THE ingenuity of man has seen our species walk on the moon, split the atom and eradicate many deadly diseases, yet time and again we succumb to forces beyond our control.

Last week all it took was a flock of birds, nonchalantly flying around Normandy, too preoccupied to notice a few cables stretched across their path and bingo – the lights go out.

And not just the lights, but also everything that depends on electrical power. What a humbling experience it was to realise that we are not masters of our destiny.

As life returned to normal when the power was restored, we effortlessly slipped back into our technology-dominated lives without a second thought. Which is a shame, because our pampered society has sunk into a perpetual state of taking everything granted. Instead of moaning about being deprived of our ‘toys’, we should take the power cuts as a salutary lesson of our fallibility.

Being an aficionado of the disaster movie genre, and having recently watched yet again Stephen Spielberg’s excellent adaptation of probably my favourite novel, HG Wells’s War of the Worlds, my first reaction was to pop outside and make sure we were not under attack from little green men in flying saucers.

What struck me the most was the silence. Notwithstanding the distant hum of traffic, deprived of their life-blood, all the other machines on this little rock were out of action – including the many forms of lighting that blight the night sky as intrusively as unwelcome noise.

Each time I hear a beloved politician, or one of those currently courting our favour so they can jump on the gravy train, speak of increasing lighting to improve security, I want to scream. The last thing this Island needs is even more street and security lights.

What is the fascination with bathing every public space, housing estates and rural developments in light from dusk to dawn? Whereas authorities worldwide are cutting lighting to reduce carbon footprints and save money, we can’t seem to get enough of it.

The most annoying of all are private lighting systems employed by insecure householders so afraid of the dark that they cannot sleep soundly in their beds without illuminating their homes – and their neighbours’ – like some national monument. Get a night-light or therapy and give the rest of us a peaceful dark night.

The balmy nights that have at last descended over the Island have created the conditions whereby noise travels farther. What some may find intrusive can be as reassuring a comfort blanket, dogs barking in the distance, a church clock sounding the hour, or even the rare occurrence of traffic.

The Indian summer has not just brought hot weather without the discomfort of the excessive heat of high summer, it has in my case (and no doubt for others) rekindled memories of summers past. Such recollections come in familiar sounds and smells, warm nights slept with curtains and windows wide open until the glorious glow and hope that only an autumnal sunrise can bring. There is no better time of the year to be alive.

I found myself pondering life, the universe et al as I floated in what has to be one of Jersey’s best-kept secrets, a large natural pool in the inter-tidal reaches off the east coast. I shall not be any more precise, as such secrets are best kept.
Last weekend I shared its delights with friends and the few who ventured offshore to disturb its glasslike surface or to peer into the near crystal-clear waters to marvel at the array of sea life below.

The trouble with the Island is that once word gets out about a special place, it tends to be over-run. Take St Catherine’s Woods as an example, arguably the most delightful of our rural landscape, but to be avoided at weekends and holidays when the wagon trail of the mums’ tractors, relieved of the school run, hog the car park and disgorge excited hordes to run amok.

Even the once isolated environs of Seymour Tower and Icho are far more frequented than in the past. Of course, Islanders must be free to explore our special environment, but in enabling the public to enjoy such precious places, a balance has to be struck in favour of preservation over open access.

In an increasingly busy society, it is only to be expected that people want to find solace away from the rat race. For such a tiny rock in the scheme of things, this Island is more than blessed with a variety of scenery from manicured parks and gardens to rugged cliff walks and unique places such as my secret pool.

For a few hours last weekend I ‘escaped’ the Island, it’s traffic, avarice for creeping coastal over-development and crowds for solitude in a lunaresque landscape. It was a treat to cherish, a gift from nature to cap off a spring and summer in which I have appreciated more than ever the changing seasons in my garden and the things that come free to make Jersey the special place it is.

As I contemplated life, a brace of swallows left behind by the annual mass migration south frantically fed overhead to build up the strength to get them to Africa. When I returned home the first starlings, having safely negotiated French power cables, were mulling over their own long journey by chattering in the poplar trees.

Life’s natural cycle continues.