"You'll know when you've arrived. There's a big white dome, standing in the sea. Opposite the Guernsey Pearl cafe." Karen assures me, as I leave the terminus enquiry office. "Just pay on the bus. Contactless. A pound per journey, standard fare."
I seek out a number ninety three, as directed. Bound for the west coast.
The glowing white shaft, of Les Hanois lighthouse, alerts me that we have crossed the island and are approaching its southwestern corner.
I alight, at Rocquaine Bay. Neatly whitewashed houses peer over a sturdy sea wall. This is the Atlantic facing coast of the island. Baulks of timber lie in front gardens. Ready to drop into slots, built into the masonry of the garden walls, to close off gates and driveways, against storm surge.
Fishing boats shelter amongst the labyrinthine reefs, of which the lighthouse warns.
And bob beneath the white dome of the Fort Grey Martello Tower. Built on the site of the more evocatively named Chateau de Rocquaine. Its dome provides the transit, for craft entering the shoal waters of the bay.
Set back from the road, between neatly tended gardens, lies a small nondescript workshop.
The home of Le Tricoteur. Creators of my venerable Guernsey sailing sweater. Hazel weighs me up for size, on entry. As I try the proffered garment (it is a perfect fit), my current one is passed around the assembled jersey makers. “Look how the wool has gone shiny". . . ." We might be able to replace that neck, where its gone....maybe, and the hem". . . . "Oh, we haven't used that label for years. How long have you had this?"
I reply that I'm not sure exactly, but in the region of twenty years.
I leave, with a new Guernsey in my rucksack, the old one on my back (warding off a chill north wind) and Hazel’s call, of "see you in another twenty years," ringing in my ears.
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