Festival of Bridges #12 ~ A Jersey Tale

The Festival of Bridges brings us to Jersey today, courtesy of Roy McCarthy whose blog Back on the Rock is a real favourite of mine.

Roy has a myriad of interests and is a writer. One of his books is the wonderfully named: A Jersey Midsummer Tale. 

Here’s what Roy sent, and as a person who both honeymooned in Jersey and holidayed there for ten years, I feel like I’ve been transported back to a place I absolutely adore.

The Jersey Eastern Railway opened for business in 1874 but closed in 1929. Here is a secluded little bridge, unknown to many, behind St Clement Parish Hall just before the former Le Hocq Station.

Roy
Photo: Roy McCarthy
It’s an easy leap of the imagination to imagine local people walking underneath the bridge 100 years and more ago as the train chugged on its way out towards Gorey.
 

  An extract from ‘A Jersey Midsummer Tale’.

They picked up speed as they skirted to the south of the sports fields and headed out into the St Clement countryside. At Samares two passengers alighted and two more at Pontorson Lane. The train was clattering along merrily now, along the embankment and through the Le Hocq Lane crossing, up through the cutting, under the coast road bridge before rattling down into Pontac Station.
****
The Festival of Bridges runs until October 31st. Submissions are now closed unless you have a bridge that you feel you simply HAVE to share. If so, send it on to me at jeatubridy@aol.com. I can never get enough bridges!!

 

 

 

 

 

Sporting Passion, Jersey, and the Ryder Cup

It would have been impossible for me to marry someone who didn’t have deep interest in sport. I just couldn’t cope with questions like: What on earth is a topspin lobor What the hell has an eagle got to to do with golf?

Well, I’m glad to report that I found ‘love’ on a tennis court and the guy who courted me and whom I eventually married was a keen sportsman who played about 6 sports at representative level and continues to have an absolute passion for sport in general.

Our honeymoon  on the lovely island of Jersey coincided with the Ryder Cup in 1991. When we arrived at the hotel, hubby  made a mad lunge at the television to be sure that it had all the stations necessary to see every shot of the competition.

Jersey was stunning, with its beaches, coastal paths, seafood restaurants on tiny harbours,  The Lavendar Farm, La Mare Vineyard, Jersey Pottery and, of course, nearby Sark Island with its feudal regime.

The Ryder Cup was played in Kiawah Island, South Carolina that year and really it was like we became bi-located once it got underway on the Friday.

Watching the Preview of this year’s competition with hubby last night, I got a tingle of excitement and a real sense of deja vu when when he said of Ian Poulter: Here’s your man!  My man in 1991 was undoubtedly Seve Ballesteros, who I had been fortunate enough to see in the flesh here in Ireland and who is without doubt the most handsome man I have ever laid eyes on. And what an inspirational golfer, not unlike Ian Poulter!

The 1991 Ryder Cup was unbearably close and we travelled home on the Sunday as the latter stages were unfolding. My parents had invited us for tea but weren’t in the least surprised when hubby shot passed them to catch the last few holes in which Europe were just pipped.

I can imagine that this could well be some people’s idea of absolute hell but somehow the Ryder Cup gives me a biennial reminder of the extent to which our marriage is built on a shared love of sport of all descriptions.

It’s all in the genes, as we both come from sporting families, and I could only smile when our son told me the other day of how he was shocked and horrified to be asked by someone: How many games are in a tennis match?

So, best of luck to the smiling Paul McGinley and his fabulous European team.  We’ll be watching!