The scene is Hamptonne Country Life Museum, Jersey

Visitor at front desk: “We thought you should know, one of your chickens is inside one of the houses, down there.”
Visitor Services Assistant (VSA): “A big white cockerel?”
Visitor: “Yes! It’s upstairs, in a cupboard.”
VSA: “Upstairs in Syvret House? OK, that’s normal. I’ll get the gardien to shoo it out. Thanks.” *Phones gardien* “When you have a minute could you shoo the white cockerel out of Syvret House please?”
Gardien: *Sighs* “OK, on my way.”

Cockerel: “Okay, okay I’m going. But I’ll go at my own pace if you please. And if I seem indignant then I have a right to. Yes, I know that I’m a cockerel and, by the customs and protocols of the world, us birds rank below humans and are governed by them. We are subject to the whims and fancies of our human masters. I don’t wish to lodge a formal complaint though, or to appear difficult. It might not end well. Anyway, I am fortunate enough here at Hamptonne. I know only too well that the majority of the world’s chickens never see the light of day. They lead a (fortunately short) life of misery until their throats are cut. Here I can wander more or less where I wish, food and water for nothing and my chicks for free.

“But, you see, I wasn’t always a bird. I was Jack Syvret and that was my family home right there. I was born in 1899, the oldest of seven children, and I was brought up there. It was a working farm then. My father was the farmer and he kept cows and sheep, grew a little grain. Mother kept house and us children did what we could. I went to the new St Lawrence School down the road, next to the church. We knew everyone in the village. Then when the war came, off I went to serve with the Jersey Pals. I didn’t last long. I was shot dead on the second day of the Battle of the Somme. I’ve come back a few times, but never before as a cockerel. See, if I’d have lived, I’d have inherited the property.”

Gardien: “OK, all done.”
VSA: “Good. That cockerel thinks he owns the place.”

I did a rare shift at Jersey’s Maritime Museum the other day – front desk, selling entry tickets to (mainly) our overseas visitors. It is, by general consensus, an excellent attraction. The museum is pretty big and showcases the Island’s long maritime history in an imaginative and interactive way. Young and old enjoy it equally.

A major bonus within the building is the Occupation Tapestry Gallery. This was created in 1995 and is a classy and poignant reminder of the unhappy Occupation years and had much input by the survivors.

My 30-minute lunch break came but the usual cubby hole had an electrician working away therein. I was directed instead to the Boat Workshop, accessed through ‘no entry’ doors deep within the museum. Like Alice climbing through the looking glass I found myself in a different world I only vaguely knew existed.

Over two levels lie workshops for carpentry and related works together with a big library of seafaring books and other assorted ephemera all connected to the sea. I found a kettle, made a coffee and sat down. There on the table I glanced at a French language glossy trade magazine which could have been printed yesterday but which, upon inspection, was dated October 1992.

One of Jersey Heritage’s remits is the restoration and maintenance of the ‘Heritage Fleet’, vessels that have a long connection to the Island. This work is done mainly by enthusiastic volunteers.

The boats bob happily in the nearby harbour to be taken out for a spin around the bay when occasion permits.

Shame on me that it took me so long, and a busy electrician, to discover all this.

These days, when not sat in Jersey’s infernal traffic, I am running, albeit quite slowly. Even this gentle activity means that it is impossible to fully appreciate the finer detail of one’s surroundings. Yesterday however I had a few minutes to spare and wandered around the lanes close to Hamptonne in the parish of St Lawrence.

King Charles II Woods
When Charles I was beheaded in London in 1649, his young son Charles fled into exile for a number of years. He spent five months in Jersey where Laurens Hamptonne proclaimed him the next King. Adjacent to the car park is a little area of woodland, each tree planted in remembrance of one of the signatories of the proclamation.

Jersey Fine Tea
One of Jersey’s first tax dodges was the tea business. The Overseas Trading Corporation imported tea leaves from Ceylon, India etc. free of duty. They would blend and package the leaves, exporting to much of the world. The OTC has long gone but now we have Jersey Fine Tea and its boutique crop growing right next door to Hamptonne.

Eggs for sale
Go right ahead, take some, pay what you think.

A Jersey Arch
Peculiar to Jersey, nine stones, the height precisely twice the width.

All within a few minutes walk and all with a story to tell.

Hurrah, Jersey Heritage’s sites are open once more for the season. With light Covid restrictions of course but open nonetheless.

The sites are (inside) Jersey Museum and Maritime Museum (outside) La Hougue Bie, Mont Orgueil, Elizabeth Castle and Hamptonne Country Life Museum. I have the great pleasure of working two days a week at Hamptonne on the front desk.

You’d have thought it might have been quiet this morning for my first shift, especially as I’d entirely forgotten the workings of the till and associated systems, my login passwords etc. But no, Hamptonne is a regular meet-up location for nannies and childminders and in they poured on the dot of 10 o’clock, young charges in tow, old and young flying through the shop, membership passes being flashed my way, chicken food being politely demanded. Track and Trace contact details to be collected. After a while the wave subsided and I was able to draw breath.

Hamptonne sits amongst quiet lanes in the middle of Jersey, not easy to find. The buildings date back 400 years and are quite beautiful. But the local families are more interested in the animals and open spaces, a lovely place for the often town bound kids. We have chickens free-ranging around and rabbits in the stables. New this season are sheep in the meadow and piglets to replace the monster hogs that virtually needed dynamite last October to shift them to wherever fully-grown pigs go. Finally, a couple of Jersey calves, the prettiest breed of cows.

A Gardien is in overall charge of each site, a VSA (Visitor Services Assistant) at front of house. In addition there is a regular stream of volunteers. Today, for example, we had Dave as Visitor Host who took some of the heat off me at the desk whilst providing good football chat in quieter moments. There are Tour Guides and, later in the season, we’ll see a bit of Living History, guys and gals that dress and act as if in the good old days.

Like all hospitality businesses, Heritage have struggled with the pandemic but we are well supported by the government. It’s nice to be able to open on time but everyone hopes that we’ll soon be able to welcome overseas visitors once more.

My hero Bob Le Sueur just celebrated his 100th birthday. He is a legend in Jersey having lived, worked and resisted during the Occupation. As a young man and office junior he found that all of his colleagues, including his superiors, had evacuated the Island in advance of the German invasion. On telephoning his head office in the UK he was instructed to take charge, and so he did.

He spent much of his spare time during those terrible years risking his own life by organising shelter for escaped slave workers and carrying out various other acts of subversion. Since the War he has devoted much of his life to supporting various human rights causes and charities.

Now, I love my social history on a very amateur level. I enjoy seeing those black-and-white photos of old Jersey and hearing the old folk tell their stories of their youth. But it annoys me intensely to read, on an almost daily basis, the sighs and laments from those who long for those days to return.

“Look what they’ve done to Jersey.” (Whoever “they” are.)
“The Island has been ruined.”
“I wish I’d lived back then.”

I bite my tongue and refrain from suggesting that, should the complainers be transported back 100 years, they’d be clamouring to return to 2020 – with all its faults – before nightfall.

So, what does Bob have to say? Surely he looks back on his life in Jersey with fondness and regrets those things we have lost? This is what he has to say:

“I’m not someone who sighs for the good old days. I feel happy to have lived long enough to have seen so many positive improvements in our lives, in our attitudes and what we call our values.

“The position of women has improved dramatically in my lifetime, and we as a community care about the disabled. They are no longer hidden away, particularly the mentally disabled.

“I think young people today, in general, are much more aware and concerned about people in other parts of the world who are being victimised.

“I’m proud that I live in a self-governing community which has the breadth of vision to look beyond the horizon, and be a small part in the positive development of the global village.”

That’s Bob. If only there were a few more like him.

*Bob’s recently-produced memoir Growing Up Fast is available as an ebook here, and Waterstones here in Jersey has, I believe, copies of the paperback.

See here for Part 1 and here for Part 2.

On 10th July 1971 around 11.45pm a car jumped the lights at Georgetown, just east of St Helier, and drove off erratically. Police Constables Riseborough and McGinn, on mobile patrol, gave chase. It was hair-raising as the Morris 1100 attempted to evade the chasers for several miles. Had the driver simply stopped at the outset and apologised he might have got away with it I imagine.

He was eventually caught and arrested and taken to police HQ. Over the ensuing hours it became clear, by the man’s dress and the contents of his pockets and car, that this was no ordinary arrest. It was Edward John Louis Paisnel, 46, The Beast of Jersey. A building contractor, well-known and respected, married with a daughter and two step-children.

Searches of his house at Grouville revealed the extent of his activities and of his interests and mindset. His wife Joan professed to know nothing of her husband’s nocturnal activities.

He was charged on 13 counts and was quickly found guilty and sentenced to 30 years. He served 20 years in Winchester Gaol and was released after being a model prisoner. Astonishingly, he sought to return to Jersey but no one here was having it. He moved to the Isle of Wight where, three years later in 1994, he died of a heart attack.

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For a more detailed account you should visit the excellent True Crime Enthusiast website.

Following on from Part 1, the people of Jersey were now scared, as you can imagine, especially in the country parishes. Left to their own devices, the Jersey police were getting nowhere. They called in Scotland Yard in the shape of DS Jack Mannings, a well-known adversary of the Kray Brothers in London’s gangland.

He set to work, compiling an identikit of the Beast and challenging the Jersey public to help find him. No man was above suspicion and many interviews took place. These included the loner Alphonse Le Gastelois who, relentlessly hounded by police and public, took himself off to the Écréhous reef in a 14-year exile.

No one was apprehended, but things went quiet. There were no further incidents until

• April 1963. A nine-year-old boy in St Saviour was attacked with a similar MO as before.
• November 1963. An 11-year-old boy was attacked, again in St Saviour.
• July 1964. A ten-year-old girl in Trinity was attacked.
• August 1964. A 16-year-old boy in Grouville was attacked.

Things went quiet again. Was he gone? In 1966 the police received a letter.

My Dear Sir,
               I think that it is just the time to tell you that you are just wasting your time, as every time I have done wat I always intended to do and remember it will not stop at this, but I will be fair to you and give you a chance. I have never had much out of this life but I intend to get everything I can now…..I have always wanted to do the perfect crime. I have done this, but this time let the moon shine very britte in September because this time it must be perfect, not one but two. I am not a maniac by a long shot but I like to play with you people. You will hear from me before September and I will give you all the clues. Just to see if you can catch me.

• August 1966. A 15-year-old girl was savagely raped in Trinity.
• December 1966. 20-year-old Tuula Hoeoek, a Finnish au pair, was murdered, her skull smashed to pieces. This doesn’t form part of the Beast’s official litany of attacks. I wonder why, as the MO was remarkably similar to his other attacks – victim picked up at bus stop, dragged into to a field etc. The extreme violence, maybe provoked by Tuula’s spirited resistance, was taking things to a new level though.

Maybe even the Beast was shocked as there was peace and quiet until

• August 1970. A 13-year-old boy in Vallee des Vaux was dragged from his bed and indecently assaulted. Scratches on the boy’s body were identical to those found after the August 1966 attack.

It was, mercifully, to be the last reported attack.

But who and where was he?