Everyone I met, everything I saw in Sark: Part I (Artist Date #6)

Writing, swimming and talking on the Isle of Sark!

I’m writing about my weekly creative adventures. They’re inspired by Julia Cameron’s book The Artist’s Way. “An Artist Date is a tool for attention,” she says. “A solo expedition to do something that enchants or interests you.” These dates, I hope, are a way to replenish my energy, gather new ideas, feel braver in the world.

In June, I visited the Isle of Sark in the Channel Islands to write, lead a workshop, and give a reading from my book. I treated the experience as a extended artist date. Hooray! With grateful thanks to Creative Sark for the kind invitation.

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Tuesday

At the check-in counter

“I shouldn’t have favourites,” you say approvingly from behind the counter, “but you have a very nice seat on the plane.” You laugh and I feel quietly proud. It’s been a while since I travelled alone and the version of me that you’re passing the passport to is one I’m trying on for size and hoping still fits. Here I am: brave, calm, good company. You tag my suitcase with a sticker then give it a little tap before it glides away.

On the plane

During the flight, you and I quietly read, but as soon as the plane descends, we both turn to the window. Waves push against Guernsey’s coast, green fields and farms come into view. Toy houses and cars grow larger. The whole island seems startling, luminous, glowing. You say, “Just look at it!” For five days you’ll walk alone around the island. Overnight in hotels, luggage transported from place to place. You’ve never done anything like this. Women of your generation didn’t and you never thought you could. Boots tied tight, multi-pocket cross-body bag zipped. You are ecstatic.

Guernsey Airport toilets

All the women from the plane wait in the toilet queue. Near the front, a few of us squeeze in the space, obstructing the sink. You say you’re very worried that people will leave the cubicles and not wash their hands. Your eyes dart around, so I reassure you that they wouldn’t dare with this large audience. You tell me you always clean your hands for thirty seconds. You wish other people would too. I feel the tender joy I always experience when I hear people’s little habits. A friend had sighed at me recently, wondering why I wanted to know tiny details of her week. She did not want to share if her bus was late, how many towels she owned or the number of people in her pottery class. I’m just curious, I’d said, defensive. I like knowing the ordinary things that make up other people’s lives. Now, in the queue, I have this thought in my mind. It’s an act of care, I feel, to ask someone about their life and then listen to what they say. All of life is contained in these small details. I turn back to you, nervous and still awaiting a cubicle, and ask about the soaps you use at home. You love the scent of lavender, you love the scent of rose. I tell you I do too.

On the ferry, St Peter’s Port

We stand on the deck and you tell me you saw peregrine falcons in Guernsey. You and your wife are delighted. She has dark hair and binoculars around her neck. You have a low voice and nod a great deal. “We love birding,” you say. I listen and think that birding is a great noun. To be bird-like. Patient, noticing, cautious. I remember Jenny Odell’s book How to Do Nothing. A keen birder, she writes that you can’t force a bird to identify itself to you. “All you can do is walk and wait until you hear something, and then stand motionless under a tree trying to use your animal senses to figure out where and what it is.” When she does, time stops. I say that birds make minutes feel different: slower, ancient. You agree, it’s the stillness of birding you love. We talk more as the ferry starts to move, leaving a bright white swell of water behind us.

On the toast-rack, Sark

We arrive. From the boat, everyone walks through a tunnel to the bottom of Harbour Hill. “Aye-aye,” you call to us all and we wave. You have a grey beard and stand beside the an open-sided tractor-bus, known as the ‘toast-rack’. It’s low to the ground, decorated with fluttering Sark flags. We crowd onto seats, a man comments on the warm weather, someone asks about someone else everyone knows. I think about what awaits me on this island three miles long, two miles wide. No streetlights, no cars. We’ll travel by foot, bicycle or horse and cart. Except the doctor who, I hear, uses a small tractor to visit patients. The route up is steep, edged with high hedges and tall trees. Beside us, the sea. Above us, a blue, blue sky.