
The steps down from the clifftop were many and steep, but Portelet Bay, on Jersey’s south coast, was worth each one.
I had deliberated long and hard over which beach to visit on my last day in Jersey, before taking a ferry on to Guernsey.
I was happy with my choice.
In fact, I was happy with all my choices. It was early summer and I had fancied that most summery of trips — island-hopping. But I didn’t want to travel too far. So, rather than jetting to far-flung parts, I caught ferries around the Channel Islands instead, hoping for a similar castaway feel without the flying, but still with a smidgen of "foreign".
Over my four-day stay, I focused on Jersey’s edges, which are variously sandy, dreamy, dramatic, history-laden and superbly strange.
They are also protected.
In 2011, after a groundswell of protest against insensitive developments, Jersey National Park was formed, encompassing most of the island’s coast.

It includes east coast Archirondel, where I scoffed seafood caught by the owners of the lovely Driftwood Cafe.
And it includes Plemont, in the far northwest, where a mistimed visit meant I found arguably the island’s most beautiful bay devoured by the waves.
From St Helier, it took only an hour to sail to Guernsey, the second-largest Channel Island.
To investigate, I hired an e-bike. It’s the ideal way to get around this three 5km-by 6km island. Making forays from my hotel at Grand Havre Bay, I kept getting lost in the spaghetti of ruettes tranquilles (quiet lanes) that squiggle via steep contours, high hedges and sign-less junctions. But if you take it as an adventure, and don’t worry where you end up, it’s a lovely way to get around.
It’s how I got to L’Eree, where I basked in sunshine below a huge concrete Dalek, part of the largest German army gun battery built on the Channel Islands.
From here, I gazed wistfully to Lihou — alas, the 400m-long causeway to this teeny isle was cut off by the tide.
Lihou remained off-limits throughout my stay, but I had more success hopping to Sark.
It’s an hour’s ferry ride from Guernsey’s capital St Peter Port, but several centuries back in time.

I hired a bike to explore.
It was a jolly escapade from a bygone age. I abandoned the bike at will, leaving it leaning on fences while I strolled wild clifftops, waded through paths thick with daisies, dipped down to secret coves and searched out ancient dolmens, abandoned mines and redundant cannons — surely all plot points from a Famous Five adventure?
The wind was angry, frothing the sea and tossing the gulls.
It wasn’t really beach-lazing weather, but my top pick was Derrible Bay.
Like all of Sark’s beaches it’s a bit of a trek to get there, and I found it consumed by high tide.
But I sat happily on a ledge above, watching the waves fizz around the rocks and lick at the sea caves.
There are several places to stay on Sark, but I headed back to Guernsey, in order to make my final hop before sailing homeward: to tiny, perfect Herm, where even bicycles aren’t permitted. With each new island my world had shrunk.
I’d come to the Channel Islands as a quicker, greener alternative to more desirable far-flung places, but now floating in this joyous turquoise, I found there wasn’t anywhere I’d rather be.