The Isle of Wight: The (Wannabe) English Hawaii

Once upon a time, the British people decided they needed a proper holiday (a British holiday, mind you, otherwise known as a “vacation” in American). Not just a weekend in the country, or even a trip to somewhere exotic like London, but they thought that a relaxing, warm escape was in order. The Caribbean and the Mediterranean were too far away (and who wants to risk running into pirates), so they set their sights on an island a little closer to home: The Isle of Wight.

Queen Victoria started the trend when she built her summer home on this tiny island due south of England, and fashionable Victorians followed, including the famous Alfred Tennyson (“Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all”? Yeah, that guy). They convinced themselves that its sandy beaches and fake palm trees (I kid you not) meant that it was warmer than the mainland, and thus, it qualified as a resort destination.

That’s my theory, anyway. Today, tourism dominates its tiny economy, and if the advertisements all over the ferry between Portsmouth and the island are any indication, every family in England takes their two children here during the summer months, where they frolic in the waves and build sandcastles all day.

Unfortunately for the poor Isle of Wight, I have been to the real Hawaii, and it doesn’t quite measure up. Yes, it has beaches, and yes, it might be a whole degree (Celsius) warmer than the mainland, but that doesn’t make it a tropical paradise. Still, the island is not without its charms. While the palms trees struck me as cliché and cheesy, there is a definite resort feel to the place, especially in the towns on the seafront. The beaches are nice, not rocky like Brighton’s beach, and it gets points because it doesn’t smell like dead fish. Most of the island is green, and there are plenty of woods to explore. One of the first things our group did after exploring one of the beaches was to hike in the southern part of the island. Yes, you read that right, I went hiking. Please stop rolling on the floor laughing. It was a fine and uneventful hike, and the most interesting thing I saw was a broken printer. In the middle of the woods. I don’t get it either.

After lunch at a cute tea shop in a cottage, we drove to the other side of the island and went on a two-hour walk on top of some breathtaking cliffs. It was a gorgeous sunny day, and after some close calls on the steep hills, the group made it to a village, which didn’t seem to consist of more than a beach and a mini amusement park. I walked down to another beachfront and saw more cool cliffs, which happened to be multicolored. Then I rode a chairlift that looked like it had seen better days back to the top of the cliff. I’d show you pictures, but I was too busy clutching the safety bar for dear life to get out my camera.

And that was it. It was not the most exciting of trips, but I figure the Isle of Wight is somewhere I never would have gone by myself, so I’m glad I can say I’ve been there, done that, and I’ll probably never go back.

I’ve more or less settled back into a school routine, which isn’t as difficult as it sounds since most of my courses are wrapping up. For instance, next week, I’ll be in class a grand total of one hour, although to be fair, that’s partly because my lecturers are going on strike. Again. You’d think I’d use the time to write the huge essays I have to turn in and study for the huge exams I have to take, but no, it’s much more fun to write blog posts and put pictures on Facebook.

When I returned to Sussex from my adventures on the continent, I was almost convinced I had gotten lost again and arrived at the wrong campus. Instead of the overcast, chilly, empty ghost town I had left behind, I was greeted with sun, warmth, chirping birds, and a multitude of students who must have been recently evicted from their apartments napping in the green grass. Unfortunately, this new and improved Sussex also includes some more unwelcome signs of spring.

I came back from the gym early yesterday afternoon, and as my room was stuffy, I cracked open the (screen-less) window for a few minutes. I was just about to go clean myself up when I heard an awful buzzing noise. With a gasp of horror, I leapt to close the window, but I was too late, and there was a giant bee hovering entirely too close to my head. Seriously, have they never heard of personal space? Naturally, I ran out of my room screaming. I dashed down three flights of stairs to see if the porter could help me and ran into (almost literally) possibly the cutest guy I have seen yet in England. In my stinky gym clothes. Without a stitch of makeup on. FML?

Of course, the porter chose that precise time to be on his lunch break, which to be honest I didn’t mind so much since it gave me time to chat with (read: stare at) Mr. Perfect, who was also waiting for the porter. After twenty or so minutes, we decided that he should go turn in his paperwork and I should go face down the monster, er, bee. I would never have seen him again, had I not chickened out and ran back downstairs. If this had been a romantic comedy, he would have offered to dispose of the bee for me, I would have suddenly looked like I had spent two hours doing my hair and makeup, and we would have lived happily ever after. But as this story is sadly not a movie, I waved goodbye to my now long-lost love and went to the building manager’s office instead. I don’t mess around when it comes to bees...Her assistance ended up being unnecessary, as a flatmate took pity on me and killed it, so I was able to return to life as usual.

Well folks, this has been a delightful diversion, but perhaps I should now turn my attention to the 6,500 words I have to write before I can consider myself done with this academic year!