GUERNSEY

"We're close in now," remarked a passenger. "In a few minutes you'll hear the bell on Castle Cornet. The watchman strikes it every time a ship comes in sight. A hundred and fifty years ago, when the townspeople heard it they would catch up their arms and prepare to fight off a French invasion, but nowadays it just lets them know that their London morning papers will be in soon."

We waited; then came the clear, sharp note of a bell, struck once. As if that sound signaled the raising of a curtain, the fog lifted and sunshine glittered on the wet decks. St. Peter Port lay dead ahead.

Houses, churches, and shops, huddled closely together, covered the steep slope leading from the water front. The grim old fortress of Castle Cornet, just off our port bow, was mellowed by age and by the late afternoon sun.

Silently, slowly, we glided into the harbor through the narrow entrance. Men in rowboats caught the thick mooring ropes and towed them to the jetty, and with a grinding and whirring of winches we were drawn gently alongside. Friends greeted smiling friends, derricks lifted crates of luggage from the hold and deposited them on the dock. Taxis crept away at the eight-mile-an-hour gait prescribed by law for vehicles on the "White Rock," as the jetty is called.

While I had tea I looked out my hotel window at the crowded harbor. Hundreds of yachts and tiny boats lay at anchor, snowy gulls dipped and soared above the blue water, the steamer which brought me over backed out slowly and resumed her journey to Jersey. The little islands of Herm, Jethou, and Sark lay just beyond, blue-black against the horizon. Not even the dozens of automobiles plodding to and fro in the street beneath could destroy the tranquil beauty of the scene.

In the morning I conquered the temptation to wander long through the cobbled streets of the town. There were two tasks to perform: first, the registration of my passport, and, second, the discovery of a farmhouse where I could live during the summer. The first proved easy, for the courteous official was so pleasant that I did not even mind being classed as an "alien." I had the name of a farmhouse if I could only find my way there.

Several policemen stood outside head-quarters. "Can you tell me how to get to Les Grantés Farm, in Catel?" It seemed a simple question, but the discussion which followed showed me that it would be anything but easy to make my own way there.

After they had suggested and rejected various routes, one turned to me. "My name is Bull, sir. I'm going out that way presently, and if you don't mind a motorbike I can take you to Les Grantés on the pillion."

Five minutes later we chugged through the narrow, winding streets of St. Peter Port and headed for the open country. Officer Bull leaned forward, our speed increased, and I clutched his belt tighter as we swung round a sharp curve. Left-hand driving along narrow roads, I found, had many thrills. Under the circumstances, conversation was difficult.

"Just come from America?" bellowed the policeman over his shoulder, expertly threading his way between two carts. "Had an uncle go there once-never heard of him again."

We roared along between two high stone walls.

"Seen our little church yet, smallest in the world?"

"No!" I shouted.

We swung in a wide arc, turned in at a lane and dismounted at the gates of Les Vauxbelets Monastery, in St. Andrew's Parish.

Inside the tiny chapel there was barely room to stand without touching each other. The walls were a gay-colored mosaic.

"What are they made of?" I asked.

"Bits of broken plates and cups and crockery," was the surprising reply. "Some-times visitors leave broken dishes in the…”