On an extended weekend in June Ellie and Bruce joined our friend the physician – cabinet maker – salty dog Simon Thompson, two of his sons, and several others, to cross the English Channel and explore the Duke’s domains.
Crossing the Channel – la Manche (“the sleeve”) – always requires some head-scratching about tides, winds and weather. So we left the River Hamble at dusk, motored the shipping lanes of Southampton, heading eastward around the Isle of Wight. We passed the looming bulk of Horse Sand Fort, one of the Palmerston Forts -- a group of forts and associated structures built during the Victorian period as a response to a perceived threat of a French invasion.
Captain Simon made a course for the French port of Cherbourg, 60 miles south, and set the watch. By the time the watches changed, we knew we were in for it: full complements of weather gear, safety harnesses, and a reef in the main were the order of the night. It blew from Force 4 to a full gale all night long and throughout the morning. Most all on board took their turn at the rail, and Ellie appreciated the wisdom of salt crackers and a dry place on desk, well-braced, to view a steady horizon.
Battered, hungry and sleepless, late the next morning Your Intrepid Sailors saw the fortified breakwalls of Cherbourg harbour looming out of the fog and winds. In the Napoleonic era the harbour was fortified to prevent British naval incursions; works began in 1784 and were not concluded until 1850; they saw active military service up through July 1944. The roadstead of Cherbourg is admirably sheltered by the land on every side but the north . The huge northerly breakwater, over 2 miles in length has a width of 65 ft. at its base, is protected by forts, and leaves passages for vessels to the east and west . These passages are guarded by forts placed on islands intervening between the breakwater and the mainland.
We rested, walked the old port streets, consumed local shellfish and wine, and in the morning had a brisk sunny sail ten miles down the coast to the stone beach and protected harbour below Omonville la Rouge.
Taking the inflatable rubber dubbie to shore, we walked up to the village, saw the lovely summer flowers and striking details of local design on houses. We saw the fresh flowers left for the Polish RAF pilot shot down on the shoreline on a summer’s day in 1944. War, defense, and reminders of byegone conflict are everpresent.We hiked the sunken shepherd’s trail up to the top of the rocky outcrop and pondered the wall – how old? Protection by whom and from whom? – and the men who struggled to put it there.
A half-day’s sail further to the west took us across the northwestern cape of the French mainland, where outbound Channel tides rip suddenly south, bringing the unwary navigator down to the Isle of Jersey. But our course was due west to Alderney, the smallest of the Channel Islands, and closest to France. Remember: William was Duke of Normandy before he was King of England.
Alderney is part of the Bailiwick of Guernsey, and all these islands have retained their allegiance to the Duke of Normandy, a title passed through centuries from William to Elizabeth, the current Queen.The Channel Islands mint their own currency, have as much French in their language and culture as English, and offer tax advantages to British capitalists.
What we find is a gritty harbour settlement at Braye Beach: children and dogs running and playing in the grass that overruns the German gun emplacements abandoned in 1944. Alderney was evacuated (by all but six people) just days after France collapsed in June 1940, and was home to a German garrison and camps of Eastern European slave labourers for five years. Centuries of French and English fortifications were overburdened by Nazi prisons and batteries. 
Still, it is a beautiful walk up Le Val hill and (later) strolling down to the sea along Route de Picaterre. Flowers abound, and every structure seems to have some bit of crazy ironwork fru-fru that stands out.
A fortified lookout tower overlooks the public square in St. Anne, the village on a hill. A plaque in the churchyard memorializes sixty unknown Soviet citizens buried nearby. The reminders of a brutal past are everywhere, slowly decaying, and mixed among the lanes, countryside, and tourist bistros.The Bible of Old St. Anne's Church, displayed in a case next to the lectern, was lost in the War, and only re-discovered on Maundy Thursday 1998. It was returned to the Island by the widow of a former Padre to the German Forces stationed in Alderney in 1942. A soldier had brought the Bible to the chaplain (presumably during the clearance of the church) who removed it to Germany after his posting, where it remained in his possession as a treasured part of his library. His widow was anxious to return it before she followed her husband's path, so made the trip to Alderney in the company of her Lutheran Pastor and his wife for that express purpose.
A nice afternoon's wander up the hill and through town found some provisions, and we retired to our sea-going bed & breakfast, had a hearty supper, and weighed anchor as dictated by the tide charts. It was a calm night, with a gentle following breeze, headed very near due North across the channel.
When crossing the paths reserved for the big East-bound freighters, and then the Westers, there are plenty of moving lights to be tracked, and nothing to be taken for granted, as they would not stop or change course to avoid our little wooden boat. As gray dawn grew upon us, the customary English rain came too, and we passed through 'The Needles' (at the western entrance to The Solent) while munching breakfast.
And so we followed William's journey, not to battle and victory at Hastings, but to dry clothes and a shower in Lane End.
