Have you ever been homesick for a place you’ve never technically lived? For me, that place is Sark. A tiny, rocky plateau floating in the English Channel, stepping foot on its shores is like stepping back in time.
There are no cars on Sark — no motorised vehicles at all except for the multifunctional tractors that pull the agriculture industry, the ambulance, and the fire engine. Instead, tourists and the 500ish locals get around by bike, on foot, and via the handful of horse-drawn carriages. Its steep cliffs cascade down (sometimes literally) into crystal clear, azure waters unmarred by pollution, and its stars glow vividly in a pitch-black sky that has never been diluted by the glare from a lamppost.
Every May between the ages of 5 and 18, Sark was an adventure playground for my sister and me. With a level of freedom unimaginable at home, we were allowed to wander far and explore, free from the mainland dangers of cars and crime. Like the protagonists of an Enid Blyton novel, we passed heady weeks in a haze of rockpools, sea swimming and ice cream. From dawn till dusk we biked around the island, flying at full speed down hilly dirt roads, whooping with exhilaration, both of us determined to be the last to squeeze the brakes. After I went to university, family holidays faded into the background, and over a decade passed before I was to set foot on those beautiful shores again.
Sark has a unique history. Though the island has likely been inhabited since the Stone Age, the current iteration of settlement began in 1565, when Jersey nobleman Helier DeCarteret was granted the land by Queen Elizabeth I. DeCarteret became the first ruler — or Seigneur — and divided the island between 40 families, creating tenements which still exist today. Though technically part of the United Kingdom, Sark is a self-governing, fiercely independent island, and was the last feudal state in Europe until democracy arrived in 2008.
The intervening years had not been easy on Sark, with the community rocked by tumultuous politics and unwanted billionaire interference. The owners of nearby private island Brecqhou had been gradually trying to increase their influence on the community and its government, buying up businesses and even attempting to purchase the island itself from the Seigneur. Pushback from the islanders resulted in reactionary closures of several Brecqhou-owned businesses, abandoned shops and hotels, and substantial job losses.
I had kept up to date with the news from the island, and so there was a certain amount of trepidation mixed in with the excitement when my parents suggested a family trip for the summer of 2023. There is a danger in revisiting places you used to adore. The eyes of an adult don’t always see through the same rose tints of a child. The magic might be gone, the nostalgia not enough to keep the dream alive. Would the real thing still bring me the same joy and tranquillity as it did in my memories? Or would returning leave me disappointed?
From the second I jumped off the ferry, the worry dissipated. As always, we bypassed the tractor-pulled trailer (affectionately known as the ‘toast rack’) that carts passengers up the steep harbour hill, setting off up the lush green footpath instead. With every step through the sub-tropical foliage and burgeoning wildflowers, I could feel the mainland melt away, along with all the stresses and pressures of my adult life. By the time we strolled into the courtyard of the cycle hire shop to pick up our rental bikes, I could have been 13 again. I hadn’t ridden a bike in years, but the old saying is true, even if the firm seats are a lot less forgiving on a 33-year-old bum than a teenager’s.
So many things hadn’t changed. The deep, clear water of the hidden Venus Pool – briefly uncovered twice a day at low tide – was still icy and breathtaking as we leapt into it, shrieking in delight. The sunbaked rocks of Derrible Bay still warmed us as we waited for the tide to uncover its perfect white sand. Huge colonies of noisy seabirds still honked at us while we scrambled around the outcrops of Port du Moulin to do our mandatory exploration of the mysterious old shipwreck tossed up on the rocks over 100 years earlier. Tree branches still twined together as we cycled under them, turning packed-dirt roads into fantastical lush, green tunnels. These old friends who saw my sister and me grow up still welcomed us warmly, even after so many years away.
Nothing stays the same forever though. Some changes were exciting; the new dairy, with its 24-hour milk vending machine prompted multiple late-night milkshake trips, and several interesting new shops had sprung up on the Avenue — the one shopping street and the island’s ‘capital’. However, ghosts of restaurants and abandoned souvenir shops once magnets for my pocket money studded the street too. An element of bittersweetness and a reminder of the island’s recent history, though recent investments by the Seigneur promise to rejuvenate the parts of the island affected by the Brecqhou legacy.
I made sure to buy as many locally-made items as possible, filling my suitcase with handmade silver jewellery, local art and most importantly, the delicious artisan chocolate made from the rich milk of the island cows, justifying my splurging as my small contribution to the local economy.
Our final day arrived too soon, and as we sat on the harbour wall waiting for the ferry, I had time to contemplate this beautiful island. Had this experience lived up to my childhood memories, or had the dream slipped away somewhere in the last decade? As the boat arrived, disgorging its cargo of day trippers and locals’ supplies, I knew without a doubt that I would be back again.
Even after all this time, my heart still belongs to Sark.
