A GUERNSEY MEMORY By Keith R. Poulloin. The cry of gulls in early morn, the fog horn sounding off the horn ,the splash of childrens seaside play, The wondrous smell of fresh mown hay. Once born upon these golden shores, the sea air in your very pores, the smell of salt, and seaside wrack, all memories of Guernsey make. The old market place within the town, fresh fish and meat and local sounds. The Patois spoken, quick and skilled, as weekly shopping lists were filled. Friendly banter back and forth, “Waddo mate” a common call. “Hows the missus and the kids”? “Not bad old mate, I think Ill keep em”, a crafty wink to seal the teasing. Sunday picnics on Lancresse common, the food and drink so good and grand. A swim and play with Woopie Boards before the rounders game was planned. Hide and seek amongst the bracken, big Blackberries we had taken, these joyous days forever etched into our minds of a time less stressed. Guernsey Cows, eyes soft and dreamy, Producing milk so rich and creamy. Butter and cream famous for its taste, none quite like it, none goes to waste. Swatting flies their only chore. Along the lanes with no real haste, herded to the farm faw shaw. Swimming with your mates on many a sandy beach, or jumping off the diving boards and bragging of your feats. The endless summers warm and sunny days, that seemed just made to have such fun, or just to simply hang around and laze. Born here and called Donkey as we are also known, is to have a pride and deep contentment of times we shared alone. The Island that we love, may love us in return, with its peaceful lulling memories of just being born a Guern. Like a Limpet or an Ormer taken at low tide, a displaced Guern will always have a longing deep inside. To one day return to where his soul resides, that little piece of paradise called Sarnia, the isle of sun and tides.
Posted on: Thu, 01 May 2014 16:06:27 +0000
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