Down my way...Herm

Azure and turquoise waters lap a golden beach under a cerulean blue sky. A description that is cheesy, corny, and completely accurate. Yet this place is not Mediterranean, nor Caribbean or indeed anywhere exotic, even though the sun burns our skins.

The island of Herm. Miniature, carless, perfect. One of the Channel Islands, barely one and a half miles long and half a mile wide, separated from Guernsey by a narrow channel down which the tides swirl ferociously. Boats make the crossing with ease when the weather is fair, yet at times during the winter, when gales devour the islands, nothing puts out from St Peter Port harbour for days at a time.

On Herm, there is nothing but a tiny village, a handful of granite holiday cottages, each converted from a former use: a fisherman’s retreat, a baker’s, a widow who eked out a living with handcrafts. A campsite on the hill. Pleasure boats in the harbour. St Tugual’s chapel, older than we can even dream, glows with care: polished wood, stunning flower arrangements, a sense of tranquility and ease.

The courtyard of the pub hums. It is half an hour before the last boat of the day. Tired, sandy, sunbronzed children – skin cancer a disregarded concern – eat ice creams, their parents deep in conversation over a cream tea, chatting to strangers. Some of these acquaintances will develop into life-long friendships.
After an hour, the courtyard is empty. Later, folk will, like us, drift down from the cottages and campsite for a meal or a pint of Guernsey cider. Food tastes better here, but in any case, Herm and Guernsey pride themselves on their fresh local produce – not least, the Guernsey milk, butter and tomatoes which have made the islands famous.

Herm. Simplicity, luxury, solitude, friendliness. Addictive.