Jersey Our Island - Travelling Blind Part 3

Published in 1950, this book is an interesting snapshot of the Island and its customs as it was in the immediate post-war period, and not without humour. Most guide books of the time give the tourist information, or give the impressions of an outsider to the Island, but this is in "inside view", which is rarer.

It should be noted that St Maglorius is largely a legendary figure, and there is no evidence of druids on Jersey, even though older Neolithic monuments, such as Faldouet, were called "Druid's Temple". But the story, as told, with its humour (and Irish steriotype!) sounds just like something to be spoke by the fireside, in a dark winter's evening, at one of our older pubs.

Jersey Our Island - Travelling Blind Part 3
by Sidney Bisson

It is on this rocky beach of La Rocque that St. Maglorius is reputed to have landed when he visited Jersey before St. Helier had converted the inhabitants to Christianity. (He is also reputed to have landed at Grosnez, as I have already told you, but that must have been some other time.)

Maglorius was a bluff Irishman, quite a different type of saint from the ascetic Helier, and he had got tired of preaching in Gaul because none of the Gauls could understand a word of Irish. His witty sermons were just being wasted. Also Maglorius was a great chatterbox, and it was difficult to chat when the people you were chatting to could not join in the conversation.

Having a mistaken notion that Jersey belonged to England and that the Jersey folk would therefore probably at any rate speak English, he got hold of a couple of fishermen and by gestures made them understand that he wanted them to row him across to Jersey. Which they did, and landed him at La Rocque. As it was low tide he viewed the long journey over the rocks with misgiving, until his Irish logic told him that the shore would be nearer the water's edge at high tide so that he would not have so far to walk. So he sat down to wait for the tide to rise. At least he intended to sit down, but the rocks being steep and slippery he slithered into a crevice. As he was picking himself up he became aware of a terrifying noise that was rapidly getting louder. He soon discovered the cause of it. An enormous giant with flaming eyes was approaching, yelling at the top of his voice and brandishing a fairsized oak.

`May the grass ever grow at your door,' said Maglorius, crossing himself.

This seemed to pacify the giant, who stopped and greeted Maglorius as a heaven sent helper. His mission in life, he explained, was to exterminate Druids, who (as his Holiness no doubt knew) feasted on Christian priests. But the more Druids he ate, the more there seemed to be. He simply could not keep pace with them.

Maglorius did not quite see how he was expected to help, but the giant forestalled a possible argument by picking him up and carrying him ashore in a couple of strides. Here he left him whilst he went off to have another feast of Druids to keep up his strength.

Maglorious could hear their pitiful wails as they were swallowed, which made him feel quite sorry for them. Until he happened to look round and saw a dozen ancient Druids with long snowwhite beards trailing down their long snow-white robes advancing on him stealthily from the rear.

`Arrah ! And it's Druids' meat you'll be being yeself,' said the saint, crossing himself again.

Then taking a leaf from the giant's book, he sprang round in a threatening attitude and let out a blood-curdling yell.

The Druids sank to their knees and joined their hands as if in prayer. But, of course, as they spoke neither English nor Irish Maglorius could not understand a word.

`Och ! Hold your noise, ye good for nothing divils,' he said impatiently. Then as an afterthought: `Can't ye spake Latin, at all, at all?,

And they could ! Many a Christian priest they confessed having killed, but now that the giant had been sent to eat them as a punishment they were ready to repent. And if only Maglorius would help them to overcome the monster they would become good Christian clergy and serve him in any way he wished.

The saint thought for a moment. Then: `Have ye got spades?' said he.

They had. So lie set them to dig an enormous pit, which took them a day and a night. When Maglorius was satisfied with the work he spread branches over the opening and carefully replaced the turf. Then they all went and sat on the beach and had a meal.

Presently along came the giant, idling along the sea shore, hands in pockets and dribbling a Druid's head. The Druids dived for shelter behind an enormous rock, but Maglorius held his ground.

'Ah-ha! Eating with heathens, eln said the giant.

`No,' said Maglorius. `The heathen divils were after betting me half of the island that you couldn't be carrying this great rock to Verclut.'

`What ? This tiny rock?' said the giant, picking it up and balancing it on his shoulder.

And with that, Maglorius ran ahead, encouraging him and taking care to lead him in the direction of the pit. Into which in due course the giant fell with the rock on top of him. The Druids were converted and learnt to speak English with an Irish accent.

The rock became known as La Rogodaine. It stood there until the middle of the last century a twenty foot lump of granite sticking out of the sandy plain when it was quarried and used for building stone.

Near here the road turns sharply north for the final stage of its journey to Gorey. Soon I shall be able to open my eyes again, for Gorey Common brings the ribbon building to an end.

Here on the windswept gorse-dotted dunes the famous Jersey school of golfers (Harry Vardon and his followers) taught themselves the game. Where once was a race course, a rifle range, and a review ground for the militia, the Royal Jersey Golf Club holds undisputed sway.

Gorey Village is quiet to-day. Once it resounded to the ship-builder's hammer and the oaths of the rude oyster fishermen. For shipbuilding was once one of the island's principal industries. When, in 1713, the Treaty of Utrecht brought to an end the War of the Spanish Succession, Jersey believed that her future lay on the sea. Ever since the sixteenth century Jersey ships had sailed to Newfoundland and Labrador and returned with cargoes of salt cod to be sold in the markets of Europe. The absence of a suitable harbour at St. Helier made no difference.

Chevalier tells us how in his time the ships were laid up at St. Malo to be refitted during the winter, whilst their crews, numbering five or six hundred men, came home in smaller vessels.

Throughout the eighteenth century and well into the nineteenth the trade prospered. The principal customers were France and the Catholic Mediterranean countries, though at one time it was even found profitable to bring cod all the way to Jersey for packing and reexport to South America in tubs.

The increase in the fish trade stimulated other forms of commerce. Instead of returning empty to Jersey after discharging their cargoes in foreign ports, the cod-carriers began to bring back other wares which were sold in the island or re-exported. The expansion of shore establishments in Canada and Newfoundland brought still more trade.

In a note to Falle's history of Jersey, Durell tells us that Jersey employed over 2,500 `natives' in their fishing stations , who were supplied with a variety of goods from the island. Between 1817 and 1865 Jersey's merchant fleet grew from a mere handful of vessels to over four hundred and fifty, making the island the fifth port in the United Kingdom. Shipowners grew rich, and as labour was cheap in the island, shipbuilders flourished in sympathy.

As far as I know, no one has studied in detail the reasons for Jersey's sudden and dramatic renunciation of the sea as an avenue of profit. In twenty years the number of vessels in the island dropped by half. In another twenty it was less than in 1817. The change from sail to steam and from wood to steel certainly killed shipbuilding in the island. But one might have expected the local shipowners to invest in English-built steamers in order to keep up their carrying trade. It is significant that in 1877, when one seventh of Britain's merchant navy was propelled by steam, the only steamer registered in Jersey was a tug.

And here at Gorey Mr. Picot was still optimistically building a couple of schooners and Messrs. Belot and Aubin a ketch apiece, whilst at other yards in the island four schooners were on the stocks.

Obstinate we Jerseymen are usually held to be, or as Sir Gilbert Parker put it, `self-reliant even to perverseness.' Can it have been this native trait in their character that made the shipping magnates of the sixties pin their faith to sail and wood in the face of all the world? Until it was too late, and Jersey was driven back to the land.