You may have seen my photos from here multiple times over the years. Le Jaonnet Bay, beneath Guernsey’s south coast cliffs, beckons me each winter to be tested physically, inspired creatively and perhaps cleansed spiritually. South-facing and shrouded by towering cliffs, Le Joannet only sees the warm light of sunset during winter months when the sun is at its most southerly. A small beach at the end of the world, ruled by nature at her most brutal and sublime.
Access becomes increasingly difficult once you leave the main cliff path - the steps get steeper until you reach a vertical steel ladder, which delivers you onto slippery rocks and boulders at the head of the beach. When I say ‘slippery’, I mean ‘potentially deadly’. Good footwear is essential and even then you must consider your every step. One time I slipped and broke my big toe, making the return climb, which is ordinarily difficult, almost impossible - I dread to think what it would have been like with a worse injury. Each year my body struggles a little more to reach these places, particularly the return journeys which now require the wearing of knee-supports, which do what they can to ease the pain. The photographic equipment I carry is always being downsized to help minimise weight. I have been soaked to the skin countless times by rain and sea here, forced to shelter under rocks from freezing hail storms, endured gale-force winds easily capable of blowing the unwary straight off the cliff path and avoided rockfalls with boulders the size of trucks. Why then, do I continue taking this yearly pilgrimage to such a hostile place?
I have tried in vane to think of a word that suitably describes the feeling that Le Jaonnet invokes in me. At its best and worst the place is bleak, ferocious, exciting, serene, stunningly beautiful and beautifully frightening …it is all of these things and more, at any one time and in any combination. I am inexplicably drawn to this beach year after year because it fascinates me. In a storm it conjures childlike fantasies of shipwrecks and pirates and on calmer days, perhaps desolate serenity. It is nature at its most natural, raw and unforgiving. It frequently punishes me but even on the rare occasion I leave without a photograph, it always rewards me deeply somehow.
There is often a quality of light here that I rarely experience elsewhere. A clarity and intensity that is difficult to define. It’s somehow warmer, clearer, more saturated and crisp… A similar quality is described by artists drawn to St Ives in Cornwall. Some attribute the special light there to its transmittance through clear water, reflecting off a light sandy seabed. Perhaps Le Jaonnet shares similar geographical properties, enhanced uniquely by the towering green-gold-brown cliffs that surround it.
I reach the beach an hour or so past low-tide with a clear blue sky above. Below the rocky rim lies a pristine sandy beach without a single footprint - I round the bay across the boulders so as not to mark it with any of my own - a regular habit of mine. Behind me, a small waterfall sprays down the cliff edge, usually only functioning after heavy rainfall. Its water filters beneath the rocks and exits on the sand, creating rivulets in it before entering the sea. Near the low tide mark on the far end of the beach I find my first scene, where the rivulet widens, met by incoming waves. By the time I’m set up, clouds have quickly formed, obstructing the low winter sun which had previously lit the cliffs in the background and rendered a bright golden rim on the edges of the rivulet. I would shoot anyway as the approaching tide washes across the flat sand. A particularly large wave pushes in while I’m busy setting the camera, right up the rivulet past me and over its edges, giving me my first soaking of the day from the knees down. This shifts my tripod but I’m able to level it again and take the shot you see here, the edges of the rivulet having been rounded by the receding wash.
With the tide rising quickly, I move further up the bay following the rivulet toward its source whilst being careful not to disturb the pristine sand. Often its best to walk in it when there aren’t suitable rocks to step on and with my shoes already soaked, there is no reason not to. I eventually find a strong composition where the water meanders around large boulders directly toward the sun, which was shining rays of light through gaps in the thickening cloud. A difficult photograph to take technically with the brightest part of the sky in frame against the deepest shadows of the rocks. Bracketing my shots I’m able to capture the full range of brightness in the scene for combining into a single image later.
Moving toward the centre of the bay chased by the relentless tide, everything suddenly changes. The increasing cloud unleashes a heavy shower soaking me in seconds. My priority is to ensure the camera’s safety and, shielding it with my body against the worst of the weather, I wipe frantically to keep the lens clear, but the rain is just too heavy. I glance up at the cliffs, which are bathed in a truly stunning light I have rarely seen before. Rain is teeming down on me from above but the sun has crept beneath the cloud, beaming bright golden light horizontally through the rain and across the landscape. The cliffs reflect back with a green hue that combines into an almost unnatural yellow bathing the whole area. With rain still lashing down, I attempt a handheld shot simply to document the bizarre light but to no avail and, as it fades, I kick myself for not simply just standing here and experiencing the incredible light show.
The rain quickly stops and sunset approaches though a widening gap as the heavy cloud passes overhead. I frantically clean my lens then find a rather hasty composition with some foreground rocks, the bright sun just out of frame camera-right scattering deep golden light through the moisture-filled air. I make my final shot as yet another wave covers the sand and provides my third soaking of the day - by now I’m drenched from head to toe.
With the sun almost set and the tide now covering the stones at the top of the beach, it’s past time to move back toward the ladder and dry land. The sky quickly becomes cloudless again, as it was when I arrived and I experiment with a shot where the waves are framed between two large rocks, the low sun flaring behind the left and reflecting on the right, but it’s too contrasty for a pleasing photo. Back up the ladder and looking east, a dramatic rocky outcrop, separated from land by a deep channel, bears the full force of the incoming swell. Just in time to catch the last light of the setting sun, I photograph the scene as the waves crash into the rocks, before packing away and readying myself for the tiring walk up.
Why am I so drawn to this place? For all of these reasons and others I perhaps still can’t easily define. This was a typical visit to Le Jaonnet with its wildly changing weather, stunning light and beautiful pristine scenery. Regardless of the obligatory drenching and knee pain, when winter arrives and the sun sinks south, I will continue to repeat my pilgrimage to this special place for as long as my legs will allow.
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Comments 1
I’m painting at the moment .. pictures of Guernsey scenes…also Le Jaonnet.. but was searching for the meaning of the title..Le Jaonnet, but unsuccessfully. Your article has inspired me to have a walk there next time I’m in Guernsey..I live in Copenhagen..
Best regards Jocelyn