The drive down from the airport to Jamestown was different to anything I had expected, read about or indeed remembered. It’s always like that, though, isn’t it? You can read as much as you like about a place, but nothing can ever compare to actually being there, taking in the sights with your very own eyes, breathing in the air, feeling it, making conversation with the local taxi driver taking me to the only hotel on the island, and in the case of St Helena, taking in the vast expanse of such a small island.
The driver, Craig, took me from the airport on the only road that led to Jamestown, opened in 2017, built by a South African engineering company and financed by the British government. The wide variety of landscapes we went through, in only thirty minutes was vast, from arid, rocky, rugged mountainous terrain, through deep verdant valleys, along narrow mountain passes where vehicles of all sizes had to honk their horns to oncoming traffic and stop regularly in tiny bays for others to pass, to the town of Jamestown and the port.
We arrived in Jamestown. It was very sunny and warm, welcoming. There were vehicles everywhere, most of which looked like they had been inspected for road safety in a different century, and possibly were, vehicles of all descriptions and in all state of repair, parked neatly and tidily in the middle of the Main Street. There is only one Main Street, with its few shops on either side, a single bank, The Bank of St Helena, which issues its own notes and coins, although British pounds are also accepted, a few market stores, the Catholic Church, a prison, a hotel, The Mantis St Helena, where I was staying, the castle, where the governor works, Anne’s place, the local hangout for yachties, the museum, and of course, the bottom of Jacob’s ladder.
My memories all came flooding back.
Dates: I was in St Helena in January 2026.
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