Wyatts Covert Caravan Club Site, Denham, Uxbridge, Buckinghamshire

 

How fortunate we have been with the weather since we came down to the southern counties of England; we did wake to misty murk but it soon cleared to expose the sun. We attended to practical matters; sorting and packing for me, and repairing and sorting and cleaning by The Chauffeur. He is also mentally preparing himself for an early return to New Zealand, but there are projects that have to be dealt with before he can do so.

Mid-morning we walked the one and a quarter miles down into Denham, popping into the hardware shop where we were served by an Indian chap who kept shouting to a fellow Indian in the back room and another on the telephone, squeezing us into his attention. We could have been anywhere but Outer London. There are a couple of little supermarkets in the village and we picked up a newspaper at the Co-op, served by yet another young Indian woman. While wandering about the shops we checked out the ethnic restaurants on offer having decided to eat out at least once before we undergo geographical separation.

After returning to camp and lunching at “home”, a rare activity these many months, we headed out in the car on a recci trip to Heathrow, anxious that we had a good handle on the route although the traffic conditions late tomorrow afternoon will be worse than they were today. We do know of at least one other person who likes to do a dummy run before a trip that requires a more precise schedule, and I suspect there are millions more.

Back nearer Denham, we found our way to the Denham Country Park to explore the waterways I had spotted on the map. This is part of the Colne Valley Regional Park, so named for the River Colne that runs through the middle of it all. Through this also runs the Grand Union canal, the River Misbourne, Frays River and a series of lakes once gravel quarries. Stocker’s Lake was a gravel pit in the 1920s which subsequently filled naturally with water creating a refuge for wildlife. Further quarrying from the 1930s into the 1980s created a chain of lakes right on through the park. And the Grand Union Canal which has featured in earlier postings as we have encountered it elsewhere on our travels; it once provided a transport route for coal, paper and other products between Birmingham and London after being formed in 1929, although these days it appears to be more a hangout for junk ridden barges and narrow boats, or at least in one stretch we walked alongside.

Apart from the quarrying heritage, the Park has been used for farming and agriculture, mills and brickmaking. In the 1800s, watercress farms were common, using water from the chalk streams such as the River Colne and Misbourne to grow this nutritious crop. Even today the cress was evident in patches of the river although now seems to be more a pest than an asset; we found great piles of decaying vegetation which had been pulled out of the canal and river, which incidentally passes beneath the canal.

We wandered along the pathway through the woods and along the riverside and canal, enjoying the birdlife, in the woods and the waterways, delighting in the occasion squirrel scampering across in front of us and best of all, the snake that squirmed speedily across in front of us, one I might have even stood on had Chris not grabbed my arm and held me back.

Britain does have snakes however there aren’t too many Brits who have ever seen one. We have since identified it with the help of Mr Google; it was a grass snake, which is fairly harmless to humans. It is venomous but without fangs, and the mild venom is restricted to the amphibious creatures it prefers to dine on. They can grow to 1.5 metres but the one we saw would have been less than a metre and was very slim, with a star on its head. We were terribly excited to have seen this, especially so at the end of our exploration of Britain; another wild one to notch up in our records.

On our return to camp we discovered the absolutely charming old part of Denham village, some distance from the commercial centre we had explored earlier in the day and sporting three pubs which looked most promising for our farewell lunch tomorrow. So after our splash out tomorrow, The Chauffeur will deliver me to the airport and make his way on without his co-driver and navigator; how will he manage!

From hereon in, it will be a case of watch this space although I will continue to update my New Zealand blog from time to time when I have something to say that relates to travel of the lovely land of my birth. In the meantime, stay well, reader, and make your own travel stories.

Wyatts Covert Caravan Club Site, Denham, Uxbridge, Buckinghamshire

    

Our last day in the New Forest remained dry and much warmer than the day before. We were late setting off for our drive, to explore part of the National Park which is detached from the forest park, yet part of it in name and administration.

Our route took us south west to the village of Sway, still well within the forest, then south through Hordle which sits on the southern edge, on through the charming seaside village of Milford-on-Sea to the smaller fishing hamlet of Keyhaven on the edge of the Keyhaven Marshes, all sheltered by the two and a half long Hurst Spit.

Just south of Sway, we passed by an amazing tower, with no obvious access to the casual public. We stopped and I took a photo before googling “tower near me” and learned that this was predictably called The Sway Tower. This Grade II structure stands sixty six metres tall and was built by Andrew Thomas Turton Peterson, an Anglo-Indian barrister, spiritualist, socialist and amateur architect, on his estate around 1880. It was constructed entirely out of concrete made from Portland cement and designed as a mausoleum. Nearby stands a smaller fifteen metre tower, the prototype for the folly to follow.

In 1973 it was purchased by a businessman, Paul Atlas, for £2,600; he and his family held it for forty five years, and in 1995, after years of renovation, they moved into the tower. In March this year it was offered as a raffle prize, at £10 a ticket. I have no idea of the outcome of this interesting situation and who now resides in this amazing folly.

We followed the Hurst Castle signs to Keyhaven where we found that one could catch a little ferry out to the fortress at the end of the spit. We were surprised, not realising that a boat trip was required to visit the Castle, and since neither of us were keen to do this, we continued on around the narrow road on the very edge of the marsh, soon finding ourselves at the base of the spit where several cars were parked, some in a space that could well be flooded at high tide and others at a higher level, with room for us. We could see people walking out on the spit toward the lighthouse and a great grey lump that we decided was the castle, so we decided to head off after them and visit this historical structure for ourselves after all.  

The Hurst Spit is a two and a half kilometre long shingle spit which is slowly moving into the Solent, that channel between the Isle of Wight and the mainland, over the saltmarsh it shelters. It is a natural feature, formed from loose flint pebbles eroded from the cliffs further to the west. Over the last century the spit itself has been eroded away with storms and interference by the development of towns and village along the coast of Christchurch Bay. 

The most severe damage along the full length of the Spit occurred in 1989 when the Spit was flattened along 800 metres of its length and so weakened that it was in danger of being breached. Maintenance was carried out, gravel imported from nearby gravel pits, however the Council decided to undertake research into a long term stabilization programme.

A grand scheme of 1996, costing £5 million, was launched, funded largely by grant aid from government with smaller contributions by the New Forest District Council and Hampshire County Council. 125,000 tonnes of rock, sourced and transported from Norway on massive barges to moorings off the Isle of Wight, were required to construct the revetments and breakwater. Obviously this was a massive project and provided long term resolution. Alas major storms in 2013 and 2014 wrecked damage yet again to the spit and there was another drive for funds for reparation work. 

It was evident yesterday that this had been done because the ridge, on which one must walk to access the castle, is a great mountain of pebbles and flint rock, difficult to wade through, much like trudging through snow or crossing sand dunes.  These days the spit looks more like a railway embankment than a natural formation.

After making our way along the length of the Spit, the distance seeming more like five miles than just over a mile, we spent time in the castle, a rather ugly squat affair.

Hurst Castle was part of Henry VIII string of fortresses along the south coast, and is considered one of the most advanced artillery fortresses in England. This castle, completed in 1544, was sited to cover the western approach to the Solent, while Calshot Castle, which we visited in June, guarded the entrance to Southhampton Water. 

The castle remained in use through the centuries, through the Victorian years when there was a fear of Napoleon III invading, and again in the two World Wars of the last century. It was prison to Charles I, people convicted under the Act for the further preventing the Growth of Popery. A priest named Atkinson was brought here in 1700 for this misdemeanour and remained until his death in 1729.  

In 1956 Hurst Castle was transferred to the guardianship of the Ministry of Works, the in 1983 the newly formed English Heritage took over. Since 1996 the Friends of Hurst Castle have managed the castle although our entry was by our English Heritage membership yesterday and the signage is all in standard EH style.

From the top of the keep we had splendid views across the Solent to the Isle of Wight and Yarmouth castle, to the Needles on the far western extent of the island and the many yachts moored in the rivers running through the Keyhaven Marshes.

It was after 1 pm when we finally arrived back at the car, having taken a path along the edge of the marsh rather than struggle along the top of the spit, although this was little better, the loose stones swept off the top of the spit sitting loosely on the edge of the marsh. 

After lunch we continued along the coast, passing back through Milford-on-Sea, on to New Milton where we discovered a Tesco Extra providing fuel and fresh provisions, then across the county border to Dorset’s Christchurch. We had passed through Christchurch a couple of years ago when we were drove from Poole through Bournemouth and back to Ringwood where we stayed that first trip to the New Forest, however we had barely given it a glance. Today we did little more, checking out the uninspirational town and the car park above the beach. Instead we came away again without due exploration, heading up the A35 through the New Forest to Lyndhurst, a most scenic route, then turning south again toward Brockenhurst and home, encountering a small herd of ponies en route who when approached by yours truly on foot, were quite confrontational and reluctant to move off the road.

This morning dawned fine but the positivity was limited to the weather and the deer out in the forest whom I heard roaring, one little thrill before I rose and became embroiled in a mass of communications from family members; my father who has been terribly poorly for about ten days had taken a turn for the worst, and specifics helped me make a decision that has been hovering about for the past week. I would head back to New Zealand at once.

The ferry crossing to the Isle of Wight was cancelled although the fare was non-refundable, quite understandably, the booking for our four nights at the Caravan Club site at Sandown cancelled, Emirates contacted to change my flight and bookings organised for us to hang out in London while the rest of the arrangements were made. I also contacted my internet provider, O2, to cancel my contract expecting to still be up for another month, but they have waived that given the situation. So in fact while chaos reigned in New Zealand and in my heart, everything fell into place quite well.

Our trip up to London via the M27 and M4, then onto the M25, went smoothly and we found our camp here at Denham Green quite easily, also setting up without fuss. We then headed into Uxbridge to buy a suitcase and the little bits that go with that, our own borrowed cases still up in Suffolk with Chris’s sister. 

Tomorrow I will pack, write lists for Chris who will be left to wind up our affairs here in the United Kingdom; the caravan and car to be sold and our books to be sent home. He will spend time with his family, making special memories because we cannot know right now when we will be next here, although I do know that I want to come back. 

But another stage of my life will start when I arrive in Auckland on Sunday; my sons, my grandchildren and my parents especially, all deserve my attention and it is time I remembered that.

Black Knowl Club Site, Brockenhurst, Hampshire

               

Yesterday we drove down from our camp in the Midlands, a long but easy trip on a route designed by our Tomtom, longer in distance than that which I had charted, but taking less time because we travelled almost entirely on motorways: the M5, M42, M40, A34, M27 before eventually turning onto the lesser A337 directly south through the New Forest to our camp here near Brockenhurst.

En route we passed through the ever lovely rural landscapes of Warwickshire, Oxfordshire, West Berkshire and Hampshire, over the Chilterns where we saw dozens upon dozens of red kites wheeling in the cool autumn updrafts, through wide avenues of trees dressed in green, gold and red and all the shades in between. In fact apart from the rather utilitarian motorway services, one nuclear power station and the odd industrial roof, our trip was quite lovely.

We found our camp well tucked away in the forest, that part walked through in June and were altogether delighted to find it so, immediately offering the possibility of so many walks without having to drive to a starting point elsewhere. And despite its location in the pony and other beastie populated wood, we have all the mod-cons one can expect to find in a Caravan & Motorhome Club site; wonderful hot showers, recycling facilities, et cetera, et cetera. We were however surprised and perhaps a little disappointed to find the camp so busy; it seem that all the retirees make the most of this window of calm before the site closes for the winter.

After a ridiculously early waking, we spent our bonus hours sorting and discarding accumulated travel brochures, and piling up the great quantity of books we intend to send back to New Zealand for ourselves, and finding they weigh in at about 13 kilograms.

After breakfasting and restoring the caravan to order, albeit minus several kilos of discarded paper products, we set off through the woods that surround our camp and across the moor to the edge of the village, then proceeded into the centre. We were accompanied part of the way by a Welsh couple who had visited the New Forest previously and like us, fallen in love with the area. They had tried to book into the Black Knowl site on several occasions, without success, so were again like us, enjoying the fact they had secured a spot in this very busy camp. Their pale eyed Welsh Collie scampered about, leadless across the moor, delighting in the freedom and surely not welcome by the wildlife who call this space home. Later we spotted the trio sitting on the veranda of one of the several cafes in the village.

In Brockenhurst we popped into the post office to make enquiries regarding the posting of parcelled books across the world, and learned we might be better to divide the booty into several box loads. We can sort that out a little later on, although time is indeed marching on. We discovered that the two supermarkets, Tesco and Sainsbury, cater well to the needs of the locals, in contrast to Lyndhurst just up the road which relies on just the one private outlet. After walking about the village to check what else was on offer, we headed back to camp, pausing to admire the ponies along our way.

We treated ourselves to toasted sandwiches for lunch, the toastie maker having been idle since this time last year, then burned the extra calories off with another two hour work in the afternoon. This time we headed into the forest where we discovered a host of wildlife; squirrels, robins, a small herd of deer, an excited litter of pigs, small groups of ponies and herds of cattle. The deer were far off through the trees, too distant to capture on camera, but the pigs were more obliging, rushing toward us in their excitement for acorns littering the ground. These are not technically wildlife, the ponies, cattle and pigs belonging to the commoners, those folk who hold common rights to the Forest, however the animals run free in the forest generally keeping to within their home “boundaries”.

The weather has remained fine, perfect for walking out, however we are a little disappointed that autumn is not further advanced; we returned to see the Forest cloaked in its autumn colours and to kick our way through the discarded leaves.

Clent Hills Camping & Caravan Club Site, Romsley, Worcestershire

    

The day dawned sunny and cold, the very best sort of autumn day for venturing out into the country. So mid-morning we headed down into the charming village of Romsley, picked up the weekend newspaper and half our picnic lunch before heading south again to the National Trust’s Hanbury Hall just 14 miles south of our camp. We arrived in time for the opening of the Hall and spent an hour exploring the rooms, upstairs and down, and listening to the stories of the occupants from the passionate room guides.

The guide at the top of the stairs was so eager to share her knowledge of Sir James Thornhill,   a leading painter of the Baroque period and the first English artist to be knighted, and his legacy left here. It was he whose decoration graces the “Painted Hall” at Greenwich Hospital, St Paul’s Cathedral, Hampton Court, Wimpole Hall and Blenheim Palace. It was his wall and ceiling paintings here at Hanbury Hall that prompted the National Trust to take the property on in 1953.

The hall was built in the early 18^th century by the wealthy chancery lawyer Thomas Vernon. He was the great grandson of the first Vernon to settle in Hanbury, a minister of the cloth, who with his descendants slowly accumulated land, so much of it that by the time Thomas’s son, Bowater, moved into the Hall,  the family owned nearly 8,000 acres. The manor on the site later built over was bought by Edward Vernon in 1630, but it was the wealthy Thomas who added most to the estates and built the Queen Anne style two story red brick mansion that stands here today. 

The last of the Vernon’s to own the Hall was Sir George Vernon whose love life was a story all of its own. Soon after he inherited the house and moved in with his wife Doris, he hooked up with Ruth Horton, a housemaid, promoted her to secretary and companion and moved her into his bed. Doris eventually moved out, obviously not wanting to be part of any love triangle, taking up residence of another of the Vernon residences. Poor old George became very ill in his seventies and took his own life, no doubt to spare himself too much suffering at the end. On his death, Doris and Ruth switched residences, and Doris remained resident in the house until she died in her nineties in 1962, by which time she was living in a tiny corner of the house, the rest of the house and estate having become rather neglected.

The National Trust has spent years and years, and a great deal of money restoring the house and gardens  to their glory, the parterre alone having taken twenty seven years to return to its original state.

At midday we ventured out onto the front lawn and watched a half hour play portraying a court case being prosecuted by Thomas Vernon regarding a disagreement over the winnings of a lottery. It was well done and highly entertaining, enjoyed by quite a crowd who boo-ed and jeered and cheered at appropriate moments.

The orchard, gardens and woods made for delightful walks, and there was an excellent exhibition of water colours in the Long Gallery which we enjoyed enormously. We walked beyond the haha out into the fields dotted with old oaks and struggling replacements, then returned via the icehouse before heading home via Bromsgrove where we refuelled and shopped for provisions at Morrisons.

Tomorrow we will move on yet again from this lovely part of the country, which invites so much more exploration and time. I would like to think we might return one day, but for now we must be satisfied with our memories, this blog and the thousands of photos that are filling the hard drive of my computer.