Minstead Manor Farm, Emery Down, New Forest, Hampshire

After a decent night’s sleep and making the more good weather, we set off on for a tikki tour about the western reaches of the New Forest, that lying along the western shores of Southampton Water.

Our route took us part way along the route travelled the previous day, across grassland and woods, well-populated by the park’s ponies and the early bird tourist traffic, before turning directly toward Hythe, a town of 20,000 or so folk, seemingly made up of retirees and workers who catch the ferry across to the metropolis of Southampton for the daily grind. We parked up and fed the greedy New Forest District Council meter before setting off to see what keeps the residents here in this otherwise unattractive location. Surprisingly for a Tuesday, the centre of this modest little town was buzzing with shoppers, stall holders and even a town crier. We poked around the stalls which included a whole range of food items, as well as clothes, crafts and other consumables.

We were keen to check out the waterfront out, despite the cold wind whipping across the Water, however soon found the 640 metre long jetty, from which one would catch the ferry, closed to all but passengers or those willing to pay for the privilege of walking its length. Perhaps we would have paid up if the conditions had been more pleasant, but I had already taken my jacket off and was not inclined to shiver all the way out and back, a sentiment shared by my travelling companion.

Back on the road, we headed south, down through equally unattractive Fawley and Calshot, both villages dominated by the towing chimneys of the refinery and power station. Surely only economic necessity or the proximity to the lovely New Forest National Park can retain the population here.

Apart from curiosity about this part of the coastline, we were keen to visit the Calshot Castle, an English Heritage property standing out on a spit of land that marks the end of the Southampton Water and the edge of the Solent, that stretch of water between the Isle of Wight and the mainland.

We parked up and fed yet another Council meter before heading on foot on along the road, passing through the Calshot Activities Centre opened back in 1965, busy with busloads of school children being exposed to the challenges of the sea. The centre is now one of the largest outdoor adventure centres in Britain, and offers a wide range of water and land based activities within its history hangars, which accommodate a climbing complex, an indoor velodrome and a dry ski slope.

Calshot Castle was built by Henry VIII  in about 1540, as part of a chain of coastal defenses built to counter the threat of invasion from France and the Holy Roman Empire, after he had enraged them by proclaiming himself  as head of the English Church. It was designed as an artillery fortification with a sixteen-sided curtain built around a circular central tower.

The structure of the castle has been modified over the years as its uses have changed. After being garrisoned and armed during the 16^th, 17^th and 18^th centuries, a revenue cutter was stationed here in the early 1810s to deter smuggling. Eighty five years later, a battery of quick firing guns was installed to protect the coastal waters from torpedo boats. 

In 1912, Calshot became one of a chain of seaplane bases. During 1916-17 anti-submarine patrols were the most important activity. A year later the Royal Air Force took over from the Royal Naval Air Service and in 1939 RAF Calshot became a repair base for coastal Command flying boats.

In 1953 the base finally closed and the Castle was taken over by the coastguard until their tower was built, then nine years later everything was transferred into the care of the Ministry of Public Buildings and Works, and thus under the umbrella of the Hampshire County Council who started to run the first sailing courses.

And here I should express our disapproval of the matters that the councils involve themselves in this country: social housing and education to name but two, serious concerns and sectors of society that in New Zealand come under the governance of central government. Perhaps we should be a little less curmudgeonly when we next see our own district council meddling in music sessions for toddlers in the library or a music festival down at the waterfront.  

This was all very interesting; in the same manner discovering that Beaulieu was a SOE training centre during the last war, but the castle is otherwise a rather uninteresting austere “attraction” in a rather unattractive setting. Certainly one has extensive views from the castle roof across the Water toward Gosport, near Portsmouth, and south toward Cowes and Ryde on the Isle of Wight. We watched the Red Funnel ferries sailing to and from the Isle and wondered whether we were watching a snapshot of our future, months hence.

We dined “a la voiture” making the most of the time left on the parking ticket, before setting off again, this time following the coastline, away from Southampton Water and toward Bournemouth, if one were looking at the big picture.

We checked out the Lepe Country Park, an expanse on the shoreline, from where one has similar views as those from Calshot Castle, and join the crowds of people already packed into the three car parks made available to the leisure seekers for yet another parking fee. We decided to press on, and so we did, along narrow lanes away from the more popular roads, passing near mudflats and ancient derelict barns, presumably once part of the Beaulieu Abbey.

Finally we arrived at Lymington, a charming port from where one can also catch a ferry to the Isle of Wight, and a spot we had visited two years ago. Yesterday we were no less delighted, although this time, a little more familiar with the layout of the township, and refrained from becoming lost in the residential streets. Instead we centred our attention on the quay and the High Street, before heading north, up through Brockenhurst, and home.

Much later, just as we were about to serve dinner, our host turned up to introduce himself and to check we were bona fide members of the Camping and Caravan Club. We learned a little more about the Manor, the farm and the family who own and manage it all. Apparently the farm covers an area of about 1,000 acres, woodland and “parkland” (this probably refers to the grassed scene below us, graced by a sizeable pond, mature trees and a small flock of sheep). The website claims the “sheep enterprise is modest” although they do offer “home grown grass fed lamb” for sale  and have other agricultural diversified activities”. Separate to this club camping site, nine shepherd huts are offered for the “glamping” experience, they offer outdoor adventure activities for corporate groups (which explains the rather strange tower-like construction over the fence in the woods) and sell free range eggs, small amounts of venison, milled fallen timber and baled hay. Diversification these days is the name of the game; the only way to make a buck, if only just to keep the bankers from the door.

The original Manor House of Minstead was built in 1719 by a gentleman jockey and just over eighty years later, his descendant enlarged it and laid out impressive gardens and planted fine trees. This chap, John Compton, was also the Sheriff of the County of Hampshire.

During the Second World War, the Royal Army Service Corps was billeted in Minstead Manor House, but it subsequently became so dilapidated that it had to be pulled down. Our host told us that his father rebuilt the house in the fifties, but it had to be sold off to cover inheritance duties, hence the family’s wealth was somewhat diminished, as has happened with so many of these otherwise valuable properties.

Information is already welcome, and so we forgave the interruption to our routine.

This morning dawned fine and clear, despite the weather forecast and a storm named “Hector” lurking somewhere out in the Atlantic. The touring itinerary for the day was a loose arrangement, starting with a little gentle exercise then an extensive drive.

Two years ago we picked up a bundle of walking brochures from the Information Centre at Lyndhurst, some free and some with a small charge. Today I selected a 3.2 mile walk about Acres Down which starts just up the road from our camp. It is advertised as a “hilly walk passing through tranquil woodland with wonderful views of the changing faces of the New Forest” and so it is although I would argue it is hardly “hilly”. The countryside around here at best is undulating and the “steep paths” and “valleys” would hardly qualify as such where we come from.

However for all that criticism, we enjoyed our hour and a half out in the wild, catching site of Forest ponies and cattle, a squirrel or two, and a wide selection of birdlife, many which are apparently rare and currently nurturing their chicks in ground nests. It was surely these latter wonders which were drawing the twitchers and their very smart wide angled cameras; they had started earlier than us  reaching their vantage points on an elevated ridge in the sunshine, settling in for the duration, however long that might be.

This particular walk we took had no way markers, only a page of directional notes, some very obscure. At one point we wandered off route, along a diminishing grassy path through conifer forest, however we still managed to arrive back at the car well within the time indicated for the walk.

From here we drove north then westward across the top of the New Forest National Park, through villages of Brook, Bramshaw, Normansland, Landford, Lover and Redlynch arriving at Downton about midday. 

Chris had spoken nostalgically of this little town over the last few days, the location of much of the work he did when he resided in Salisbury in his very early twenties. He was quite dismayed to find little familiar here; we drove up and down the High Street and then around a few residential streets, hunting for a spot to eat our lunch. We finally happened upon the Moot, parked up, dined then set off around this rather overgrown parkland, and still he noted nothing familiar.

The Moot was originally a Norman Earthwork castle built by the Bishop of Winchester, brother of King Stephen in the 12^th century. The castle was captured by the Earl of Salisbury in 1147 but recaptured shortly afterwards. After the Bishop died in 1154, the fortifications were destroyed.

In 1700 Moot House was built and the dilapidated earthworks were landscaped as a pleasure garden in 1725.

Ownership of the gardens was separated from the House in 1972 and after fifteen years of neglect, was acquired by a Charitable Trust set up by local residents to restore and manage the property. The date of this last revelation probably accounts for the fact that Chris has no recall of this park.

We walked down through the well-worn paths, under umbrellas of vegetation, down past the pond which sits as a divide between a narrow stage area and a multi-tiered grass auditorium. Behind this runs the River Avon, that which flows south from Stratford-upon-Avon, through Salisbury, and south to the sea at Christchurch.

Back on the road we continued south, zigzagging through narrow lanes, following the flow of the river and avoiding the A338. Eventually we arrived at Ringwood where we shopped for fresh provisions before finding our way back through a series of closed urban streets to the western edge of the Forest Park. Then we travelled through Burley, then up toward Lyndhurst but detouring through the Bolderwood Arboretum Ornamental Drive, a charming route through old oaks and a host of other glorious trees.  Soon we were home to find that there was yet another camping party in; we are now one of three.