I was twenty-one and some months more, for the rejoicings consequent upon the event had become matter of past history, when my father one day received intelligence of one of his fishing vessels having been towed in a disabled state into the harbour of St. Peter Port, Guernsey.  She was so badly damaged that his presence was imperative, to decide as to her ultimate fate.

She had been to a Spanish port for cork and hemp, as the fishing season was not a very good one, and on her return voyage had run upon an island called Jethou, during a dense fog, luckily in a calm sea, or she would never have come off whole again.  Nothing ever does when it once plays at ramming these granite islands.  Like the Syrens, who lured or tried to lure Ulysses, these islands are very fair to behold; but woe to the ship that comes into contact with them, for they rarely escape from their deadly embrace.

The very next day (my father having allowed me to accompany him) we started for Plymouth, a long journey, via London, at which city, being my first visit to the metropolis, I could fain have broken our journey, but our business being urgent we steamed away to Plymouth by the night train.  After a substantial meal next morning we sallied out to find the first vessel sailing to Guernsey, and were lucky in discovering one called the “Fawn,” which was preparing to sail the same day.  Although only a cargo ketch the skipper bargained to take us, and about two p.m. we unmoored and were soon off.  Our passage was a quick one, a strong N.W. wind bowling us over to St. Peter Port in time for early breakfast next morning.

It is needless for me to go through the whole story of the running ashore of our smack, as beyond the important fact that it was her mishap which caused me ever to visit the Channel Islands, she has little else to do with my narrative.

She was damaged very seriously amidships, but my father, who had a happy knack of turning almost everything to a good account, unless irredeemably hopeless, was struck with a capital idea in this instance.  Instead of selling her as a worthless hulk, he had her cut in two, the damaged timbers removed, a new length of keel laid down, and had her lengthened about ten feet; after which operation she was as sound as ever, and as my father had prophesied, no one recognized her again for the same vessel.

While we were waiting for the “Kittywitch” (for that was her name) to be run off the slips, we had plenty of time to look about us; in fact, we spent nearly seven weeks among these lovely islands.

We explored Guernsey and Sark thoroughly, also Herm as far as we were allowed, that island being more of a proprietary place than the others.  We also spent about ten days in Jersey, which is quite a large place in comparison with the other islands.  But of all the islands, I think Sark carries off the palm, not that it has beauties of its own, or is grander or more prolific, but it is an epitome of all the other islands; in fact it contains in a small space every salient feature of the Channel Isles; the people, the granite cliffs, the bays, the caves, the hills, the woods, the shady lanes, the sandy beaches, are all there, and the surrounding sea is not a tone the less blue in its intensity, nor the air a whit less balmy than that with which the other islands are favoured.