As far as inconveniences caused by Covid-19 go, when many have died, not being able to go to the pub is pretty low on the scale. No one disagreed when they were closed towards the end of March. They are the prefect breeding ground for the transmission of disease. And, unlike schools which can also be considered high risk, they are not an essential part of life. Of course, if you want alcohol, there are other ways of obtaining same.

And so it was that the last time I ventured into town for a quiet beer with the boys was on 15th March, 16 weeks ago. We generally meet at the Peirson in the Royal Square before moving along to the Mitre, also known as the Blue Note Bar. In Ireland these two places would be known as ‘old man’ pubs – quiet, pleasant, good beer, low music, nothing much to entice the younger set.

Not many people about last night, a contrast to those images from selected spots in England where there was crowding and trouble. Of course, there is never news where everything is in order.

So there we were, reconvened in the Mitre at our reserved table, four of us. Our fifth and final member, our 80-year-old ‘President’ was missing. We bumped elbows, ordered our drinks and carried on from where we’d left off. Football is the common denominator. We all support English clubs – Burnley, Leeds, Birmingham and Barnsley respectively. We are also all runners, or ex-runners. The conversation and beer flowed steadily. The drill in all Jersey bars is seated only, one-metre physical distancing. The police stepped in, saw that all was well, and went on their way.

And a couple of hours later we went home. Nothing special you say, but to us it was, in a quiet sort of way. The pub is a part of our social lives, occasionally abused by some, but a welcome port of call for others, especially after the troublesome months we’ve been through.

Not unique to Jersey but there are a lot of them around. They’ve become so much part of the landscape that they rarely attract a glance or comment from islanders. Some remain in fine order, others more neglected.

Lavoirs were communal clothes washing facilities. They were constructed over, or beside, running water. There would have been an agreement which families could use them, perhaps for a small fee. In this way the cost of construction might have been recovered. Here’s one of my favourites at Ruette Mathurin, Grouville. Note the stream running through the meadow into the lavoir.

Another, off Princes Tower Road, St Saviour, now in the care of the National Trust for Jersey.

Finally, here’s one at Mont Mado, St John in use in 1909 – credit Jerripedia. There are many others.

The abreuvoir is the lavoir’s big brother – it was designed to provide drinking water for animals. Possibly our best example is at Le Marais a la Cocque, Grouville. Here the abreuvoir is accompanied by a public water pump, its steps in latter times providing amusement for big children.

Credit Société Jersiaise

I was back on the Rock. It was December 2009 and everything was surreal and unsettling. It felt as if Jersey had moved on and had left me behind. I rented a crappy room in First Tower and applied for income support for the very first (and last) time.
Jersey hadn’t escaped the recession. Work was hard to come by. I was well aware that I was in a low place mentally so made sure to stay on an even keel. On 21st December, the shortest day, I said to myself that this was as low as I would get. My running helped no end. I started writing, and I promised myself that I’d return to Ireland the next summer in much better shape than when I had left. (Which I did.)

Darkness into Light (fineartamerica.com)

Then I struck lucky and a past casual meeting set me up for a job with a small legal office, Hanson Renouf. I was to stay there for over seven years. Of course I brought considerable law office experience with me and I think I repaid them for giving me that break. It was a happy time in a busy office as the Island climbed out of the recession and business expanded. And, without exception, it was a great team there in Hill Street and it was a good time.

Sadly the good times weren’t to last. A so-called merger took place and it was plain that some of us Hanson Renouf crowd were surplus to requirements. I decided to jump ship. Sadly I jumped at a good offer to re-join the finance industry – would I never learn? Three months in an open-plan office at Vantage Group with its factions, politics and dreary work were enough. Not their fault, all mine.

And so to Unitas Containers in mid-2016. And I’ve had a happy three years in a small finance department accounting for various group companies involved in the container management and leasing business worldwide.

But this afternoon I switched off the computer for the last time. Time’s caught up. And in writing this summary of my working career I realise that I’ve been lucky to come across

• Only one dickhead
• Only one bullshitter
• A few people that I could never get on with, and vice versa
• Many good people just doing their best in life – you can’t do any more
• A few very good lifetime friends

I still wish I’d gone in for PE teaching 😃

1983 and I’m Company Accountant at Pallot Glass, a family-owned glass, glazing and window replacement outfit. A new world and I loved it for the 12 years I was there. And I was in charge of all two of the staff which I inherited, together with a dog (Plonk) who seemed to be the doorstop to the Accounts Department, blocking all who tried to enter.
Desktop accounting was still in its infancy, but we managed the transition from Kalamazoo cards to a nice, little accounting system. And proper 5-inch floppy disks for backing up. And I self-taught myself the daily, monthly and annual routines that go with commercial accounting.

In time we opened (and eventually closed) outlets in Guernsey and the UK so my dread of flying was severely tested. I became Finance Director of our little group of companies.
But it was the lads that made it all so enjoyable. In the factory were a bunch of mainly Scottish tradesmen, time-served, hard working and hard playing. On the vans were another bunch who would drive off in pairs each morning on various jobs around the island. There was a natural stand-off between the lads and the office staff, but we needed one another and managed a rapport of sorts.

Their weekly wages were mostly gone by Tuesday and they’d come looking for a ‘sub’ to get them through the week. If you were kind-hearted and lent one of them a tenner then the rest would be queuing up outside. If you played hardball then they’d try again next day.
The stories were legion – I might write a book one day. One Monday morning there was a work experience lad waiting downstairs. The Works Director saw him and bundled him onto a van which was just leaving on a job. A week later the Works Director asked the young lad how he was getting on. The lad replied ‘Loving it, but I was hoping to be trained in Sales.’ There was a minor sensation when a GIRL was taken on as a window fitter. That lasted two weeks until she declared herself pregnant.
Twelve great years. I’d be there now but I was now married with a mortgage. One or two of our big contracts were stretching the company financially. I left for the safer pastures of the Jersey finance industry. (Pallot Glass happily trade to this day, still family-owned.)

Three years at Theodore Goddard & Co, a medium-sized trust company, deserves no more than a paragraph. It should have warned me off the finance industry for good. It’s a living death. But, through contacts, I got my next move.

Ten years at Bois & Bois, a small legal office. I’d found a new niche. Looking after the books, observing the strict legal accounting rules, reporting to the partners. Conveyancing (property transactions) which go through Jersey’s Royal Court each Friday was the climax of every week. And in Jersey, property deals can be very large indeed. It was crucial that the funds were in place to complete the transaction at Court and, if acting for the purchaser, that they were paid out the following Tuesday. Many close shaves we had.

Ten good years, good bosses, lovely colleagues. But for many months now I’d been planning to finish up my working days in Ireland, a country with which I have a great affinity. All the indicators were right, the Celtic Tiger was roaring. I was no longer married with a mortgage. In the last days of 2007 I said my goodbyes (and there were many) and I was on my way.

Work came to a halt in the Commercial Department of Turquands Barton Mayhew & Co. We gathered round in expectation. A few buttons pressed and our new-fangled facsimile machine, with its own dedicated telephone line, sprang into life with a series of hums and buzzes. We were faxing a document to New York and it was the wonder of the age. At the NYC end an identical machine was deciphering and printing the document. It took about six minutes. We gazed in awe.

Wonder of the age

Not so many years later the fax machine is more or less redundant, overtaken by even more wondrous technology.

The late 70s in Jersey were certainly different from now. The holidaymakers still arrived in their hordes, the sun seemed to shine continuously, the alcohol was cheap and plentiful, there were nightly shows and entertainment all over the Island. Most of us were still youngish and we hung out and partied lots. The idea of ‘going home’ after a couple of years got sort-of forgotten as careers progressed and love blossomed, faded, and grew again.

Work consisted of looking after portfolios of private clients, both Jersey-based and others. Much of it was familiar – churning out sets of accounts, but there was also administration and correspondence. Increased telephone work meant that I quickly learnt to moderate my thick Brummie accent so as to be understood.

One day a couple of oil barons from Calgary or somewhere turned up unannounced, boots, Stetsons and everything. That same day they had almost completed a reverse takeover of one of our smaller listed companies for one of their ventures. It wouldn’t have happened in Birmingham!

Those were the days of unregulated financial dealings. Clients (not necessarily TBM clients) would jet in, withdraw thousands from their offshore accounts, stick the money in envelopes and mail them to mysterious places. Funds arrived from strange sources and were merrily banked, no questions asked. Guys walked the streets with heavy briefcases, swapping Kruggerands for cash, and vice versa. There would be regular days out to Sark (the fourth largest Channel Island) for meetings of sham directors to be held and minutes signed there at the harbour. This malarkey was to change quickly and radically in the years that followed with the Channel Islands now at the forefront of financial regulation.

Good times, good friends. But after six years, in 1983, I took an opportunity to take my first venture into life outside a professional office.

”As the gale tore at her with renewed frenzy Tess put up her arms as if to fly. She closed her eyes, her legs wobbled and buckled.

La Fret Point, Portelet, Jersey

She visualised the rocks rushing up to meet her, the agony to follow. Slowly, very slowly she opened her eyes, lowered her arms, tucked her collar closer around her neck and struggled back to the cottage.”

From ‘Tess of Portelet Manor‘. Mental health, depression, suicidal thoughts – all are openly talked about these days. Help is available. Not so in 1935 when you just had to deal with it. Or not.

‘They had been married for 44 years, happily married, yet he had not shed tears at the funeral, or since.

Anne had left him quietly and in the natural way of things. Although sad, he had accepted her passing without fuss. He wondered about his reaction and had fully expected there to be some deferred effect, but this had not been so.

He moved on, slowly, reluctantly, before arriving at Charlie’s simple, white headstone. His great grandson, six weeks old. A simple inscription from his heartbroken parents and angels watching over Charlie from the corner of the headstone. As he knew there would be, tears streamed from Hedley’s eyes as he shook his head, turned, and walked away.’

From ‘A Jersey Midsummer Tale’

Last weekend saw the 7th running of this endurance event here in Jersey. It’s approximately 48 miles around our coastline, much of it off-road with long stretches of demanding but wonderfully scenic cliff paths.

Many did it solo – hats off to them. Others formed relay teams, such as my teams Jersey Joggers and Jersey Girls Run.

One of those solo runners was Stephen Cousins. He not only completed the course in just over 10 hours but filmed the whole thing. So here is a gorgeously produced 7-minute showcase of what Jersey’s coastline has to offer.