"Stop!!!" The rush of upward movement came to a halt. I could see my new friends, smiling, grinning, holding on to the rope that the four of them pulling had hauled me up to this dizzying bungee-jumping height.

All right, it might not be Queenstown, New Zealand - the bungee-jumping capital of the world - but it sure felt pretty high from where I was suspended like a puppet dangling from strings.

The only way down was for me to pull the tiny little pin that kept me from plummeting to the ground.

I felt like a soldier holding a grenade, not knowing how big an explosion would result.

I closed my eyes and did a silent count down. Three ... two ... one ... yank ....

"AAAAAAAAAEEEEEEHHHH," was the girly scream that came out of my mouth.

By then I even had the construction workers who were putting the final touches on the new Adventure Centre at Les Ormes Leisure Park watching me.

My heart was racing, I was breathing hard, and the closest thing I had come to human contact was when the hunky South African ex-Marine had slowed my swinging to release me from my harness.

This was not what I expected from Jersey.

Bergerac never had to contend with this!

Three days earlier my editor had called me up and said, "How'd you like to go to Jersey for the weekend?" I thought, "Jersey, I didn't want to go to Jersey when I lived in the States, why would I want to go now?"

Fortunately, he was talking about the British Jersey, an island just 14 miles away from France and not the Garden state across the river from New York. Getting there was simple. Less than an hour's flight on no-frills commuter Flybe from Gatwick and I was there.

In fact, the journey to Gatwick was longer than the flight, but the direct bus service from Gloucester Green in Oxford made it comfortable and painless.

Once there, we were greeted by sun and palm trees, which, after weeks of grey rain in Oxford, made the island feel distinctly exotic.

My first thought was, 'drop me off at the closest beach and I'll find my way back to the hotel'; however, our tour guide had other plans, and we were whisked away to a military assault course.

After completing various tasks, including swinging on a rope like Tarzan, balancing on moving logs Indiana Jones-style, finding myself in the high altitude predicament described earlier, it was time to find our hotel - the Royal Yacht Hotel and Spa.

Spa ... what a lovely word.

So relaxing, so luxurious, so inviting - and so popular.

Unfortunately, due to high demand (and my late planning) all treatments had been booked throughout the weekend and the closest I got to the spa was being pummelled by a jet of water in the 'activity pool', heating up in the sauna, then cooling off with an ice-cold shower.

The stay in the hotel was exhilarating.

The only slight disappointment was that one of its seven bars was ironically named 'Posh'. When I asked to see a wine list, the bartender responded with 'would I like red, white or rose?' Not the variety of choice I was expecting and the wine was rather warm, making it not very posh at all.

The entire weekend was a gastronomic affair. Islanders are very serious about their food.

The Go Local' and Organic' trends are a common mantra, not just with their cows and potatoes, but many of the restaurants sourced products from the island itself, ensuring the very freshest ingredients.

And traditional ways of life are re-emerging. Vincent Obbard, the seigneur of Samarés Manor, has recently discovered a passion for the almost forgotten Jersey Apples.

Apples were at the height of popularity in the 18th century, when 300,000 gallons of cider were exported to the UK, although apple-growing declined through the 19th and 20th centuries as potatoes and tomatoes took over.

Signeur Vincent has now cultivated various original varieties of Jersey apples, which he hand-picks and presses and then ferments using a French Champagne method, making a limited amount of cider.

He swears he can taste the individual varieties in each cider, but, lacking that exacting a pallet, all I can say is that they were refreshing and scrumptious.

I also sampled scallops and sea bass at the Boat House, in St Aubin's Bay, munched a crab sandwich at the Rozzel pub, and savoured a selection of wine, chocolates and Jersey Cream (a liqueur similar to Bailey's) at La Mare wine estate.

It was only on my last day that I discovered I could combine the gourmet cuisine of Jersey with a walking tour, burning off some of the calories I had consumed.

On the last day, I was also introduced to some 'local' wildlife - not, that is, the many clubs and bars in St Helier - but gorillas, bears, and a wicked little creature called the Aye-Aye, all thriving at the Durrell Wildlife Conservation Trust reserve.

Aye-Ayes became endangered when locals in their Madagascan home thought they were literally wicked and killed them.

Gerald Durrell brought them to Jersey, where the Durrell Wildlife Conservation was the first in the world to breed them in captivity.

Jersey is not short on things to do. From the classic villages and farms through to the war tunnels dug during Occupation in the Second World War to high adventure sport and night clubs, Jersey has a little something for everyone.

And if none of those interest you, put on a swimsuit, grab a towel and head to the beach!