JERSEY: warm port in a storm

A storm was trying hard to upgrade itself to a hurricane when I arrived at the island of Jersey late on a freezing winter night.

In summer the Channel Islands of Jersey, Guernsey and Sark are flooded with sunshine. Tourists are thick as grunion, soaking up sun on the warm sand.

In winter the islands could pass for three polar bears hibernating between England and France. It was so cold that the fountain in the central market had frozen in flight. And it’s indoors .

Staggering ashore after the eight-hour ferry ride from England, I blew along the dark and slippery quay like a scrap of wet paper. I skidded across the Esplanade, the wide waterfront street whose name might fool you into thinking you are in sunny Spain.

Guided by spears of lightning, I puddle-hopped through the lobby of the Royal Yacht Hotel and dripped, like a leaky roof, on 200 years of polished oak floors, while an ancient grandfather clock struck midnight.

A tight-lipped clerk almost as ancient as the clock handed me a room key but didn’t speak. Even Prince Charles probably wouldn’t get a smile, dripping on those floors.

The lobby could have been furnished with borrowed antiques from Buckingham Palace. Inlaid desks, polished tables, paintings, ships under glass, comfortable overstuffed sofas and chairs added up to a perfect antidote to the rain.

A sign scrolled in gold invited visitors to get warm in five bars and eateries. I checked them all.

The handsomest was the Captain’s Cabin. Dark, hand-carved beams arched over the ceiling. Oak-paneled walls and a portrait of Lord Nelson made you feel he had just left. And perhaps he had. If so, he had taken everyone with him.

All the rooms were empty except for the red velvet-draped Victorian Lounge, where a faintly glowing and once-cozy fire was calling it quits. The plump barmaid smiled, put a final rub on a glass, flicked off the lights and said: “Nite, Luv.”

By now I needed many things, maybe a psychiatrist. I was thirsty, hungry, cold and depressed.

I gave it one more try. With a towel over my head I floundered back into the storm and turned along the Esplanade, half-blinded by the spray flying over the sea wall. Thunder and iron shutters on storefronts banged away like a sound track from a D-day movie.

A window with a small glow of light flickered through splatters of rain and hail pinging like bird shot. Overhead, a rusty sign swung wildly in the wind, rattling and clattering. The sign read O Sole Mio. In my heart I lusted for hot lasagna.

The door was locked. Back at the window, I rubbed on the streaky glass. Inside were some tables and two stools at a small bar. Dim light from a thick candle made Halloween shadows dance on the wall.

Then the spot on the window filled with a man’s face. He stared and moved away. The door cracked open. A loud voice carried over the wind. “I’m shut, you know.”

The words didn’t have an Italian accent. Instead, they boomed out in a brogue as thick as porridge. I was told to come in. As I did, the man yelled again that he was shut. Obviously he thought I had a problem, or was crazy.

Once inside he gave a little grin and grunted: “What sort of sights are you expectin’ on a bloody wild night like this?”

Mumbling about a warming drink and some hot food, I stared longingly at the four tables covered with faded red and white checkered tablecloths. Candles were stuck in raffia-wrapped wine bottles, and the drippings turned them into toy volcanoes.

A quick look showed three fake windows painted on the walls, with scenes of sunny fields, spotted cows and some blackbirds sitting on a fence.

An obviously priceless work of art had the place of honor over the bar. It featured strange swirls of light blue crayon. Strange, maybe, but no mistaking what the artist had in mind because the words “Lake Como” were scrawled crudely across the whole canvas. The proud painter had signed, “Maureen Triggs age 7.”

The owner--or whoever he was--watched me. “I’m shut,” he said for the third time. “The kitchen’s closed. The bar’s shut.”

But a bit of kindness was creeping into his voice as he added: “If you ain’t an odd kind of fish to be out in all this weather.”

Another look and he added sympathetically, “I can tell you can use a little mercy--a brandy, perhaps, while I knock the ice off you. My name is Brian Triggs, Irish as in horse.” And with a proud smile he added, “This is me place and that’s me daughter Maureen’s painting of Lake Como. Not bad considerin’ she’s never seen the lake, you know.”

I told Brian it was a good likeness as I watched him pour two generous beakers of brandy. He handed me one and took the other and sat on a stool.

“Actually, it’s a two-stool bar,” he explained. “But it’s really a one-stool bar, as one stool’s mine.”

I was feeling better. I didn’t care what the name Triggs had to do with horse or how Lake Como really looked. I was beginning to feel I was in the presence of a good man.

Scuffed Shoes, Worn Belt

Forget the scuffed shoes and the baggy pants cut too long. The end of his worn belt hung down like a dagger. His thick fisherman’s sweater had holes you could reach through, and his tie had a knot the size of a biscuit.

His head was topped by a shaggy patch of ginger hair that goats could have grazed on. His rugged face had a smile that even the weather couldn’t chill. Brian wasn’t exactly fat, but you could say he was well-covered.

We shared another brandy, and hours later I was still enjoying a reward few travelers are lucky enough to collect. I tucked Brian away with such treasures as my first look at the Matterhorn.

Brian came from Kinsale in County Cork, and I told him I was Irish, too, being raised by grandparents in Belfast. His only reference to me as an enemy, if I was one, was: “We could settle things there in a hurry if we took a little wood to those boys.”

Then his hospitality got the best of him. Flipping a towel over his arm, he quick-changed from bartender to maitre d’ to wine steward to cook to waiter, and ended up a dinner guest.

The fare was simple, a large crock of steaming fish soup as rich and brown as it gets. A big dapple of heavy Jersey cream floated on top. Two side dishes of snappy English mustard and spicy tomato puree added more flavor, if that was possible.

A twist of hot Italian bread loaded with Brie was a perfect dessert. A final treat was “a wee glass of port to sleep by.”

Besides the delicious soup, Brian filled me with Jersey lore. In the last storm a lighthouse keeper was washed away and drowned.

I heard about a local named Allen who has the best fruit stall in the market. He also has a “touched fruit box.” This is a dodge, as the bags are full of fruit as perfect as anything he sells.

The bags only cost 10 pence. Normally, a single orange from Portugal is five times as much. The bargains are for elderly pensioners on a short budget.

I asked why Allen didn’t just give the fruit away? “Ah,” said Brian, “you must understand. If he didn’t charge them somethin’, he would take their pride away.”

A Notorious Export

Brian talked about “Jersey Lily” Langtry, the island’s most beautiful and notorious export. Her romances elevated European gossip to a new high, and peaked with her long friendship with King Edward VII of England.

One of the king’s rivals in fantasyland was Judge Roy Bean of “All the Law West of the Pecos” fame. They never met, but he showed his love by naming a Texas town after her. Lily shared her charms so generously that snobby locals, including her minister father, didn’t exactly toss parades when she came home.

On one trip she got their attention by using a big diamond ring to etch a colorful message on a window of the Imperial Hotel. Her good friend Oscar Wilde must have been proud of how creative she was.

The locals are glad now to claim her as their own. Most agree with one smitten poet: “London society has gone quite silly / Fallen at the feet of the Jersey Lily.”

There was lots more, but at 2 a.m. it was finally time to leave. I thanked Brian and tugged out my wallet. “Put that away,” he said. I protested how grateful I was to be taken in.

Brian cut me off with his big smile. “Why don’t we just say we’re a couple of lucky Irishmen with nothin’ to quarrel about.” I headed back to the hotel to dream good dreams.

The storm felt more like a soft summer wind as I remembered Brian’s last words: “Perhaps, once a long time ago, one of your ancestors gave one of my ancestors a potato.”