Coming to Sark

People look at me a little sideways when I tell them about Sark.

Isn’t that the one with no cars? How many people live on the Island? What do you actually do there?

I used to try to explain. Now I just tell them to come and see for themselves, because the island answers the question far better than I can.

Sark has a way of recharging those parts of you that were silently depleted.

It is the island for anyone who is tired. Not tired in the way a good night’s sleep fixes, but the deeper kind, the worn-down, out-of-sorts feeling you carry from too many months of too much.

There is no better cure for it than a lazy day on the bracken slopes with the sea murmuring somewhere far below and wildflowers in every direction.

In summer the flowers are almost showing off. In autumn the ferns turn gold and the hills go gold and purple in the evening light, and you find yourself just standing there, looking, the way you did as a child before anyone taught you to be busy.

And don’t let anyone tell you there’s nothing to do here. That’s the other half of it, and it constantly surprises people. Forty miles of coastline wrapped around an island around three and a half miles long, and it never runs out of secrets, even for those of us who think we know it.

There’s swimming for everyone: shallow water you can wade into off the rocks, the deep clear plunge a few feet beyond it for those who want to explore further. There are caves and pools and headlands to clamber over, and there is the simple, slightly addictive pleasure of finding a spot on the coast you’ve never seen before.

People who have come here for years still do it. They go home convinced they’ve finally seen all of Sark, and they’re always wrong, and they always come back.

If you’d like the island to answer the question for you too, come and stay with us. Five nights, one amazing retreat, and all of the above outside the door.

Nadia 🌿