat. Then it got awkward, because the train was ridiculously over-booked and under-carriaged, it was a two-hour trip and people were standing, so in the end I gathered our things, offered the seats and went to see if all was OK. There she was, in the vestibule with about five people who didn’t know each other from a bar of soap, everyone clinging onto their luggage, conducting a conversation, about what I can’t remember. But none of them knew each other is the point and they were having a whale of a time. So this has been our experience. Being Kiwi might help, but Pearla’s ability to engage has been let loose on many unsuspecting souls and I think we’re all the richer for it.

So, a few lessons I have learned:

1. You really don’t need a lot of clothes when you travel. No one knows you. Who cares if you have worn that top three days? And yes, even if you go somewhere flash for a meal (like Ottolenghi) and you’ve just got off a train from Edinburgh and can’t change into tidy clothes, in the scheme of things, IT DOESN’T MATTER.

2. I can sleep anywhere (now). My ‘Princess and the Pea’ days with mattresses are officially over. In fact, keeping awake on a train, plane or bus is an effort. But this might not be about comfy mattresses.

3. I can climb on and off a narrow-boat. Even with a stinging nettle incident. I can climb fences without injury. I can walk a long way in the rain and be quite lost and very cold before I’ll agree we should call a taxi. I can master the vertigo of cliff-top walks.

4. Pearla can connect with anyone anywhere about anything. The girl’s got skills. She can also produce meals under pressure, stick up for herself and work bloody hard. Surprisingly, she’s not as tidy in the kitchen as I expected. (Editor’s note – lol).

5. In a life transition, there has to be an ending and then a time of nothing, before there can be a new beginning. “What do I need to let go of?” and “What is waiting in the wings?” Are two great questions. Thanks William Bridges (and Wendy).

6. Cafes lie about their scones. I think I said this last time but it has continued to be true. They have NEVER just come out of the oven.

7. Hospitality workers are under-appreciated for the amount of effort required to make things look effortless.

8. It is a privilege to be doing what we are doing, to step out of our lives and do something different. We have met many people on this journey for whom this would be impossible. We have counted our blessings every day.

Thoughts are focussed now on coming home. The late, great John O’Donohye said: “In a sense, the notion of home is a continuation of the human body that is after all our original and primary home on earth; it houses the mind, heart and spirit. To be, we need to be home. When a place to belong is assured, the adventure of growth can begin with great promise.”

So, speaking of home and journeys, that old saying, ‘it’s not about the destination, it’s about the journey’, needs a special mention. I was sad leaving Pearla yesterday, we had reached our destination, of London and it truly felt like a journey had ended. But really, it was just another destination reached. Coming home is the next destination but scary and exciting as that may be, the journey is far from over.

Thank you Jules for inviting me along for the ride, it has been an absolute pearla and I wouldn’t have missed it for t’ world. (Editors note – thanks Astrid, I wouldn’t have made it thus far without you.)

The Autumnal leaves have all but fallen and the golden colours of the trees are fading. Travel attire now consists of woolly hats and gloves, hiking boots, tartan scarf (thanks Pearla for the birthday present), perhaps thermal pants under our hiking pants and possibly the trusty windbreaker. We are in Wales with Clair and my sister Jennifer and it’s almost winter. I’m sitting by a log fire in a wee cottage in Llangrannog with a glass of wine, looking forward to a roast dinner and apple crumble. Scotland seems a distant memory and Sark even more so.

Good-by Munchkin and Scrap

We said good-bye to Munchkin, Scrap and their mum Sheanne, but not before we did our bit for Cats Protection. This involved attending the regular fundraising event at the Alford village hall where we paid a wee sum to eat all we could eat over a cuppa or two. It was hard going, but someone had to do it and all for a good cause. I won’t tell you what Pearla devoured, but I managed a cream horn, half a scoan, a pikelet, a rather large piece of Victoria Sponge and a wee slice of something with pastry and dried fruit. I lusted over the fruit tart at the next table but I wasn’t quite sure of the etiquette – is it OK to go foraging or should I just be happy with what is before me? Hmmm, best to play safe and not appear too greedy. Both Pearla and I felt sick by the time we had finished, but we are known for our stickability. The things we do for charity. We were delighted with the company we kept at our table – locals who shared their political views (Brexit, no Brexit, the bloody English) who obviously look after each other and their wider community and who like nothing better than to chat over tea and many cakes. Thank-you Sheanne for introducing us to your community. I’ll be back.

Awright Dunoon (Hello Dunoon)

Another hire car and another hair raising exit out of a Scottish city – this time Glasgow, saw us ferrying across the Clyde to Dunoon – a cute wee village filled with people we couldn’t understand, large dogs and a pub that offered bacon and eggs along with a flat screen for the ABs-England RWC game punters. As you know, Pearla and I aren’t big rugby followers, but seriously, if you are a kiwi in a foreign land, you gotta make an effort. We pretended we knew what was going on, but I think our cover was blown a few times. The breakfast came with no toast and the coffee was bad but the experience was great thanks to the locals who put up with us (again).

Our daily habit in the Argyle region was to watch the morning mist rolling in, pack our egg sandwiches, gather up the tramping boots, get on the road at a reasonable hour, find a cafe for the all important scoan research and then walk. We found some amazing places to view lochs, castles, and some challenging but mostly beautiful meandering paths.

Pearla stayed in Dunoon a while longer to spend time with her son Sam, whilst I made my way back to London to go to a show, catch up with Jennifer and hang out on the canal boat with Clair and Louie, the ship’s cat.

Return to Cornwall

The elusive Poldark and his horse galloped for the hills as I found myself back in the beautiful village of Cadgwith. I love this place and could happily live here, with the cliff walks, muddy paths, wild winds and stunning views. The highlight (as was last time) was the folk night at the local pub. A roaring fire, musicians, folk songs and cider. What more can a slightly tired traveller want?

A few wee tourist tips – when the sat nav says you have reached your destination, it’s late at night and you clearly haven’t, with no idea where you are, don’t panic, it will be ok, you can use your device; don’t go to Lands End; if you want to go to St Michael’s Mount, check the tide first; when someone says the scones are fresh out of the oven, under no circumstances, believe them, it’s a common lie.

Croeso i Llangrannock (Welcome to Llangrannock)

So, back to the roaring fire and the now devoured roast. My first time in Wales and we are staying in the small seaside village of Llangrannog. The cliff walks are stunning, the narrow roads a bit of a challenge and the Sunday roast at the Nag’s Head was to die for. We are only here for a few more days then it’s back to London for me and Berlin for Pearla. We will be going our separate ways.

Continue reading “I Bopeth Mae Yna Dymor. (To Everything There is a Season)” →

Transition – verb. The journey from Hello, alright? To, Hullo, how ye daien?

From early Autumn blackberry picking on Sark to frosty morning walks in Scotland, the transition has begun. The journey so far……

Ka Kite Ano, Sark. (Good-bye and see you again)

I felt incredibly sad as I boarded the ferry for the last time, saying good-bye to the craggy rocks, the lighthouse and the coastal paths. It was like leaving a very dear friend. And so began the transition from seasonal workers to tourists for Pearla and Pearla.

The physical transition from the peaceful, quiet leafy lanes, with tractors, horse drawn carriages and cycles to sirens, cars, street lights, tube stations and the masses of people of London wasn’t easy and there was the temptation to scurry back. But we scone bakers are made of stronger stuff and we adjusted as we laid low on Clair’s boat.

London to Edinburgh

A train saw Pearla and Pearla transition from London to Edinburgh. My first visit and I loved it. Ka kite ano Edinburgh, I’ll be back.

Munchkin and Scrap

A hire car aided our transition from Edinburgh to Alford. Driving a car for the first time in 9 months AND out of Edinburgh……more stressful than Lobstergate!

We are in Alford. (Under NO circumstances pronounce Alford as Alford. It is pronounced Afford, of course). Munchkin and Scrap, 2 elderly cats, are the reason we are here. We’re house sitting. Alford is in Aberdeenshire at the tip of the Cairngorms in Scotland. While here, of course, we’ve been doing a bit of tripping. We’ve seen castles, walked beside lochs, climbed a few hills, taken pics of stone circles, conducted scoan quality testing across the land, and for both of us, realised our lifelong dreams of visiting the Findhorn community.

Tomorrow we are off to Glasgow and then onto our next house sitting assignment in Dunoon (pronounced Dunoon). Another transition and practising for our big one home. Flights are booked and luggage weight jitters are stiring, but that’s a way off yet. There’s loads to do and see before then.

The Sark Seasonal Species is preparing for the Mass Autumn Migration to only they know where. It’s a mystery that needs to be solved by asking when passing. “You alright? When are you going? Where are you going to? Are you coming back next year?”

The winds are blowing, ferries are being cancelled and scoan sales are plummeting, so it’s time for Pearla and Pearla to hang up our aprons and join the Mass Autumn Migration. Today we are sailing on the 11.00 ferry to begin our UK travels, assuming of course that the ferry hasn’t been cancelled.

A week of lasts

In January I wrote about leaving home and the lasts – last hugs from my friends, family and cats etc. And so to October and here I am with sad lasts; last run along the cliff tops to La Coupe, last meal with friends, last donkey walk, final blackberry foraging, last curtsey to Queen Sarah (thanks for the curtsey demo, Sarah, new skills learned are bound to come in handy) and so the lasts went on.

Good-bye Sark

I’m so sad to be leaving my Sark home and once again I reflect that it is the kindness of others that has helped to lodge Sark firmly in my heart. Kindness has sent me on unexpected life paths, for which I will be forever grateful.

So, today at 11.00 Pearla and Pearla will be on that ferry, with, I’m sure a few wee tears, as we watch the craggy rocks, the cliff paths, the lighthouse, Big Sark and Little Sark disappear. We’ll look for dolphins and within the hour, we’ll reach Guernsey, the start of our new journey.

Thank you Sark. It’s ka kite ano – Good-bye until we meet again.

Greetings from Pearla, honoured to be featured guest writer for this edition of Julie’s blog.

Life on Sark is drawing to an end, school holidays have finished so visitor numbers will drop now until the season officially closes at the end of September. Now we will only see the typical Sark tourist which is someone over 60 wearing sensible walking shoes, who has visited annually for the past 40 years and wants a nice cream tea and a cuppa. So, while it is still fresh (and before we forget), it is time to share 10 things we have learned working in a cafe kitchen:
1. Hospitality jobs are for the young. Working 6 days, on your feet all day, no breaks, no lunch or if you’re lucky a sandwich eaten a bite at a time over several hours. It’s hard hard yakka. Wear sensible shoes. Have wine in the fridge at home.
2. People can be arses. People can be so rude as to bring their Breakfast Muffin / Lunchtime quiche back to the counter (we call it the Cinderella dish as it changes at mid-day) and say it has ruined their life. In her defence, she was French.
3. Do not engage your waiter / waitress in banter, they haven’t got time and are just being polite. Don’t think you are having a meaningful conversation.
4. Before leaving the house, stop and check is your t-shirt on right way round or inside out?
5. The kitchen team are always the last to leave. “Front of house” might say they will help but that’s generally not a serious offer especially when it comes to changing the oil in the chip fryer
6. When the timer goes off, don’t just switch it off, check the oven there may be something in there. You may have even put it in there
7. Chickens are great for hiding evidence.
8. Make sure tea towels are nowhere near the gas ring. It’s not so easy to hide the evidence
9. When “Front of house” boss-lady says “It’s EASY, it will only take a minute” (in reference to adding yet another thing to the menu)… run Forrest run!
10. Be vigilant about not picking at the food even though it’s tempting. You might think “Just one chip” or “Just half a jam donut”. It’s a slippery slope. However, testing each day’s batch of scones for quality is an important part of the role.

And one extra (because it’s very recent)…..
11. Before you send a hamburger out, check the bun for freshness. What looks like flour on closer inspection just may be mould.

I hope this is helpful for any of you considering a change in career. We are happy to provide guidance on how to survive in a cafe kitchen while also going through the forming, storming, norming of a new team.  To finish up, we are thinking about next steps as our Sark exit (SEXIT) gets closer. We have been calling it “living in the moment” but have come to realise it’s actually procrastination.

Bye for now,
Pearla

“Hello, you alright? We’ve heard you are staying.” News to us. It’s a strange phenomenon that Sarkees know so much more about our lives than we do. Our Sarkee exit (Sexit) seems to be the talk of the Avenue and bless, we are becoming more unsure about leaving as the end of season approaches. The passed month has been a Big Sark settling in time and we can both see that yes, we could continue to do this. But do we want to?

Pearla and Pearla settling into the rhythm of the kitchen

We’ve had some frantic days in the kitchen where large orders have been stacked up and it has taken some calming self talk to get myself through some times, but it’s early September, the kids are heading back to school tomorrow and we are able to have some quiet breathing space. But it’s a fine line between calm breathing space and being too quiet to keep staff on so Pearla and I are quite flexible and will just go with whatever comes along. I feel I’ve learned some good skills, produced the best scoans in alllll the laaaand and my quiches are getting the reputation that would make Jamie Oliver envious. Pearla’s new dishwasher arrived damaged, so it’s carry on with the dischloth, Pearla, as it goes back. The dishwasher arrived the same day as the new coffee machine and that, folks, is a thing of beauty. You’ll all be pleased to read that those early days of instant coffee at La Sablonnerie are well and truly behind me, with a now unlimited supply of Americanos/Cafe Cremes literally at my fingertip.

We are moving through our kitchen apprenticeships at lightening speed and we feel that we have some Pearlas of wisdom to share and I have asked Pearla if she’d like to be a guest blogger so watch this space.

Visitors to Sark

We have been blessed with visitors. I don’t think our friends Gill and Al from Wellington knew what they had stumbled across when they first arrived. But after a few days of exploring, evening drinks in the gardens, a boat tour around the island, a few hours gazing at the night sky in the observatory and many swims, they were in awe of our lives. Gill offered to help in the kitchen, and we got to test her floor washing skills. Gill managed to fall off her bike when it was stationary. Something to do with her shorts getting tangled with the handlebar?

My baby, Clair made here way over on the last bank holiday and we set her on dishes duty within hours. We met in Guernsey and it felt so good bringing her over on the ferry to my place. Mum and daughter reunions are to be cherished and remembered and I’m looking forward to seeing her again soon at the end of the season.

Sark Life – What We’ve Been Up To

It goes without saying that Sark life is at a slower pace. Peaceful days and nights are usually disturbed by the occassional passing tractor, or the chatter of people riding along the avenues. This doesn’t mean that life stands still here. There’s plenty to be doing and we do it. The many hours playing table tennis with the King boys at 16 are now paying off as I wander along to the hall on a Friday night to play with the Sark table tennis elite. They are very patient with me, bless them. Pearla and I attended A Midsummer Nights Dream – an outdoor theatre event at the palace and we are off to the opera on Thursday night, which is also at the palace. So handy to have friends in (very) high places/palaces.

Our commute to and from work these days involves stopping to talk to the newest Sarkees, Florence and Ruby. Florence and Ruby are two inseparable donkeys who have been brought to Sark for absolutely no reason at all, except to just be. Their usefulness extends only to providing manure to the rose gardens, and of course, stealing people’s hearts. I give myself enough time before work, to spend time with them and to make sure I am not late. I think Pearla is smitten, too and we took them for a walk last night, which was a real joy.

Where is Life After Sark?

So, Sark life will end soon and I am going to have to take another leap of faith, go into the unknown and trust that things will evolve as they are meant to. My plan for this year was to save enough during the season to travel for a few months, then head home and so far, things are going to plan. October and November will involve making my way to London to my baby and picking up my winter woollies and tramping gear for Scotland (yay, Findhorn at last), Cornwall and possibly Wales. Plans are loose enough to allow flexibility but structured enough to keep panic at bay. So, bring on phase 2 of my 2019 plan, but firstly, I need to brace myself to say good-bye to Sark. (Maybee…..)

It’s a rare wet day on Sark today and it’s my day off, so I’m sitting in my favourite cafe, Shenanigans with my favourite barista, Scarlet (who by her own admission, is a witch) watching the bees in the beehive (yes, quirky cafe) and listening to the roosters outside having a crow off. If I look outside, passed the misty rain, I can see Guernsey in the west and France in the east.

By shear default I am living my dream. The old saying, ‘be careful what you wish for’ comes to mind, but in this case, at last, it’s in a good way. Astrid and I are living in a 16th century stone 3 story home with horse and carriages passing our gate regularly. Think Miss Bennet and Mr Darcy. We have been deemed responsible enough to lock up the La Seignerie gardens in the evenings, which, of course, for us, involves a glass of wine or a picnic dinner in the gardens before the fountains are turned off. I am able to wander around the herb garden at my will, to gather herbs for the cafe and Astrid and I buy our vege from the little stall. It’s all so quaint and actually, just what I was hoping for when I started this journey. And as I say, by default it is happening. Be careful what you wish for, folks.

Pearla and Pearla in the kitchen

We have found ourselves in the kitchen at Hathaways Cafe, which is part of the gardens. I’d like to think of myself as head chef, but actually, I’m a struggling cook multi, multi tasking. I mean, it takes years of training to become a competent chef, so why do I expect to be able to produce magic in the kitchen after a few weeks.

After a particularly harrowing day in the kitchen, where the blame for all things came back to us, all Astrid and I could summon the energy to do was to watch BBC1. By a strange quirk of fate, Chef Gordon Ramsey was attacking a poor chef, Pearla, who was not coping with his new ways in the kitchen. She was in tears and both Astrid and I were feeling extremely sorry for her. To make light of sometimes stressful kitchen situations, we now call ourselves Pearla and Pearla. Pearla, I think your scones (pronounced scoans) are burning. Thanks Pearla, can you help with 3 chips, 4 scoans, 2 lasagne, 3 ploughmans, 2 choc milkshakes and 5 crab sandwiches for table 8? No, sorry Pearla, the dishes are piling up.

Migrant Exploitation, Workplace Harrassment and Cruelty to Lobsters – (Lobstergate)

The reality of being seasonal workers has finally hit us. It’s taken a while. So there’s no ‘how do we get the best out of our staff’, or ‘we are working together in a democratic environment, so we value your thoughts’. It’s more, ‘you are in the kitchen, so it’s up to you, but this is what I want and we are going to try it’. We are OK with lasagne or frying chips (that vat of oil is so scary!) but we both absolutely refused to kill, cook and cut lobsters (not allowed to call them crayfish). From the beginning it’s been a definite no. Naturally, being seasonal workers we weren’t listened to and enter the lobster. Front of house lady had to kill and chop them. I made the salad. When Front of house lady had a day off, we took them off the menu, and generous Pearla actually gave one away to our hard working gardener, Chris. We are in big trouble as they went passed their use by date and all had to be given away, thus reducing profits. The island is abuzz with lobstergate and the Kiwis are becoming famous for not sticking to ‘you are a seasonal worker so you do as you are told because you are expendable and only here for a few more weeks’. Please readers, don’t message me with the ‘but you eat meat’ thing. I know I’m a hypocrit. Pearla and I have decided that if we open our own cafe we’ll go vegie. Pearla is in the kitchen on her own today with not a lobster in sight. I think the Pearlas have won this round of Lobstergate, but tomorrow is another day.

Big Sark Life

Sark is divided into two areas, joined by a narrow neck called La Coupe. La Sablonnerie is on Little Sark and the rest of the island is called Big Sark, so it’s fitting that our experience here is also divided into Little Sark Life and Big Sark Life.

Big Sark Life is so different from the slavery existence of Little Sark Life. We now have time to get to know the locals and I now find myself stopping to chat to people who have become our friends. Cycling around involves waving to people who are now familiar. We also have time to do things. Memorable occassions are; a stunning Tchaikovsky piano recital in the palace drawing room, an after Sheep Racing Day function (memorable because the band was drunk so their rendition of Bohemian Rhapsody was laughable), picnics in the gardens, swimming in beautiful rock pools, visits to the local pub for G&Ts, meeting people who are staying in the B&B part of our house, doing my bit for the Britain in Bloom competition – Sark is a finalist and I did some weeding in our rose garden before the judges came. And most recently, being invited to dinner to Jo the Head Gardener’s. I think the whole village knew she was having the kiwis for dinner and made a special point to provide us with Sark lamb.

The traditional Sark greeting is, Hello, are you alright?, often condensed down to Alright? I’m thinking that it needed to be condensed for those biking by or passing in the tractor. It’s a mouthful when passing quickly. So, we ARE alright. Our Big Sark Life is grand. We are busy in the kitchen, often busier than we would like to be, but we are also stacking up some great hospitality skills. We can see the end of the season in sight and are starting to plan our next moves. Holiday time!

The rain has stopped and the skies have cleared, so it’s back on my bike to head to the village to stock up on supplies and maybe wander over to Little Sark to say hi to my La Sablonnerie pals. I hope I don’t get stuck behind a slow horse and carriage. It’s a mission negotiating around and Pearla and I haven’t quite worked out the protocol for bikes passing carriages.

Firstly, thank-you to all the people who have privately messaged their concerns for me and I apologise for the lack of posts. I am not exaggerating when I say that the past few months have been the strangest in my life. So much so, that I just couldn’t write about it. How can you put in words, in a respectful way, the madness of others, the results of any form of employment law on Sark and the utter lack of care or interest in others’ wellbeing by people who actually should care. I feel as though I’m talking in riddles, but I just don’t know how to articulate what I’ve experienced.

I found myself working 13 or 14 hour days, every day, with very few days off, or in fact with perhaps a half hour break during the day. The work, I found enjoyable, interacting with guests, with most appreciating the service given. However, when I worked out my hourly rate, I was working for about 2 pound an hour.

There are many stories to be told, but I feel that this is not the right medium but it may be enough to say that since the season started on 25th April, 14 people have come to work at La Sablonnerie and they have gone either the same day, or within a short time after arriving. That’s 14 people’s hopes, dreams and travel expenses – some had given up jobs to come, others were young hopefuls, first time away from home, who were treated abysmally and would spend time on the phones to their families back home, asking for help to get off the island, having spent their savings to come. Two young, vulerable women only lasted 1 day each. There is no employment law on Sark to protect them.

What this environment did do, was to help me to create strong bonds with the staff who did stay. Even if we couldn’t communicate in the same language, we all knew the sign for ‘crazy lady’. The guys in the Tea Garden were my saviour. What has also made a big difference to me was finally, at last (trumpet roll …) my friend Astrid arrived about 6 weeks ago, so there are now 2 kiwis on Sark. We’ve been able to laugh at the craziness and we have pretended that we are in a reality programme, which we have named, When The Truman Show Meets Survivor and had been expecting to be bumped off at any minute.

Another highlight has been the visit of our dear friend Jennifer, who travelled well out of her way to come to visit us. And trust me, Sark is well out of anyone’s way. It was unfortunate that neither Astrid or I could have time off, but Jen did a fine job with engaging with the other guests in the bar, finding out their stories and relaying them back to us over our late meals. She was able to watch the craziness (some would and did say ‘circus’) and provide us with her perspective. Jen also found out more about the staff in 2 days than Astrid and I could find out in 5 months. She has a knack! We were very sad to see Jen go.

You may remember my dining with royalty a while back, where I fell off my bike 3 times on the way home. Le Seigneur, Christopher and his delighful wife, Sarah and I have maintained contact and they have alway said that there was a spare bed for me at their home in the amazing Le Seigneurie gardens if I needed it and as it transpired, life at the hotel became unbearable, so Astrid and I became the 12th and 13th to leave. And so ends the La Sablonnerie experience, not without some sadness. Sadness that things didn’t work out, leaving colleagues whom I am now worried about and leaving the stunning scenery, my little room and that special bond that transpires when you have a ‘we are all in this together’ experience.

So Astrid and I now find ourselves working in the gardens cafe, Hathaways. We are both working in the kitchen and once again, learning some new skills. Who’d have thought cream teas take so much logistical thinking to get from baking to the plate. And how many ploughmans can a block of cheese make?

We are here for we don’t know how long. It may be a week, it may be 2 months. In the meantime, we are enjoying summer on Sark. We have our lives back and no more 13 hour days, so we can actually start to enjoy the island. Evening picnics, gin and tonics at the local Bellaire Pub and even watching a bit of Netflix in the evenings.

Gosh, this is an experience I won’t forget and despite the craziness, hard work and uncertain future, I wouldn’t swap it for anything. So far the joureney has been worth it.