"Banjour!" as the old Guernsey patois goes, (I think).
Today is the third anniversary of my permanent move to Guernsey. I remember well the day that I arrived. My six foot something little brother helped me to close one of my suitcases with a clothes hanger after I'd broken the case's zip then drove me to Gatwick in the driving rain (it was 30 July in London, what other weather would there be?) In return I made a delicious tea for his cricket team and packed it all neatly into the fridge for him to take to the match later on.
When I arrived in Guernsey three years ago I had arranged to rent a room in a house at the south end of Vazon. The room boasted a sea view, but I was still unhappy to be greeted by someone with huge moobs and a wonky eye. Fortunately it wasn't my first ever visit to Guernsey so I knew that this was not the appearance of a typical islander. Oh no, moob man was very special. My room was huge and untouched by interior design trends since 1955.
I jumped on the bus to St. Peter Port. The bus driver ejected all of the passengers about five minutes' ride south of Vazon. I.e. nowhere near St. Peter Port. My fellow travellers were tourists and equally mystified about our apparently random ejection. We waited for about half an hour before a bus arrived from the opposite direction and we boarded, travelling back past my house and north, east and south around most of the island before reaching our desired destination: the civilised charms of St. Peter Port, otherwise known as shops.
I purchased a knife, a fork, a spoon, a plate (microwaveable), a Smarties mug priced at 50 pence, a sharp knife and a medium-sized, cuboid Tupperware box. After packing these necessities into my rucksack I hit Big Checkers at Admiral Park (for some reason it comes out as 'Admirable Park' whenever I utter the name myself although there is really nothing admirable about this unnattractive, unappealing development). I bought some food and caught a bus back to my new seaside home. I read the Guernsey Press and discovered that the Rocquaine Regatta was taking place, meaning that all buses would be unable to travel further south than Perelle (the beach immediately south of Vazon). I felt like a witless foreigner for being unaware of the existence of the annaul regatta at Rocquaine and its temporary impact upon public transports.
Back to the present and dinner smells faintly of burning. Sorry. Time to go. More to come...
SC
Wednesday, 30 July 2008
Monday, 28 July 2008
Monday 28 July 2008
Well I left the house on Saturday after all. Apparently showers can turn the dead back into the living and, even more miraculously, the hungover into the vaguely functioning. Impressive.
What isn't so impressive is that I made it to the Crown Pier where I sat on the granite benches that look straight into the harbour beside the Boathouse and read my library book very slowly. I drank some water and then went home, stopping only to buy some fish for yesterday's supper which was an extremely smart thing to do as my boyfriend's fishing trips to Bordeaux on Saturday and Petit Port on Sunday were both fruitless. Well, obviously they were fruitless, as intended, but they were also fish-less, which was rather a disappointment for the fisherman and his friend. Marks and Spencer's finest plaice fillets it was.
On Saturday evening we went to a wedding reception at 8.15pm. The invitation said 7.30pm, but we were, apparently, the first evening guests to arrive. The bar staff were waiting, the DJ was waiting, the room was decorated and the PowerPoint presentation was projecting a loop of childhood photos which we watched and watched and watched. Other evening guests turned up. We wondered where the wedding party could have got to. At 9.05pm they made their entrance and it was almost worth the wait as both bride and groom looked spectacular. They danced their first dance as man and wife to, "Sometimes the snow comes down in June, sometimes the sun goes round the moon..." (you know - the one from the Bisto advert). We smiled, drank a glass of red wine and went home. I felt pooped, having managed to catch a cold in the wake of my horrible hangover.
The incitement for the hangover took place, of course, on Friday evening when I dressed as Daphne from Scooby Doo and invited Shaggy to accompany me onboard an ancient double-decker bus that transported us from dive to dive across the island. We disembarked from the rust heap at each of these hostelries and, in a crowd of our fellow fancily-dressed, crammed inside and downed a glass of "wine" followed by a shot of tequila before returning with mistaken eagerness to the bus. I am frankly amazed that Shaggy and I made it through the evening without being set alight. Our costumes and wigs were made entirely of polyester.
I will write again another day as it is now Time For Netball.
SC
What isn't so impressive is that I made it to the Crown Pier where I sat on the granite benches that look straight into the harbour beside the Boathouse and read my library book very slowly. I drank some water and then went home, stopping only to buy some fish for yesterday's supper which was an extremely smart thing to do as my boyfriend's fishing trips to Bordeaux on Saturday and Petit Port on Sunday were both fruitless. Well, obviously they were fruitless, as intended, but they were also fish-less, which was rather a disappointment for the fisherman and his friend. Marks and Spencer's finest plaice fillets it was.
On Saturday evening we went to a wedding reception at 8.15pm. The invitation said 7.30pm, but we were, apparently, the first evening guests to arrive. The bar staff were waiting, the DJ was waiting, the room was decorated and the PowerPoint presentation was projecting a loop of childhood photos which we watched and watched and watched. Other evening guests turned up. We wondered where the wedding party could have got to. At 9.05pm they made their entrance and it was almost worth the wait as both bride and groom looked spectacular. They danced their first dance as man and wife to, "Sometimes the snow comes down in June, sometimes the sun goes round the moon..." (you know - the one from the Bisto advert). We smiled, drank a glass of red wine and went home. I felt pooped, having managed to catch a cold in the wake of my horrible hangover.
The incitement for the hangover took place, of course, on Friday evening when I dressed as Daphne from Scooby Doo and invited Shaggy to accompany me onboard an ancient double-decker bus that transported us from dive to dive across the island. We disembarked from the rust heap at each of these hostelries and, in a crowd of our fellow fancily-dressed, crammed inside and downed a glass of "wine" followed by a shot of tequila before returning with mistaken eagerness to the bus. I am frankly amazed that Shaggy and I made it through the evening without being set alight. Our costumes and wigs were made entirely of polyester.
I will write again another day as it is now Time For Netball.
SC
Saturday, 26 July 2008
Saturday 26 July 2008
Happy returns, Emily, the big two-seven today.
I am SO hungover. Leaving the house is just not an option.
SC
I am SO hungover. Leaving the house is just not an option.
SC
Thursday, 24 July 2008
Thursday 24 July 2008
The first week of 2008 in which I haven't played netball and the first week since May that I haven't had four days of netball matches, but somehow it's been one of the busiest weeks for a while! I think I was overly optimistic about what I could achieve in the absence of netball. Alternatively I was anxious about the prospect of a netball-free week and triple-booked myself to ensure that boredom would not be an option. Frankly I am exhausted, not to mention sated with my boyfriend's amazing lasagne verde. He has been slaving over the hot stove and several saucepans of meat, pasta, bechamel sauce and herby, tomato goo for two hours, but I'm the one who claims to feel tired!
On Sunday we rose at 6.15am and left the house by 7am, dressed from top to toe in my employer's corporate kit, brandishing our logo-d backpacks containing sublock and water (disgracefully we declined to use the logo-d bottles with which we had also been issued). Forty minutes later we were at the sports' ground, surrounded by approximately two hundred footballers, aged eight, nine or ten year old. One of the two hundred was female. She played in goal and was rather good. By 2pm the fresh-faced Evertonians impressive concentration and rare, commendable self-belief had paid off and they were taking the winners' shield back to England after beating the formidable team of stocky young men from Glasgow Rangers on penalties. The consistency of both teams' performances during the tournament set them apart, and above, all of the others.
It was fun to be in the sun and to have contact with islanders and mainlanders who I may not otherwise meet.
On Sunday evening we took a well-earned rest from cooking and treated ourselves to dinner at our local Italian. It was tasty and incredibly relaxing. We indulged in the wine that we'd forsaken on Saturday evening in advance of the 6.15am start. It's what the weekend is all about: quality time together, plus wine and idle chat intended to set the world to rights.
Monday morning wasn't too awful as at least the weather is glorious. However, on leaving the house I did almost walk into a six-foot pile of stinking rubbish bags, a visible and certainly smell-able symptom of the manual workers' strike over the paltry 3% pay rise they have been offered by the Guernsey States of Deliberation (civil servants whose pay rise is above RPI). I have every sympathy with the manual workers and would have taken my own rubbish to the States itself had my boyfriend not informed me that the last person to do so had been imprisoned! So rubbish on the streets it was, but only for a day. The strikers returned to work on Tuesday. The ro-ro ramps at the harbour brought containers of food ashore again so that the empty shelves of Marks and Spencer were soon filled with organic this and hand-reared that. We may have gone out and bought the food, but we haven't forgotten the strikers.
On Tuesday evening we played badminton with some of my colleagues. I was horrified to discover how rusty my racquet-technique has become during a few months' absence from the Badminton Halls. It was a really enjoyable evening and I picked up a few tips from a better player. At the end of the session I played a singles' match against another better player which he won 25-23; I was almost happy with that.
Yesterday I met a friend at lunchtime and we sat on the pier with her cute baby daughter who is almost five months' old. She is being christened next month. We chatted about fancy dress outfits and the outrageous charge of £800 to take a baby on a cruise (unsurprisingly, they're not going). At 1pm I returned to the office while my friend clipped a parasol over the pram and set off on a walk in the brilliant sunshine.
Last night we played badminton again. The indoor courts are unbelievably and uncomfortably hot so we strolled home afterwards for much-needed showers before collapsing into dreamy sleep.
Today I met another friend at lunchtime. We chatted about babies, christenings, cruises and fancy dress outfits. I am envious of her imminent holiday, cruising from Italy to Dubrovnik, Greek islands, Turkey and no doubt other exciting places. Nevertheless I am determined to save up for a skiing trip in January 2009 and, in the meantime, to enjoy our overnighter in Jersey next month.
Tomorrow evening I will be quaffing one or two glasses of wine courtesy of my employer. I don't even have to wear a logo-d polo shirt or baseball cap. Then I'll be dressing up as Daphne from Scooby Doo and hooking up with Shaggy (my boyfriend in a wig and close-fitting brown trousers) to attend a fancy dress bus party. The only way to approach these occasions is drunk and open-minded.
Except on Saturday we need to be sober enough for our friends' wedding...
SC
On Sunday we rose at 6.15am and left the house by 7am, dressed from top to toe in my employer's corporate kit, brandishing our logo-d backpacks containing sublock and water (disgracefully we declined to use the logo-d bottles with which we had also been issued). Forty minutes later we were at the sports' ground, surrounded by approximately two hundred footballers, aged eight, nine or ten year old. One of the two hundred was female. She played in goal and was rather good. By 2pm the fresh-faced Evertonians impressive concentration and rare, commendable self-belief had paid off and they were taking the winners' shield back to England after beating the formidable team of stocky young men from Glasgow Rangers on penalties. The consistency of both teams' performances during the tournament set them apart, and above, all of the others.
It was fun to be in the sun and to have contact with islanders and mainlanders who I may not otherwise meet.
On Sunday evening we took a well-earned rest from cooking and treated ourselves to dinner at our local Italian. It was tasty and incredibly relaxing. We indulged in the wine that we'd forsaken on Saturday evening in advance of the 6.15am start. It's what the weekend is all about: quality time together, plus wine and idle chat intended to set the world to rights.
Monday morning wasn't too awful as at least the weather is glorious. However, on leaving the house I did almost walk into a six-foot pile of stinking rubbish bags, a visible and certainly smell-able symptom of the manual workers' strike over the paltry 3% pay rise they have been offered by the Guernsey States of Deliberation (civil servants whose pay rise is above RPI). I have every sympathy with the manual workers and would have taken my own rubbish to the States itself had my boyfriend not informed me that the last person to do so had been imprisoned! So rubbish on the streets it was, but only for a day. The strikers returned to work on Tuesday. The ro-ro ramps at the harbour brought containers of food ashore again so that the empty shelves of Marks and Spencer were soon filled with organic this and hand-reared that. We may have gone out and bought the food, but we haven't forgotten the strikers.
On Tuesday evening we played badminton with some of my colleagues. I was horrified to discover how rusty my racquet-technique has become during a few months' absence from the Badminton Halls. It was a really enjoyable evening and I picked up a few tips from a better player. At the end of the session I played a singles' match against another better player which he won 25-23; I was almost happy with that.
Yesterday I met a friend at lunchtime and we sat on the pier with her cute baby daughter who is almost five months' old. She is being christened next month. We chatted about fancy dress outfits and the outrageous charge of £800 to take a baby on a cruise (unsurprisingly, they're not going). At 1pm I returned to the office while my friend clipped a parasol over the pram and set off on a walk in the brilliant sunshine.
Last night we played badminton again. The indoor courts are unbelievably and uncomfortably hot so we strolled home afterwards for much-needed showers before collapsing into dreamy sleep.
Today I met another friend at lunchtime. We chatted about babies, christenings, cruises and fancy dress outfits. I am envious of her imminent holiday, cruising from Italy to Dubrovnik, Greek islands, Turkey and no doubt other exciting places. Nevertheless I am determined to save up for a skiing trip in January 2009 and, in the meantime, to enjoy our overnighter in Jersey next month.
Tomorrow evening I will be quaffing one or two glasses of wine courtesy of my employer. I don't even have to wear a logo-d polo shirt or baseball cap. Then I'll be dressing up as Daphne from Scooby Doo and hooking up with Shaggy (my boyfriend in a wig and close-fitting brown trousers) to attend a fancy dress bus party. The only way to approach these occasions is drunk and open-minded.
Except on Saturday we need to be sober enough for our friends' wedding...
SC
Eating: La Perla, Guernsey
Where we ate:
La Perla Restaurant
North Plantation, St. Peter Port, Guernsey, GY1 2LH.
When we ate:
6.30pm
Sunday 20 July, 2008
What we ate:
Calamari, chicken supreme and sticky toffee pudding (him)
Prawn cocktail, lasagne and meringue (me)
What we drank:
A bottle of fruity red
What we paid:
£45 including service
Sunday evening was sunny and sultry. We'd spent the day helping at a ten year olds' soccer tournament and were hungry and tired, but still cheerful. The obvious choice for a filling meal in relaxed surroundings is La Perla.
La Perla relocated from the South Esplanade (now home to Hojo) to a larger, two-storey home in the North Plantation (formerly home to Spice, the much-missed, quiet , Northern Indian restaurant). Anyone who paid a visit to the previous premises will recognise the current ones as the fittings and fixtures were by no means lost on the quarter-mile journey along the quayside. The nostalgic prints of Porto Fino and Napoli are there, as are the painted tiles setting out each place at the table and the authentic Italian staff. The chairs are still blue, the tablecloths are still yellow and the space between the chairs and tables is still rather limited.
The La Perla menu is simple. Three courses, three menus, three prices: diners pay £10, £15 or £19 per head for three courses. Each menu offers several choices for each course. Bowls of sauteed new potatoes and steamed fresh vegetables are served with every main course, plus a basket of French bread with the starters and mains. On Sunday I chose prawn cocktail (a large and delicious portion), lasagne (ditto) and the house meringue with red berries and ice-cream (which was medium-sized, beautifully presented and the perfect way to end a summer supper), all from the £10 menu. My companion upgraded to the £15 menu from which he chose calamari (cooked excellently), a supreme of chicken (tender breast in a homemade sauce of herbs) and sticky toffee pudding (his favourite, so the verdict of "brilliant" was a well-informed one). Vegetarians would not be unhappy with the range of Mediterranean delights on offer such as the oven baked aubergine parmigiana.
In addition to the three courses, three menus, three prices format, La Perla offers a one-course lunch for £5 and seasonal one-course specials which currently include local crab salad priced at £7.95. The £19 menu is temporarily devoted to seafood to coincide with the island's "Fete de la Mair". The lobsters served to our fellow diners on Sunday evening looked and smelled amazing. La Perla doesn't disappoint on quality at either end of the price range.
Don't come to La Perla if you like several yards between yourself and the next diner. Don't come if you're not prepared to squeeze your way to the loo. Don't come in summer and forget to ask Tony for a table near the door or window...or you will get HOT!
Do come if you like traditional Italian or British food of a reliable standard and at a reasonable price. The house wines are supplemented by "wines of the month" which are more than drinkable and the rest of the wine list is ample. Service is efficient even at the busiest times; the waiters and waitresses are experienced and therefore sufficiently relaxed to be friendly.
Will we go back?
Yes. I've booked for my netball team to celebrate our summer league success at La Perla in a fortnight's time.
La Perla Restaurant
North Plantation, St. Peter Port, Guernsey, GY1 2LH.
When we ate:
6.30pm
Sunday 20 July, 2008
What we ate:
Calamari, chicken supreme and sticky toffee pudding (him)
Prawn cocktail, lasagne and meringue (me)
What we drank:
A bottle of fruity red
What we paid:
£45 including service
Sunday evening was sunny and sultry. We'd spent the day helping at a ten year olds' soccer tournament and were hungry and tired, but still cheerful. The obvious choice for a filling meal in relaxed surroundings is La Perla.
La Perla relocated from the South Esplanade (now home to Hojo) to a larger, two-storey home in the North Plantation (formerly home to Spice, the much-missed, quiet , Northern Indian restaurant). Anyone who paid a visit to the previous premises will recognise the current ones as the fittings and fixtures were by no means lost on the quarter-mile journey along the quayside. The nostalgic prints of Porto Fino and Napoli are there, as are the painted tiles setting out each place at the table and the authentic Italian staff. The chairs are still blue, the tablecloths are still yellow and the space between the chairs and tables is still rather limited.
The La Perla menu is simple. Three courses, three menus, three prices: diners pay £10, £15 or £19 per head for three courses. Each menu offers several choices for each course. Bowls of sauteed new potatoes and steamed fresh vegetables are served with every main course, plus a basket of French bread with the starters and mains. On Sunday I chose prawn cocktail (a large and delicious portion), lasagne (ditto) and the house meringue with red berries and ice-cream (which was medium-sized, beautifully presented and the perfect way to end a summer supper), all from the £10 menu. My companion upgraded to the £15 menu from which he chose calamari (cooked excellently), a supreme of chicken (tender breast in a homemade sauce of herbs) and sticky toffee pudding (his favourite, so the verdict of "brilliant" was a well-informed one). Vegetarians would not be unhappy with the range of Mediterranean delights on offer such as the oven baked aubergine parmigiana.
In addition to the three courses, three menus, three prices format, La Perla offers a one-course lunch for £5 and seasonal one-course specials which currently include local crab salad priced at £7.95. The £19 menu is temporarily devoted to seafood to coincide with the island's "Fete de la Mair". The lobsters served to our fellow diners on Sunday evening looked and smelled amazing. La Perla doesn't disappoint on quality at either end of the price range.
Don't come to La Perla if you like several yards between yourself and the next diner. Don't come if you're not prepared to squeeze your way to the loo. Don't come in summer and forget to ask Tony for a table near the door or window...or you will get HOT!
Do come if you like traditional Italian or British food of a reliable standard and at a reasonable price. The house wines are supplemented by "wines of the month" which are more than drinkable and the rest of the wine list is ample. Service is efficient even at the busiest times; the waiters and waitresses are experienced and therefore sufficiently relaxed to be friendly.
Will we go back?
Yes. I've booked for my netball team to celebrate our summer league success at La Perla in a fortnight's time.
Saturday, 19 July 2008
Eating: Cellar Door, Guernsey
Where we ate:
Cellar Door Cafe
Marina Court, Glategny Esplanade, St. Peter Port, Guernsey, GY1 1WP
When we ate:
12.30pm
Friday 18 July, 2008
What we ate:
Steak and blue cheese salad (him)
Crayfish tail and mango sandwich (me)
What we paid:
£15 including service
Friday lunchtime is the perfect occasion to treat one's self and one's hardworking boyfriend to a delicious cafe lunch. Yesterday was uncomfortably hot and sunless; the clouds lay dark and low in a stifling blanket over the east of the island. The best kind of venue on such a day is a bright, light one with al-fresco options.
The Cellar Door wine specialist opened in 2004 in the wealthy parish of St. Martin's. Since then it has grown a deli cafe and relocated to the ground floor of the stunning Marina Court development which overlooks the Queen Elizabeth II marina. On a clearer day than yesterday it would have overlooked Herm, Jethou and Sark too.
The medium-sized cafe area is adjacent to the shop and both are accessed from the same entrance. The glass front of the building enables potential eaters, drinkers or shoppers to check out the interior before entering. The cafe is decorated simply with smart square or rectangular tables matched with two or four wicker chairs each. The drinks menu is chalked behind the counter which contains an enticing array of cakes and cookies.
One table was marked Reserved and approximately half of the others were occupied. I seated myself at one of the vacant tables to wait for my companion, but I felt uncomfortably hot despite the open patio door. On his arrival my companion commented on the extreme temperature of the cafe too, perhaps the air-conditioning had broken down yesterday. This was no problem for us as we were able to find an empty table outside on the patio terrace.
The terrace has been recently rearranged so that diners enter from the cafe itself (rather than approaching from the street and sitting down outside straightaway). A stylish but sturdy canvas has been installed to shelter outdoor diners from the wind. Any Guernsey man or woman knows how the wind can whip straight into St. Peter Port on even the sunniest day.
We were greeted at our table by a smiling waitress proffering menus and offering to take our drinks order immediately. We resisted the lure of alcohol and chose sparkling water. One brand was available and delivered to our table immediately; the taste was very pleasant.
The menu includes a daily insert showing the soups, quiches and other specials of the day. The lunch menu comprises approximately six different sandwich fillings, which are available on white or wholemeal bread, ciabatta or panini, in a tortilla wrap or jacket potato plus four or five different salads, a soup of the day, three fresh quiches and a couple of daily specials. Yesterday's specials were a vegetarian pasta dish and a risotto with local fish. The same menu includes hot drinks, soft drinks, water and wine. Several wines are available by the glass for £3 each. The food is reasonably priced, at £4 for a sandwich or soup and £9 for the daily special. There is also some breakfast dishes available between 8am and 11am.
The service we received was laid-back but also efficient, brisk but warm. After closing our menus we were immediately invited to place our food order by another friendly waitress. By this time the cafe was almost full, but we did not have to wait very long for our lunches to arrive. (I'd estimate five minutes). Both dishes were presented eye-catchingly, playing up the different colours of their ingredients. My crayfish-tail sandwich was served on wholemeal bread with a mango sauce, more of a coulis than a chutney. The flavours created a glorious taste sensation. A substantial, dressed side-salad and a pile of potato crisps completed my platter. My companion was more than pleased with his salad of rocket, red onion, sundried tomatoes, blue cheese and hot strips of steak. The tender steak was perfectly cooked and the freshness of the salad gave the dish its texture. The portion sizes were just right for a one-course lunch.
On my next visit to the Cellar Door for lunch I'll ask for no butter in my sandwich and for less dressing on the side salad, but these are minor tweaks to an otherwise delicious lunch. After three and a half years in Guernsey I still forget that every single eaterie, from corner shop to Christophe, serves its sandwiches with Guernsey butter and sometimes lots of it.
After eating we sat back and finished our drinks, enjoying what was visible of the harbour view and relishing the occasional mild breeze on such an otherwise airless day. I went to the counter to settle our bill and left a tip in the jar there. I averted my companion's eyes from the sweet treats at the counter and we headed off at our own pace, 35 minutes after arriving, feeling pleasantly full.
Will we go back?
Yes.
Cellar Door Cafe
Marina Court, Glategny Esplanade, St. Peter Port, Guernsey, GY1 1WP
When we ate:
12.30pm
Friday 18 July, 2008
What we ate:
Steak and blue cheese salad (him)
Crayfish tail and mango sandwich (me)
What we paid:
£15 including service
Friday lunchtime is the perfect occasion to treat one's self and one's hardworking boyfriend to a delicious cafe lunch. Yesterday was uncomfortably hot and sunless; the clouds lay dark and low in a stifling blanket over the east of the island. The best kind of venue on such a day is a bright, light one with al-fresco options.
The Cellar Door wine specialist opened in 2004 in the wealthy parish of St. Martin's. Since then it has grown a deli cafe and relocated to the ground floor of the stunning Marina Court development which overlooks the Queen Elizabeth II marina. On a clearer day than yesterday it would have overlooked Herm, Jethou and Sark too.
The medium-sized cafe area is adjacent to the shop and both are accessed from the same entrance. The glass front of the building enables potential eaters, drinkers or shoppers to check out the interior before entering. The cafe is decorated simply with smart square or rectangular tables matched with two or four wicker chairs each. The drinks menu is chalked behind the counter which contains an enticing array of cakes and cookies.
One table was marked Reserved and approximately half of the others were occupied. I seated myself at one of the vacant tables to wait for my companion, but I felt uncomfortably hot despite the open patio door. On his arrival my companion commented on the extreme temperature of the cafe too, perhaps the air-conditioning had broken down yesterday. This was no problem for us as we were able to find an empty table outside on the patio terrace.
The terrace has been recently rearranged so that diners enter from the cafe itself (rather than approaching from the street and sitting down outside straightaway). A stylish but sturdy canvas has been installed to shelter outdoor diners from the wind. Any Guernsey man or woman knows how the wind can whip straight into St. Peter Port on even the sunniest day.
We were greeted at our table by a smiling waitress proffering menus and offering to take our drinks order immediately. We resisted the lure of alcohol and chose sparkling water. One brand was available and delivered to our table immediately; the taste was very pleasant.
The menu includes a daily insert showing the soups, quiches and other specials of the day. The lunch menu comprises approximately six different sandwich fillings, which are available on white or wholemeal bread, ciabatta or panini, in a tortilla wrap or jacket potato plus four or five different salads, a soup of the day, three fresh quiches and a couple of daily specials. Yesterday's specials were a vegetarian pasta dish and a risotto with local fish. The same menu includes hot drinks, soft drinks, water and wine. Several wines are available by the glass for £3 each. The food is reasonably priced, at £4 for a sandwich or soup and £9 for the daily special. There is also some breakfast dishes available between 8am and 11am.
The service we received was laid-back but also efficient, brisk but warm. After closing our menus we were immediately invited to place our food order by another friendly waitress. By this time the cafe was almost full, but we did not have to wait very long for our lunches to arrive. (I'd estimate five minutes). Both dishes were presented eye-catchingly, playing up the different colours of their ingredients. My crayfish-tail sandwich was served on wholemeal bread with a mango sauce, more of a coulis than a chutney. The flavours created a glorious taste sensation. A substantial, dressed side-salad and a pile of potato crisps completed my platter. My companion was more than pleased with his salad of rocket, red onion, sundried tomatoes, blue cheese and hot strips of steak. The tender steak was perfectly cooked and the freshness of the salad gave the dish its texture. The portion sizes were just right for a one-course lunch.
On my next visit to the Cellar Door for lunch I'll ask for no butter in my sandwich and for less dressing on the side salad, but these are minor tweaks to an otherwise delicious lunch. After three and a half years in Guernsey I still forget that every single eaterie, from corner shop to Christophe, serves its sandwiches with Guernsey butter and sometimes lots of it.
After eating we sat back and finished our drinks, enjoying what was visible of the harbour view and relishing the occasional mild breeze on such an otherwise airless day. I went to the counter to settle our bill and left a tip in the jar there. I averted my companion's eyes from the sweet treats at the counter and we headed off at our own pace, 35 minutes after arriving, feeling pleasantly full.
Will we go back?
Yes.
Saturday 19 July 2008
Happy returns, Tom, big two-seven today.
I didn't have time to write for two consecutive days. On Thursday evening my netball team played in the first division's end of season tournament and ended 5th out of 30 teams. We were missing two of our regular players, but their replacements were admirable. The whole event was so much fun.
Yesterday we went for a relaxing lunch at the north end of town. After work I took the bus straight to the west coast to rehearse for a concert at St. Matthew's church. The concert took place immediately after the rehearsal; some early bird members of the audience managed to catch both "performances". We played to a full and appreciative house. A friend who studies music in London played some unaccompanied Bach and it sounded beautiful in the church's acoustic. Along with that the highlight of the programme was the faultless vocal soloist who performed more Bach and also an excerpt from Handel's Messiah; (the entire programme was Baroque). On Monday evening we will play the same, plus Telemann's violin concerto for three violins, in one of the pubs at the end of my street. Eek! I will be one of the three violins.
After returning from the windy west I felt exhausted. When the wake-up call sounded at 8.15am this morning I felt even worse. Why is that? It is too hot to sleep for long at the moment, but that doesn't explain why most mornings I wake up feeling more tired than before I feel asleep the night before, does it?
Usually I'm up by 9am on a Saturday for ballet class. However ballet is suspended for the school summer holidays so I devoted my morning to helping at a children's soccer tournament instead. I'll forget the abusive Scottish gentleman from Alderney who swore at my enforcement of the health and safety rules. Instead I'll remember the sheer skill displayed by many of the young players and the enthusiasm of their supporters. We'll be helping out there tomorrow too, which means leaving the house at 7am. I hope we'll be rewarded with some dazzling dribbles and jaw-dropping goals from the football stars of the future. That would compensate more than adequately for the uncomfortably early start.
This afternoon I have forgotten to pay a visit to the fancy dress shop. It's the only one on the island and its opening hours are from 2pm to 4pm on a Saturday. I have well and truly missed out on buying fancy dress outfits for both of us for the "movie star" bus party on Friday evening. My colleague is leaving the island and has dreamed up this celebration in order to indulge in his passion for fancy dress. I'm a passable seamstress so if only inspiration will descend on my sleep-deprived brain then I may be able to create something right here at home. Otherwise I will search the internet for two inexpensive costumes that look like they will fit and that promise to arrive before Friday. If they're not totally embarrassing (Shrek and Princess Fiona?) that would be a bonus.
SC
I didn't have time to write for two consecutive days. On Thursday evening my netball team played in the first division's end of season tournament and ended 5th out of 30 teams. We were missing two of our regular players, but their replacements were admirable. The whole event was so much fun.
Yesterday we went for a relaxing lunch at the north end of town. After work I took the bus straight to the west coast to rehearse for a concert at St. Matthew's church. The concert took place immediately after the rehearsal; some early bird members of the audience managed to catch both "performances". We played to a full and appreciative house. A friend who studies music in London played some unaccompanied Bach and it sounded beautiful in the church's acoustic. Along with that the highlight of the programme was the faultless vocal soloist who performed more Bach and also an excerpt from Handel's Messiah; (the entire programme was Baroque). On Monday evening we will play the same, plus Telemann's violin concerto for three violins, in one of the pubs at the end of my street. Eek! I will be one of the three violins.
After returning from the windy west I felt exhausted. When the wake-up call sounded at 8.15am this morning I felt even worse. Why is that? It is too hot to sleep for long at the moment, but that doesn't explain why most mornings I wake up feeling more tired than before I feel asleep the night before, does it?
Usually I'm up by 9am on a Saturday for ballet class. However ballet is suspended for the school summer holidays so I devoted my morning to helping at a children's soccer tournament instead. I'll forget the abusive Scottish gentleman from Alderney who swore at my enforcement of the health and safety rules. Instead I'll remember the sheer skill displayed by many of the young players and the enthusiasm of their supporters. We'll be helping out there tomorrow too, which means leaving the house at 7am. I hope we'll be rewarded with some dazzling dribbles and jaw-dropping goals from the football stars of the future. That would compensate more than adequately for the uncomfortably early start.
This afternoon I have forgotten to pay a visit to the fancy dress shop. It's the only one on the island and its opening hours are from 2pm to 4pm on a Saturday. I have well and truly missed out on buying fancy dress outfits for both of us for the "movie star" bus party on Friday evening. My colleague is leaving the island and has dreamed up this celebration in order to indulge in his passion for fancy dress. I'm a passable seamstress so if only inspiration will descend on my sleep-deprived brain then I may be able to create something right here at home. Otherwise I will search the internet for two inexpensive costumes that look like they will fit and that promise to arrive before Friday. If they're not totally embarrassing (Shrek and Princess Fiona?) that would be a bonus.
SC
Wednesday, 16 July 2008
Wednesday 16 July 2008
The christening gift.
Oh dear.
So we attended a christening at the end of May. The beautiful baby girl is the firstborn of an old friend and his wife. Becoming a parent at 26 distinguished our friend somewhat from the rest of the original clan, some of whom are pushing 40, greying sports car drivers who have yet to become homeowners or husbands, let alone fathers.
We hadn't been invited to see the baby during the four months of her life preceding the christening and, whilst that didn't offend us in the slightest (we understand that new families might be ever so slightly preoccupied), we were surprised to receive an invitation to the christening, which turned out to be a fairly intimate affair.
The ceremony took place on a glorious, sunny Sunday, typical of late spring and one that we may well have slept through without the obligation to attend a morning church service on the opposite side of the island. The ensuing "reception" was no shabby garden party at the home of the proud parents or even prouder grandparents, however. Times have changed since we were children, it seems, as we were presented with a wedding-style buffet in a hotel suite, full bar and handmade cake. Fortunately a seating plan, speeches and the less pleasant aspects of typical formal occasions were absent. The warm weather coaxed guests outside to enjoy their drinks beside the pool, most remaining there in an indolent, merry haze until early evening.
This same laidback attitude was the one in which "daddy" circulated during lunch, collecting our gifts for his newly baptised daughter. After great deliberation, endless discussions at home and two Saturday afternoons scouting the local bookshops, we decided upon a large, hardbacked volume of illustrated children's stories, complete with matching bookplate. We wrote the bookplate, stuck it on the inside and wrapped the book in paper printed in pink with christening motifs (fonts, basically) and messages. I was embarrassingly pleased with this purchase, picked out weeks in advance from a specialist shop I'd spotted when visiting a friend. We Sellotaped our card to the outside and then tried to avoid leaving sweaty marks on the gift as we waited in the hot churchyard.
In the aftermath of the christening we drank water and tea and popped painkillers to ease our headaches from daytime drinking, took our clothes to the dry-cleaners and returned them to the wardrobe for another occasion, wondered who might be next to host a christening and returned to the quotidien staples of jobworking, houseworking and wanting to sleep longer in the mornings.
Then I, ever mindful of etiquette, commented that we had not been thanked for our christening gift nor for our attendance on the day. Considering the aforementioned intimacy of the event I presumed that writing, telephoning or even e-mailing a brief thank you to all concerned could and would be in order. As the weeks passed I had to admit that this assumption of mine had been wrong.
Until Monday. A card arrived in the post. It thanked us for our gift - the book - and someone else's - a soft toy. We laughed and then deliberated. Is it better to overlook the over-thanking and to avoid appearing pedantic by contacting the parents to notify them that the book was our present and the soft toy someone else's? Or is it our duty to inform them that the donor of the soft toy should be identified and thanked?
We still have no idea. The card sits on the otherwise pristine dining table, waiting to be displayed (we take credit for the soft toy) or responded to (we go pedantic).
Oh dear.
So we attended a christening at the end of May. The beautiful baby girl is the firstborn of an old friend and his wife. Becoming a parent at 26 distinguished our friend somewhat from the rest of the original clan, some of whom are pushing 40, greying sports car drivers who have yet to become homeowners or husbands, let alone fathers.
We hadn't been invited to see the baby during the four months of her life preceding the christening and, whilst that didn't offend us in the slightest (we understand that new families might be ever so slightly preoccupied), we were surprised to receive an invitation to the christening, which turned out to be a fairly intimate affair.
The ceremony took place on a glorious, sunny Sunday, typical of late spring and one that we may well have slept through without the obligation to attend a morning church service on the opposite side of the island. The ensuing "reception" was no shabby garden party at the home of the proud parents or even prouder grandparents, however. Times have changed since we were children, it seems, as we were presented with a wedding-style buffet in a hotel suite, full bar and handmade cake. Fortunately a seating plan, speeches and the less pleasant aspects of typical formal occasions were absent. The warm weather coaxed guests outside to enjoy their drinks beside the pool, most remaining there in an indolent, merry haze until early evening.
This same laidback attitude was the one in which "daddy" circulated during lunch, collecting our gifts for his newly baptised daughter. After great deliberation, endless discussions at home and two Saturday afternoons scouting the local bookshops, we decided upon a large, hardbacked volume of illustrated children's stories, complete with matching bookplate. We wrote the bookplate, stuck it on the inside and wrapped the book in paper printed in pink with christening motifs (fonts, basically) and messages. I was embarrassingly pleased with this purchase, picked out weeks in advance from a specialist shop I'd spotted when visiting a friend. We Sellotaped our card to the outside and then tried to avoid leaving sweaty marks on the gift as we waited in the hot churchyard.
In the aftermath of the christening we drank water and tea and popped painkillers to ease our headaches from daytime drinking, took our clothes to the dry-cleaners and returned them to the wardrobe for another occasion, wondered who might be next to host a christening and returned to the quotidien staples of jobworking, houseworking and wanting to sleep longer in the mornings.
Then I, ever mindful of etiquette, commented that we had not been thanked for our christening gift nor for our attendance on the day. Considering the aforementioned intimacy of the event I presumed that writing, telephoning or even e-mailing a brief thank you to all concerned could and would be in order. As the weeks passed I had to admit that this assumption of mine had been wrong.
Until Monday. A card arrived in the post. It thanked us for our gift - the book - and someone else's - a soft toy. We laughed and then deliberated. Is it better to overlook the over-thanking and to avoid appearing pedantic by contacting the parents to notify them that the book was our present and the soft toy someone else's? Or is it our duty to inform them that the donor of the soft toy should be identified and thanked?
We still have no idea. The card sits on the otherwise pristine dining table, waiting to be displayed (we take credit for the soft toy) or responded to (we go pedantic).
Tuesday, 15 July 2008
Bad news. It has commenced. It being the making over of our street and its environs from shabby chic to downright shabby and more than slightly unpleasant. The starting gun for the makeover was sounded by a brick smashing clean through the window of the tattoo shop on Sunday night. The owner's original poster, "Will the coward who smashed my window be man enough to come and see me?" has gained an ominous postscript, "I WILL find out who you are".
Just now on my way home from netball a Subaru Impreza screeched to a halt in front of a neighbour's doorstep and two young men leapt out only to liberate their penises from the polyester prisons of their trousers in order to urinate. The neighbour shouted down from a window in a a frankly well-deserved protest which was answered by a lengthy and foul-mouthed rant from the younger of the two men, the one whose micturation appeared to take at least three whole minutes. Meanwhile his elder resumed his place in the "Scooby"'s driving seat and, to my relief, the pair parted in cloud of road dust identical to the one in which they were delivered.
We don't own this house, we rent it and tend not to stoop to Nimbyish concerns about the street, a steep hill linking the town's original business district with the genuine Old Quarter. At the bottom of the hill is the tattoo shop and beside that stands a former bar, its exterior painted in verdant green. Sprawling across several floors, this supremely cool watering hole turned out to be too cool for all but the owner's friends, to whom she insisted on serving the premium spirits and vintage champagnes for free. A mixture of houses and flats meander around a sloping corner to a French restaurant. Fortunately its unique combination of chic style and friendly warmth inspires respect and quells complaints about the ubiqitous perfume of garlic. The top of the street is heralded by two pubs, one on either side, both sympathetic to Irishmen and real ale drinkers.
Writing this has revealed to me that I am proud and fond of this street and ready to defend its charms from petty vandals. If life were a soap opera I would be holding court in one of the pubs and rallying the other local drinkers into action right now, but life isn't scripted or stilted and I will, for now, see where it takes us.
SC
Just now on my way home from netball a Subaru Impreza screeched to a halt in front of a neighbour's doorstep and two young men leapt out only to liberate their penises from the polyester prisons of their trousers in order to urinate. The neighbour shouted down from a window in a a frankly well-deserved protest which was answered by a lengthy and foul-mouthed rant from the younger of the two men, the one whose micturation appeared to take at least three whole minutes. Meanwhile his elder resumed his place in the "Scooby"'s driving seat and, to my relief, the pair parted in cloud of road dust identical to the one in which they were delivered.
We don't own this house, we rent it and tend not to stoop to Nimbyish concerns about the street, a steep hill linking the town's original business district with the genuine Old Quarter. At the bottom of the hill is the tattoo shop and beside that stands a former bar, its exterior painted in verdant green. Sprawling across several floors, this supremely cool watering hole turned out to be too cool for all but the owner's friends, to whom she insisted on serving the premium spirits and vintage champagnes for free. A mixture of houses and flats meander around a sloping corner to a French restaurant. Fortunately its unique combination of chic style and friendly warmth inspires respect and quells complaints about the ubiqitous perfume of garlic. The top of the street is heralded by two pubs, one on either side, both sympathetic to Irishmen and real ale drinkers.
Writing this has revealed to me that I am proud and fond of this street and ready to defend its charms from petty vandals. If life were a soap opera I would be holding court in one of the pubs and rallying the other local drinkers into action right now, but life isn't scripted or stilted and I will, for now, see where it takes us.
SC
Monday, 14 July 2008
Monday 14 July 2008
A rare e-mail arrived today from Dad. "Congratulations on your good news (Mum told me)", it reads. Congratulations? Good news? I cannot imagine what this good news of mine could be. At best I presume that I have received some good news and promptly forgotten it. The good news is a mystery and the bad news is the loss of my previously pretty infallible memory.
In other bad news, we awoke to find our old-fashioned, peaceful neighbourhood spoiled and saddened this morning after a brick was thrown through the window of a shop on this street overnight. The owner has pasted over the breakage with a handwritten sign, marked out in the bold and deliberate hand of the vengeful, "Would whoever smashed my window be man enough to come and see me?" Sympathy for the owner is one thing, concern at the vigilante awoken in him by this incident is another. A more visible police presence is critical in areas such as this, where commercial, residential and retail properties stand happily alongside one another. This police presence, so far conspicuous by its absence, is required to prevent certain quarters from becoming hubs for recreational vandalism or worse.
In France today les bleus are celebrating Bastille Day, the 219th anniversary of the day on which the prison was broken open and its seven inmates set free. Contrary to popular belief, the Marquis de Sade was not one of the seven, having been transferred from the Bastille shortly before its storming. We, however, celebrated yesterday with a late breakfast of brioche, croissants, Nutella, Bonne Maman jam and bowls of hot chocolate and fresh coffee followed at supper time by bloody steaks in a buttery mushroom sauce, French beans and tarte au citron. Unfortunately the designated bottles of Burgundy and champagne remain unopened thanks to a very un-Gallic sanctimoniousness regarding the avoidance of a Monday morning hangover, not to mention overindulgence in assorted bottled beer at the beach barbecue and subsequent housewarming party on Saturday.
SC
In other bad news, we awoke to find our old-fashioned, peaceful neighbourhood spoiled and saddened this morning after a brick was thrown through the window of a shop on this street overnight. The owner has pasted over the breakage with a handwritten sign, marked out in the bold and deliberate hand of the vengeful, "Would whoever smashed my window be man enough to come and see me?" Sympathy for the owner is one thing, concern at the vigilante awoken in him by this incident is another. A more visible police presence is critical in areas such as this, where commercial, residential and retail properties stand happily alongside one another. This police presence, so far conspicuous by its absence, is required to prevent certain quarters from becoming hubs for recreational vandalism or worse.
In France today les bleus are celebrating Bastille Day, the 219th anniversary of the day on which the prison was broken open and its seven inmates set free. Contrary to popular belief, the Marquis de Sade was not one of the seven, having been transferred from the Bastille shortly before its storming. We, however, celebrated yesterday with a late breakfast of brioche, croissants, Nutella, Bonne Maman jam and bowls of hot chocolate and fresh coffee followed at supper time by bloody steaks in a buttery mushroom sauce, French beans and tarte au citron. Unfortunately the designated bottles of Burgundy and champagne remain unopened thanks to a very un-Gallic sanctimoniousness regarding the avoidance of a Monday morning hangover, not to mention overindulgence in assorted bottled beer at the beach barbecue and subsequent housewarming party on Saturday.
SC
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