Looking around Guernsey 1972 – Part 2

Looking around Guernsey 1972 – Part 2

How Guernsey is governed

[This has changed considerably. The States of Deliberation now consists all of Deputies, all elected on an Island wide vote, plus two representatives from Alderney]

WE HAVE already explained that Guernsey is self-governing, and has enjoyed a very real degree of independence ever since it became associated with England through William, Duke of Normandy. This is why it has developed laws and customs over the centuries that are different from the United Kingdom.

Her Majesty's Government, however, is responsible for the island's external affairs — although not Her Majesty's Government, however, is responsible for the island's external affairs — although not without first consulting Guernsey's government

The island parliament is, called the States of Deliberation, usually referred to simply as "the States". Although the majority of its members are elected by popular vote, the States has a constitution different from that of the House of Commons: Members of the States are elected in four main ways, as follows:-

1. Twelve conseillers, who are elected by an electoral college called the States of Election, which is composed of the Bailiff, who is President; twelve Jurats, twelve Conseillers, the Rectors of the ten parishes, Her Majesty's Procureur, Her Majesty's Comptroller, thirty-three People's Deputies, thirty-four Douzaine Representatives and four Alderney Representatives.

2. Thirty-three deputies who are elected by persons of full age (20 years) who are not subject to any legal disability.

3. Ten douzaine representatives elected from among their own members by the douzaines (or parish councils).

4. Two representatives of the States of Alderney.

Then, in addition, there are the Law Officers of the Crown H.M. Procureur (Attorney-General) and H.M. Comptroller (Solicitor-General), who are members of the States and can take part in debate but have no vote.

Presiding over the assembly, and with a casting vote, is the Bailiff, who is also civil head of the island appointed by the Crown, but whose traditional duty is to speak for the island and represent the views of the insular authorities to the Crown. The Bailiff also presides over the Royal Court, and for that reason is now invariably a lawyer by profession.

The Lieutenant-Governor of Guernsey is the Queen's appointed representative in the island, and .takes no part in civil or legal administration.

The work of the States is handled by a number of Committees set up to deal with various fields such as Housing, Finance, Health and Island Development. Some conseillers and deputies may serve on three or four of these Committees, and are responsible to the States for their administration. In addition, the Committees are served by a permanent civil service. 

The States meet on the last Wednesday of every month except August. An agenda in book form, called a Billet d'Etat, is circulated to each member about ten days before the meeting. The Billet that excites the most public interest is the annual one that outlines the budget proposals for the coming year. Taxes and duties are levied by the States, and these differ considerably from those in the United Kingdom, as the visitor will find to his pleasure.

There is no purchase tax in Guernsey; liquor, petrol and tobacco duties are much lower than in the United Kingdom; there are no surtax, capital gains tax or death duties, and income tax is much less than the British rate:

If there is a meeting of the States while you are in Guernsey, you can go along and listen to the debate from the public gallery. The formalities and voting, carried out in French, underline the Norman origin of the island. The debate, of course, is in English

Justice of the Royal Court

PEOPLE who fall fold of the law in Guernsey (serious crime is comparatively rare) appear before the Royal Court unless their offence is trivial — like a motoring offence — in which case they will be dealt with by the Magistrate's Court in a smaller court-room in the same building. The Royal Court is concerned not only with the trial of criminal offences, but also with civil actions involving legal disputes with citizens.

In both criminal and civil cases those involved can take their cases for retrial, on certain grounds, to local Courts of Appeal.

The President of the Royal Court is the Bailiff, the head of the island's judiciary. There is no jury system in Guernsey; instead, there are 12 Jurats who now constitute, in effect, a permanent jury. Jurats are elected by the States of Election, and election as a Jurat is one of the highest honours Guernsey can confer on her sons [now daughters as well!]. Jurats used to be elected for life, but nowadays there is an age limit, of 75.

Looking around Guernsey 1972 – Part 1

Looking around Guernsey 1972 – Part 1

What makes Guernsey different?

TO MANY UK visitors, the pleasant feeling of being both "abroad" and "at home" is one of the attractions of Guernsey.

They come to the island by sea or air, but have no passport problems. They can buy low-duty cigarettes, drinks, and luxury goods such as perfume at well below the UK price. Yet everyone speaks English, habits and food are much the same as in the UK, and familiar British chain stores and banks line the main shopping centres of St. Peter Port and St. Sampson's.

Nevertheless, Guernsey is "different" in many ways, and visitors often find these differences both fascinating and puzzling. Like the rest of the Channel Islands, Guernsey is part of the British Isles, but unlike Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland, not part of the United Kingdom.

Guernsey has its own government, makes its own laws, fixes its own taxes — and has no representatives in the UK parliament at Westminster. The basis of Guernsey's Constitution is its chosen loyalty to the English Crown. In return, it has been allowed for centuries to go its own way but to export freely into England — and later into the United Kingdom.

 

The Bailiwick of Guernsey includes the smaller Channel Islands of Sark, Alderney, Herm and Jethou, which all acknowledge the Bailiff of Guernsey as their civil head and chief of justice.

As you will see on page 29, however, where these islands are described, they are independent of Guernsey in varying degrees, standing in something of the same sort of relationship to this island as Guernsey stands to England.

According to the 1971 census the island's population then was over 51,000 — and over 35,000 residents were Guernsey-born. Population of the Bailiwick as a whole was over 53,000.

One of the differences here that visitors spot quickly is that street names are in French as well as English. This is because Guernsey was originally Norman-French. Many older islanders are bi-lingual and still speak the Guernsey-French patois of their ancestry, which can also be traced in hundreds of Guernsey family names.

In following pages of this booklet you can discover more about what makes Guernsey different. We have touched lightly on these subjects, because this has been written for visitors who would like to know more about us.

How Guernsey became British

GEOGRAPHICALLY, Guernsey is much closer to France than to England — lying only 30 miles from the Normandy coast as against 80 miles from Weymouth. But when islanders talk about "the main-land", they mean the United Kingdom, to which they are bound by centuries-old ties of sentiment, economics and politics.

How has this allegiance to England rather than to France, the island's closer powerful neighbour, come about?

To answer this question, we have to go back to 1066, when William, Duke of Normandy, landed his conquering army in Sussex and became William I of England. His Duchy of Normandy included the Channel Islands — Les Iles Normandes — and these became part of the combined realm of England and Normandy. A hundred and thirty-eight years later, King John lost most of the Duchy of Normandy, but Guernsey and the other Channel Islands remained loyal to the English Crown.

From that time, the island became a focal point of the strife which was to rage for several hundred years between England and France. The French made many raids on the island and at times established temporary occupation, only to be driven off subsequently by the sturdy islanders, aided by the forces of the English King.

The frequency of these raids led to the mounting of heavy fortifications all round the coast, and the remains of these fortresses can still be seen — silent reminders of Guernsey's stormy history.

During this time, the island developed its own parliamentary institutions and legal system, which survive in modified form today, so that it is really a self-governing, -independent country. Despite the island's long loyalty to the English Crown, it must be remembered that Guernsey's origins are Norman-French, and there are still traces of this early character about its life and people.

The German invasion of the Channel Islands in July 1940 and their occupation for five dreary years by Hitler's troops did more than anything else in Guernsey's history to "anglicise" the island. Thousands of local people were evacuated to the UK, and a generation of children grew up in mainland towns and villages.

Guernseymen are proud of the fact that their fealty to the Crown has been by choice and not by dominion. Indeed, as islanders sometimes good- naturedly point out, Guernsey was part of the land that originally conquered England, so that they can call England their oldest possession.

Our ancient charters  

AT THE top of Smith Street in St. Peter Port is the Royal Court, where the island's parliament meets and where the law courts are held. In one wing of the building is the Greffe or Record Office, and probably the most important documents kept here are the island's old, original charters. The Greffe is open to the public and you can see these treasured documents for yourself.

The charters, renewed on occasion by each succeeding English Sovereign, are the foundation for the special privileges that enable the islanders to fix their own rates of taxation. Further, under the provisions of the Customs and Excise Act, relief from duty on entry into the United Kingdom is granted to such important exports as tomatoes, flowers and cattle.

On a more warlike note, the charters establish that the islanders may not be called upon for military service outside the island except to rescue their sovereign if he is captured by his enemies, or to re¬conquer his kingdom if he is dispossessed of it.

Another interesting document at the Greffe is a copy of the famous Neutrality Bull of Pope Sixtus IV, which was later embodied in the Royal Charters. By the Bull, the Channel Islands "as far as the sight of man goes or the eye of man reaches" was declared a strictly neutral zone.

The Bull was posted for all to read on the cathedrals of Canterbury, London, Salisbury, Nantes, St. Pol de Leon, Treguier and the Church of St. Peter Port. It constituted a very valuable privilege for an island in the favourable trading position of Guernsey, and did not lapse until the reign of William III when privateering became a very popular and highly lucrative occupation.

More Short Stories: One More Step along the World

This week it is a look at "One More Step along the World". I like the way Sydney Carter views faith as an unpredictable journey. Lines like "Round the corners of the world I turn, / more and more about the world I learn" present the Christian life as an open-ended exploration rather than a finished destination. I wanted to contrast this with Bethel & Vineyard songs which lean into a triumphant note where pain, doubt, and suffering are overwhelmingly defeated by a surge of praise.

One More Step along the World

Thomas had slipped into the back pew hoping to disappear. The church was already humming, hands raised, lights low, the worship band building towards another victorious chorus. He had heard this language all morning: breakthrough, victory, claiming the promises, stepping into destiny. It was confident, exuberant, almost defiant. Yet as he sat there, shoulders drawn in, he felt the distance between the room’s triumph and his own inner landscape widen with every beat of the drum. Like his namesake, he saw faith and doubt interwoven through the messy world in which he lived.

The preacher spoke of conquering fear, of marching forward, of living as “overcomers.” People nodded, murmured assent, some stood to receive prayer for boldness. 

Thomas watched, grateful for their sincerity yet unable to join them. His life had not been a march of victories. It had been a slow, uneven walk, through grief, through doubt, through the quiet work of trying to remain faithful when nothing felt simple. His faith was not a blazing fire, but a candle blowing in the wind, yet still a light in the darkness.

He found himself whispering the opening line of “One More Step Along the World I Go”, the hymn he had loved since childhood. He loved the gentle cadence of its first idea, the sense of moving forward not with trumpets but with trust. The hymn’s world was not a battlefield to be won but a road to be walked, hand in hand with a God who travelled beside him rather than pushed him from behind. As the hymn said, “Keep me travelling along with you.”

As the band swelled again, Thomas felt a tightening in his chest. The triumphant approach was beautiful for those who could inhabit it.  But he could not. His faith had never been a shout; it had always been a quiet conversation. He did not need to “claim victory.” He needed companionship. He did not need to “step into destiny.” He needed the next small step.

And he realised, sitting there in the back pew, that this difference was not a failure. He thought of the German theologian Dietrich Bonhoeffer writing in Tegel prison in 1944:

People turn to God in God’s own need,
and find God poor, degraded, without roof or bread,
see God devoured by sin, weakness, and death.
Christians stand with God to share God’s pain.

He remembered the hymn’s humility, the way it asked for guidance rather than guaranteed success, the way it trusted God to be present in the unknown rather than to remove it. That was the Christianity he recognised. Not triumphalism, but pilgrimage. Not certainty, but companionship. Not victory, but perseverance. 

Give me courage when the world is rough,

keep me loving though the world is tough.

The preacher invited the congregation to come forward for prayer and power. This was certainty; this was a known way. But Thomas stayed seated. He felt no judgement, only clarity. This was not his spiritual home. He needed a place where faith was not measured in volume or confidence, where the journey mattered more than the destination, where God was found in the quiet steps rather than the victorious leaps.

He stood slowly, slipping out before the final song began. Outside, the morning was cool, the sky pale with early light. He breathed deeply. The road ahead was still uncertain, but he felt something like peace. 

He thought of the words of King George’s great wartime speech - "Go out into the darkness and put your hand into the Hand of God. That shall be to you better than light and safer than a known way".

On Words and Autism

This poem takes a few words from a well known duet and weaves them into something different. I have always thought of the first few lines "if I had words..." as almost (if seen apart from the song) about autism and the limited nature of language that some autistic people have. The imagery of “crumbs” instead of “bread” evokes scarcity, but also resilience: even fragments nourish. 

It’s a portrait of communication as both struggle and grace, a quiet assertion that meaning can emerge from the smallest utterances. For it is amazing how much they manage to communicate with just those fragmentary words, not structured like you and I speak, but still, miraculously, making their needs known, telling us about the world, and bringing joy to all who hear them.

On Words and Autism

If I had words to make a day for you
I would, but only fragments come
Speech is hard, the words are few
It is not bread but left over crumb

I'd sing you a morning golden and new
And I can sing, remember just so well
Old songs my memory is just so true
New I cannot, but old can always tell

I would make this day last for all time
But time worries me, the days laid out
Each hour, I wait for clock to chime
The pattern sooths, fixed turnabout

I have some words, and precious they
They help me navigate every day

A 1967 Jersey Profile of Three Citizens

JERSEY PROFILE

From 1967, Jersey Life, a Profile of three prominent citizens of Jersey.

CAPTAIN DERECK MORGAN

Captain Dereck Morgan, of Hickling Oak, St. Mary, has been a pilot with the Jersey base of British United for the past seven years, with more than 5,000 flying hours to his credit. Captain Morgan served in the R.A.F. from 1949-1953. He is married with three children, and his hobbies include gardening and home-improvement.

Mr. JOHN AUBREY DAVIES

Mr. Davies has been appointed manager of the St. Helier branch of Barclay's Bank Ltd. as from next month. Born in Aberdare, Glamorganshire, he joined Barclay's in London in 1930. At 54, he is married and has two daughters and a son. He enjoys golfing in his spare time and is a member of several sports and social clubs in the Bournemouth area where he was at one time manager..

Mr. A. J. SCRIVEN (“Jim”)

Jerseyman and Old Victorian, Mr. Striven has for 12 years been in charge of the news desk at the 'Evening Post'. After leaving college he joined the Overseas Trading Corporation Ltd., and for seven years was their travelling representative in the whole of the Mediterranean area with headquarters in Spain. He joined the 'Evening Post' office staff in 1935 and in 1945 became secretary, later Deputy News Editor and took over from Mr. W. Troy in 1955, subsequently being made a director. A founder member and subsequently president of the Sub Aqua Club of Jersey, president of the Jersey Cage Bird Society for 30 years, founder president of the Jersey Sea Cadets Parents' Association, and charter president of the Lions Club of Jersey. Mr. Scriven's chief hobbies are swimming and underwater fishing.

More Short Stories: Morning has Broken: After the Storm

Taken this time juxtaposing Eleanor Farjeon's great hymn to creation's dawn against the backdrop of one the the great storms climate change has unleashed on our world, and drawing on my own memories of the night.

Morning has Broken: After the Storm

Diary Entry — The Night of the Great Storm

“Morning has broken… like the first morning.” I write those words now, though when the storm first rose at dusk, I doubted I would ever see another dawn. For the storm was on.

That Great Storm was upon us as the long night began and increased throughout the night. In the early hours just past midnight, winds reached over 110 miles per hour, a force that felt less like weather and more like a living creature battering the world. The windows shuddered in their frames, each gust a fist against the glass. I could feel the walls vibrating with the gusts of wind. Slates tore from the roof and crashed down like iron hail. The whole building shook, trembling as though it feared what the night might bring. I could imagine colossal speed of the storm as it came bearing down on us.

I lit a single candle. Its flame bent sideways in the draughts, a fragile thing, yet stubborn. “Praise for the singing, praise for the morning,”, I whispered, not as a hymn but as a hope. If morning came, I would praise it indeed.

Hours passed. The storm roared like a creature circling the house, searching for a way in. Sleep was impossible. I sat by the computer, watching the reports unfold in real time. Police warnings. Trees down. Damage to roofs. Fences buckled and broken. Here I could watch, looking at the world being torn apart. The storm colour was an angry red on the weather radar.

I thought of the hymn’s blackbird, singing “like the first bird,” singing at creation’s dawn. Tonight no bird sang. No creature dared. The world belonged only to the wind. This was the uncreation of our world.

Midnight had long gone, and the night wore one. Time had no meaning in the storm’s grip. I felt the hours only as a tightening in my chest, a longing for stillness. The candle guttered low. I feared the roof might lift away entirely. I feared the windows might burst inward. I feared, most of all, that the night would never end. But storms, even great ones, cannot hold the world forever.

Somewhere around four, the wind began to falter. Not stop, just hesitate. The house no longer trembled with every gust. The rain softened from furious sheets to scattered drops. I dared to stand, dared to look out through the warped glass.

A faint grey touched the horizon. The promise of dawn. By five, the storm had spent itself. The sky was bruised and torn, but no longer raging. Dawn crept in shyly, as though afraid to disturb the wreckage. And then, slowly, gently, the first true light broke over the ruined garden, over the fallen trees, over the scattered slates, the broken fencing, as if mighty giants had been trampling through our world, leaving wreckage where their feet trod, and incompleteness where their feet passed.

“Praise for the morning… fresh from the world.” I said it aloud this time. The storm is over. The day has begun. And despite the wreckage, I heard the blackbird start to sing once more. “Praise for the singing, praise for the morning”. We have survived.

A Tropical Heatwave in London

A Tropical Heatwave in London

The air so hot this summer day
Sleep comes poorly in the night
It is now our own inflicted blight
Changing climate comes this way

Baked in a kiln, our human clay
A fragile pot, in fires so bright
The air so hot this summer day
Sleep comes poorly in the night

The wrath of gods is now to stay
Our poor lands all dry in sight
We are cursèd with this blight
A cooler breeze, I pray, I pray
The air so hot this summer day