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Last day in Guernsey. Be rude not to eat a large Guernsey Breakfast. I slunk away to visit my Grandparent's grave. Then we took a walk to Icart and sat there happily chatting, the sky bright and cloudy by turns, and then walked around till we were above Saints Bay. We sat again, and Lorraine read her book in the fresh air, and I ventured down the cliff path down towards the harbour. There I came across two WW2 concrete storage huts which had been shattered since I last had walked down this particular track.
I ventured in and walking through them, came across a concrete walkway behind. I followed this and it led to a bunker which was open. There was a huge bee or hornet buzzing in the entrance, and a black bag full of something unpleasant. The door opened into darkness and on the right hand side were four small rooms, possibly to store arms or shells in, or perhaps rooms for the soldiers to stay in. These were very dark, and I used the red light from my camera to look into these, and flashed my camera. The place was covered in sprayed graffiti. Often in these places there is demonic writing on the walls, and there was something about the devil on one of them. It was rather creepy in there in the dark, but the writer in me naturally loved it.
Then back up to Lorraine and we walked off to La Croix Guerin for lunch and cups of splosh. Lorraine listening to three older women on the table near us. One, a Guernsey woman with a proper Guernsey accent, was explaining the rules of Euchre to the others.
Then home, via the Gran'mère which had been garlanded. Would have made a wonderful photo but as usual there was a white van parked in front of it, and a blue one parked in the entrance to the church two foot away. Cursed these van wankers with feeling, but it forced me to photograph her from unusual angles. Then to the back of my old school, pausing at the abandoned glasshouses to take photos and back to La Barbarie, and a last quiet drink there. Had a nice chat with Laura who works there who is a writer, and working on songs with a composer.
Taxi driver spent nine months in Guernsey, and the rest of his time in the Himalayas. He told us a story about seeing a tiger in the wilds of Nepal as he took us to the airport. Pleasant flight home, and arriving back at the Old Church Hall, a hearty chicken and potato soup cooked by Maureen. I showed Pat the 1944 Star I had bought, and he was fascinated.
Lorraine and I to bed, feeling rather tired.
Below dark clouds during the day, the colours of the cliffs, and inside the bunker.
Last day in Guernsey. Be rude not to eat a large Guernsey Breakfast. I slunk away to visit my Grandparent's grave. Then we took a walk to Icart and sat there happily chatting, the sky bright and cloudy by turns, and then walked around till we were above Saints Bay. We sat again, and Lorraine read her book in the fresh air, and I ventured down the cliff path down towards the harbour. There I came across two WW2 concrete storage huts which had been shattered since I last had walked down this particular track.
I ventured in and walking through them, came across a concrete walkway behind. I followed this and it led to a bunker which was open. There was a huge bee or hornet buzzing in the entrance, and a black bag full of something unpleasant. The door opened into darkness and on the right hand side were four small rooms, possibly to store arms or shells in, or perhaps rooms for the soldiers to stay in. These were very dark, and I used the red light from my camera to look into these, and flashed my camera. The place was covered in sprayed graffiti. Often in these places there is demonic writing on the walls, and there was something about the devil on one of them. It was rather creepy in there in the dark, but the writer in me naturally loved it.
Then back up to Lorraine and we walked off to La Croix Guerin for lunch and cups of splosh. Lorraine listening to three older women on the table near us. One, a Guernsey woman with a proper Guernsey accent, was explaining the rules of Euchre to the others.
Then home, via the Gran'mère which had been garlanded. Would have made a wonderful photo but as usual there was a white van parked in front of it, and a blue one parked in the entrance to the church two foot away. Cursed these van wankers with feeling, but it forced me to photograph her from unusual angles. Then to the back of my old school, pausing at the abandoned glasshouses to take photos and back to La Barbarie, and a last quiet drink there. Had a nice chat with Laura who works there who is a writer, and working on songs with a composer.
Taxi driver spent nine months in Guernsey, and the rest of his time in the Himalayas. He told us a story about seeing a tiger in the wilds of Nepal as he took us to the airport. Pleasant flight home, and arriving back at the Old Church Hall, a hearty chicken and potato soup cooked by Maureen. I showed Pat the 1944 Star I had bought, and he was fascinated.
Lorraine and I to bed, feeling rather tired.
Below dark clouds during the day, the colours of the cliffs, and inside the bunker.
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