by Blanche B. Elliott
(published 1923)
THE question is often asked whether the inhabitants of Jersey are English or French, and the answer is " Neither; they are Jersey."
And the dialect is neither English nor French, but a survival and corruption of the old Norman-French mixed with some English words.
It has been stated that the Jersey patois can be understood by the Welsh and the Celts, but this, I gather, has yet to be proved. The Jerseyman can with an effort speak intelligible modern French, but, like his English, it is strongly accented, and does not please a cultured ear.
What makes Jersey, in common with all the Channel Islands, remarkable, apart from natural beauties and climatic conditions, is that it is entirely self-governing and independent of the laws of England.
Geographically the Channel Islands are a part of France, and belonged to the great Province of Neustria until that Duchy was wrested from King John by Philip Augustus of France in 1304, and it is the old Norman law and feudal system upon which their government is based. The Channel Islands were a part of Normandy when William, Duke of Normandy, conquered England, and when the duchy was lost to England these islands, though often attacked by the French, remained English. Thus, although France has been his nearest neighbour, and although his language and laws are Norman-French, the Jerseyman has for centuries clung to the British Crown for protection.
Victor Hugo describes the islands as " bits of France fallen into the sea and gathered up by England," and goes on to say that the islanders have a complex nationality: that they are certainly not English except that they choose to be, but that they are French without being aware of it. When they become aware of it,they try to forget it, which is somewhat apparent in the French they speak.
Geological research has established that Jersey, in common with the other islands, was once attached to the mainland, and it is only necessary to study the map to see the size of the archipelago which is all that remains of the lost lands that lay between. Of these there are rocks known as les Ecrehos, which have a few rude fishermen's huts erected upon them and are some eight miles from Jersey, and the Minquiers rocks farther south. The Chausey Islands, the only ones of the group which belong to France, lie nearer the mainland, just off the port of Granville. There are various other smaller rocks, most of which rejoice in names, but are only interesting from the point of view of navigation as to what to avoid.
It is popularly believed by those who have not paid a visit to these islands that they are grouped closely together and are similarly governed, whereas in reality they have few points of resemblance either in their past history or present administration. It is necessary, therefore, to write of them separately.
Jersey has a Bailiwick of its own, whereas Guernsey, Sark, Herm, and Jethou all come into the Bailiwick of Guernsey. Alderney is distinct again, and is probably the least known and visited of all the group of islands.
Jersey is far the largest of the group and lies much nearer to France than Guernsey, the nearest point of contact being a distance of some 16 miles to the French coast. Comparisons between the islands are fraught with danger, as a certain rivalry and jealousy has always existed between them. But of all the Channel Islands Jersey has, perhaps, retained most of her old-time characteristics and, in consequence, the greatest charm.
After a six-hour journey from England, one arrives first at Guernsey, and mails and passengers are put ashore and others taken on board. Sometimes the outgoing boat makes a long stay in loading up with a cargo of the island's produce, but during the busy seasons special cargo-boats are run in addition.
The harbour of Guernsey is picturesque in the extreme, and the town rises up from the sea in irregular buildings, looking like some old mediaeval town that one might vision in fancy or see illustrated in a book of fairy-tales. Castle Cornet adding the touch of romance necessary to complete the illusion. This is especially its aspect when one first sees it under the light of early dawn and the old harbour is touched by tender tints of mauve and silver which slowly turn to pink and gold and then deep blue.
Jersey lies another thirty miles farther on, for one does not land at the nearest point, Grosnez, as there is no harbour, but skirts the coast to the harbour of St Helier.
The entrance is unimposing, but with Elizabeth Castle on the one side and Fort Regent rising up to form a background on the other, the ugliness of the squat buildings and sordid architecture on and round the pier is somewhat redeemed. The journey round the coast gives a good view of many a curved bay and inlet and the fringe of sharp-pointed rocks whose serrated and deadly projections have been a menace to shipping through many centuries.
On the most remarkable of these groups a lighthouse known as La Corbiere haa been erected, and its white eminence poised on the dark, jagged rocks with a seething foam of waters dashing at its base is generally the first bit of Jersey to which the traveller's attention is called.
In size Jersey is but 11 miles by 7 but owing to its hilly surface and the intricacy of its winding lanes, it certainly seems larger.
The visitor who is taken round to the various beautyspots, regaled with refreshments and excruciating music, and driven home along the high-roads, no doubt feels that he knows the island. But it is the Jersey that tourists—or even many residents—do not see that is interesting, it is the people they do not meet that are unusual. They label it a " dear little place," and marvel at its yarying tides, its ruins, its shady lanes, and its historic breed of cattle; but the inner Jersey is a sealed book to them, for this curious little mediaeval community guards its secrets jealously, and one stumbles across them only by chance. Many of its laws are strange and out of date, but it goes ill with anyone who would question or mock at its ancient customs. It is governed by tradition and it clings to its unique prerogatives. This attitude must be realised before the spirit of the island can be appreciated.
Situated so comparatively near to England as she is, Jersey does not have the feeling towards her that she is the " mother country " as do the colonies or dominions. England is not " home " to Jersey people. To them Jersey is the beginning and the end, and the Jerseyman, particularly the farmer, will take his holiday in France more frequently than he will in England, largely owing, no doubt, to its proximity and the consequently cheaper journey.
Jersey is in many respects a diminutive Utopia. Possessing extraordinary privileges unshared by the Kingdom to which it is attached, it is a haven to which old civil and military pensioners retire. Their incomes reduced to the meagre insufficiency of a pension, they are unable to face the taxation under which they groan in their own country. They consequently repair to Jersey in great numbers and spend their days in peaceful wanderings over the golf-links or in fighting their battles over again at the club, until one by one they totter to the grave at ripe old ages. A simple stone of Jersey granite marks the tomb of many an honourable Englishman. After a life spent in the service of his country, he is too poor to live in it, and so he goes out to die in this quiet corner where he finds sanctuary. The warmer climate, the bright sun, and the freedom from income tax, together with cheaper tobacco and wine, enable him to live in a little of the comfort to which his past life has accustomed him.
In addition to the retired soldier or civil servant (almost invariably an Anglo-indian), society is composed of doctors and clergy and a few Jersey families, the French residents now being in the minority.
In some things living cannot be said to be as cheap as in England or France; provisions and groceries lack the competition that lowers their prices, and the cost of living in these respects is higher than in England. For instance, Jersey butter is often sold at a higher price than the English imported variety. Meat is on the whole, inferior, beef being especially indifferent, while of home-killed meat there is practically no supply at all. The cost of labour is high, and vegetables are marked at high figures, especially during the summer season. As a place of residence it always has attracted the retired pensioner, and no doubt always will, but this may be classed as a nomad population which does not affect the real life of the island. In a space of ten years this society will have changed completely. The old people die off and the young ones go away. They may buy houses, but these revert back to Jersey families in the course of time in an inexorable manner. It is the Jersiais born and bred who own and govern the island—the others are but wayfarers.
After the War a great influx of English people invaded the island in order to avoid the heavy postwar taxation that was imposed in England. Houses were limited, and peaceful residents who had rented their houses for years found themselves in the unfortunate position that unless they were prepared to buy them outright, the new-comers would do so for them.
Many were unprepared to purchase and were, in consequence, ruthlessly turned out. The Jerseyman adopts a philosophic attitude to these forced and high-priced sales, knowing that the property will ultimately come into the market again, when he can buy it back at his own price. Most of the land, however, is owned by the farmers, and that mere money cannot buy.
The Jersey farmer is the most important factor in the island. Upon him rests the economic structure of the constitution. He is by no means progressive, being apt to think that what is good enough for him should be quite good enough for anyone else, and it is this spirit of the island's jealous guardians that is at once its protection and its safeguard. The Jersiais are suspicious of what they do not understand, and their code of laws and regulations certainly seems to be the greatest success in dealing with a small community.
Means of transport are limited. There is a self-important but invaluable toy train which puffs its fussy way along the east coast of the island, and another, owned by a different company, runs along the south side to La Corbiere.
The north and west coasts boast no lines of communication, the steep cliffs and winding roads down to the sea having apparently completely baffled the surveyor whose task it might be to lay down a line. An electric railway might open up the island with advantage, but the omnipotent farmer does not require such innovations. His business in life is to grow produce and take it to the market or the quay in his potato-cart. Any other communications are mere superfluities. And yet one would not have it otherwise, for Jersey modernised and brought " up to date " is unthinkable. One almost regrets the motor-bus service which has displaced the lumbering horse-bus that used to trundle the market women to town and back to the " country " parishes—even so far as the remote St. Ouen. All such modernities help to dispel the old-world atmosphere which goes to mate up the charm and quaintness of Jersey.
Some of the Inhabitants—old women mostly—do not come up to " town " (St. Helier) for years, while others have never come at all ! and there are, of course, a great many people who have never been out of the island in their lives.
There are few places where one can let a car go at any pace, and that only for a short distance. The rules of the road (the English side for driving being in use) are not imposed very rigidly. It is a matter of common occurrence to come across two Jerseymen going in opposite directions, drawn up alongside each other and completely blocking the road, while the engrossing subject of the price of potatoes, butter, or tomatoes is being very thoroughly threshed out. Any interruption by other traffic is regarded as somewhat needless and unreasonable.
The main roads are good, but lanes on the whole are indifferent, being mended by clusters of stones which are placed in the middle of them, in the hope that the passing traffic will eventually wear them down. Many of the roads are macadamised, while a few of the streets in St. Helier are still cobbled, French fashion. The possession of a small car is very useful for one's happiness, but it should be a good hill climber and carry strong brakes. Tyres do not get enough use to wear them out very quickly, for unless one likes to whirl round and round the island, there is not far to go.