There is something rather pleasant about walking along one of Guernsey’s cliff paths and exchanging a simple ‘Morning’ with somebody you’ve never met before. Neither of you stops, introductions aren’t necessary and there’s a possibility you won’t see each other again, but for a brief moment two strangers acknowledge one another before continuing in opposite directions.
If you walked through the centre of a large city greeting every person coming towards you, I suspect it wouldn’t be long before somebody gave you a slightly concerned look. Yet on a quiet stretch of Guernsey coastline, it seems perfectly natural. In fact, it can almost feel more unusual when somebody passes without saying anything. It’s one of those little things about island life that we probably don’t think about very often.
Having lived and worked in Guernsey since 1983, I’ve come to realise that some of the things which give a place its character aren’t the things that appear in tourist brochures. Of course, we have our beaches, cliffs and wonderful views, but a community is shaped just as much by hundreds of small encounters that happen every day and are quickly forgotten.
Someone holds a door open for you. A driver lets you into a busy line of traffic and receives the customary raised hand in return. The person behind the counter remembers what you usually order. Somebody stops in town to ask how the family is. You go into the supermarket for a loaf of bread and emerge 20 minutes later because you’ve met three people you know. That last one may be particularly Guernsey.
One of the advantages – and occasionally one of the disadvantages – of living on a small island is that anonymity can be difficult to achieve. If you’ve lived here for any length of time, the chances are that wherever you go you’ll recognise somebody. And if you don’t know them personally, there’s a reasonable possibility that after a few minutes’ conversation you’ll discover somebody you both know. The famous ‘six degrees of separation’ must surely be nearer two in Guernsey. I rather like that.
It doesn’t mean we’re all close friends, nor does it mean Guernsey is somehow immune from the pressures affecting communities elsewhere. We’re busy, our lives have changed and technology means we can quite easily spend a considerable part of the day interacting with people without actually meeting anybody. However, underneath all that, I think there remains something valuable about the way islanders acknowledge one another.
Perhaps it’s partly because we’re surrounded by water. There is a physical boundary to our community which most places don’t have, and although thousands of people arrive and leave by air and sea every week, there is still a sense that we’re sharing this relatively small piece of land together. You notice it particularly when something unusual happens.
A storm arrives, the airport closes or the ferries are cancelled and suddenly everybody is talking about the same thing. Snow, on the rare occasions we get it, seems capable of turning adults into children and neighbours into emergency response teams. Roads close, plans change and somebody inevitably knows somebody with a four-wheel drive who can help.
Perhaps communities reveal themselves most clearly when normal life is interrupted. Community isn’t only demonstrated during storms or emergencies. Most of the time it’s much quieter than that.
It’s the person who takes a neighbour’s bin in because they’re away. It’s noticing that somebody who normally walks past your house every morning hasn’t appeared for a few days. It’s the shop assistant who asks after your wife or husband because they haven’t seen them recently. It’s the person who waves you through at a junction even though, strictly speaking, it’s their right of way.
None of these things will make the Guernsey Press, but I wonder whether they tell us more about the health of a community than we sometimes realise.
Since taking up running, I’ve noticed this in another setting. Runners have an odd habit of acknowledging one another. It may only be a raised hand or a slightly breathless ‘Morning’, but there is an immediate sense of shared experience. The person coming towards you might be considerably faster, younger and fitter, but for that moment you’re both simply people out for a run.
I’ve also discovered that the same greeting can become increasingly economical depending on how steep the hill is. A cheerful ‘Good morning!’ on the flat becomes ‘Morning’ halfway up a climb and eventually deteriorates into a raised eyebrow when conversation requires more oxygen than is currently available. Yet the acknowledgement remains.
I wonder whether we’ve underestimated the importance of these tiny interactions. We naturally think of relationships in terms of family, friends and colleagues, but much of our everyday life is spent among people we barely know – the person serving our coffee, the receptionist at an appointment, or the person we see walking their dog. They form the background to our lives, and perhaps those passing connections matter more than we imagine.
Guernsey is changing, of course, as every community does. People arrive from different parts of the world, bringing new experiences, cultures and traditions with them, while younger islanders leave to study or work and sometimes return years later with a different perspective on home. I don’t think preserving community means trying to freeze the island at some imagined point in the past. Guernsey has always changed and will continue to do so. The more interesting question is what we choose to carry forward with us.
I’d like to think that one of those things might be the simple habit of acknowledging each other. Not because saying ‘Morning’ to a stranger will solve any of the larger challenges facing the island. It won’t build houses, improve public finances or reduce the cost of living. However, communities aren’t created only through policies, buildings and institutions. They’re also created in the countless small ways we tell other people, often without consciously thinking about it, ‘I see you. You’re part of this place too.’
Perhaps that’s why the greeting on the cliff path matters. It’s only a word, sometimes accompanied by a smile or nod, and within seconds both people have moved on with their day. Yet for that brief moment there has been a connection between two people who know nothing about one another except that, on this particular morning, they happen to be sharing the same path on the same small island.
So, the next time somebody you don’t know says ‘Morning’ as you pass them, say it back. Better still, perhaps you could be the one who says it first. I’d hate us ever to become the island that stopped saying hello.
Nigel Pascoe has lived and worked in Guernsey for over 40 years. A writer and speaker, he enjoys exploring the people, places and everyday moments that make island life unique. Through Island Reflections, he shares thoughtful observations on community, modern life and the stories that connect us all.
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