Jamestown - by Tricia Hayne
For most – bar the occasional invading army – first footfall on the island has been at Jamestown, a tiny, well-preserved Georgian town at the foot of towering cliffs that is the island’s capital. Like us, they’ve walked along the harbourfront, crossed the moat and passed through the town gates onto the Grand Parade – where centuries of British soldiers have mustered for duty.
An extraordinary rock, where every corner turned is another scene revealed.
The sense of history may be palpable, but it’s all very low key. Far more obvious is the welcome. Passing strangers smile and say hello. Women in the St Helena Coffee Shop sit and chat. Car drivers wave as we pass on the scarily steep and narrow roads heading out of Jamestown – for the only way is up.
Up into the aftermath of a turbulent volcanic past that gave birth to this extraordinary rock, where every corner turned is another scene revealed. And so we explore – from the bare, forbidding cliffs that, fortress like, ring the island to the high peaks clothed in green plants found nowhere else on Earth.
We head into the verdant Sane Valley where Napoleon was entombed nearly 200 years ago. Past wavy rocks painted in every hue of brown, cream and deep red. Beneath jagged outcrops – King and Queen, Lot, the Gorilla’s Head – that gaze down on the waters crashing far below.
There are walks across rolling meadows to the sea, punctuated by the unique but rather unprepossessing wirebird as it picks its way across the fields. We climb up steep hills through pinewoods rich with the scent of resin and scramble down vertiginous valleys to otherwise inaccessible coves.
Aided by ropes, we make our way across barren rocks to sea ponds watched over by Lot’s Wife, where the crystal-clear water reveals brilliant green and silver fish darting around as we swim.
Beneath the waves the world feels more ordered, for – despite its size – it’s easy to get lost on St Helena. Snorkelling off the wharf, we’re enfolded by pretty gold-fringed cunningfish, which seem to find us as attractive as the fishermen’s spoils.
More of them accompany us at Lemon Valley Bay, where we’ve kayaked for a swim, while diving deeper, we spot turtles, spiny lobsters and moray eels among the jumble of rocks and colourful ledges.
Scores of pan-tropical spotted dolphins practise acrobatics, oblivious to the oohs and aahs and clicks of our camera shutters.
Out in the bay, scores of pan-tropical spotted dolphins practise their acrobatics, oblivious to the oohs and aahs and clicks of our camera shutters. In winter, humpback whales make their way to these shores, and in summer there are whale sharks – though we’re told they’ve moved on.
So it’s with pulses racing that we watch the large black dorsal fin heading our way, signalling the arrival of the world’s largest fish. Fleetingly, the eight-metre giant surfaces alongside our fishing boat with scarcely a ripple; we slip into the water, but then – with never a backward glance at our feeble attempts to keep up – it’s gone.
