orwellianTwo

Stuff I write when I’m travelling

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  • Back in time

    Onto the No.50 bus we jump, one of the “Purbeck Breezer” buses that takes the summer tourist across and around the Isle of Purbeck peninsula.

    Unfortunately, bad planning regarding where to join the bus in Bournemouth meant that I found myself at the back on the lower deck, not the best place to take snaps of the deep chines of Bournemouth, the harbour at Sandbanks, or the chain ferry that takes the bus over to Studland and the dramatic scrubland and rolling dales of Purbeck. (If you’re coming to Bournemouth, join the bus at the train station. It’ll guarantee you a seat on the open top deck. Make sure it’s not raining).

    After the stunning scenery you’ll have to trust me about, the bus terminates at the charming beach town of Swanage.

    Lovely. But there’s no time to waste, this isn’t our final destination today. To get there we’ll need a train.

    “But”, you say, downloading your Network Rail route map, “the South Western Railway service between Bournemouth and Weymouth doesn’t have a formal scheduled connection to Swanage! What are you talking about?”

    I’m talking about steam.

    Swanage used to be joined to the main line at Wareham, and the branch line managed to survive the Beeching cuts of the mid-60s. But it did not survive 1972, when British Rail came to the genius decision of closing the branch line. When we see our final destination you will continue to scratch your heads – you may even start to draw blood. Just be careful.

    Almost as soon as the decision was made, opposition grew. A campaigning group was formed to keep the line open, even just as a heritage railway, and they fought BR all the way. When the track was pulled up, the campaigners made sure it was set down again. When British Rail tried to sell Swanage station off to a property developer they got the local MP onside – and kept it open. Slowly, the tide turned. The volunteers re-established old stations and even built a couple of new ones. They also procured and restored old locomotives and rolling stock. And they won!

    In 1995 the Swanage Railway ran its first train from Swanage to the restored station at our destination. And in 2002 the connection to the main line was re-made, thirty years after British Rail closed it. Today the Swanage Railway, an all-volunteer operation, runs a scheduled service from Swanage to Norden, mainly powered by ex-British Railways steam locomotives with old-style slam-door C1 carriages.

    Of course, if you tried the railway out for yourself you might conclude the train actually goes from Swanage to 1953. All the platform staff are kitted out like the porters from Brief Encounter, and they serve freshly-baked cake at the station. (Improvement.) From the restored station signage to the retro posters, it feels like a retreat to that famous golden British past that may or may not have existed (half of the general information boards at the little museum at our destination describe the history of the line in the two World Wars). The only thing that is missing, you might think, is a Brexiter joyfully buzzing the place in a Spitfire.

    What do I think? Too late! we’ve reached our destination.

    Which is…

    Corfe Castle is one of the most famous and romantic mediaeval ruins in the country. Built by various Norman kings on the site of an earlier Anglo-Saxon fortress, the castle is actually an outlier among British castles in being located atop a commanding height. In this case it controlled a gap between two lines of Purbeck hills, in the times when this part of the coast provided an invader with a decent backdoor route into England.

    The three-storey central keep was started by Henry I and subsequently added to by his successors, and they turned it into a highly-desirable place for them to stay when passing through the region.

    You can imagine the work that went on to build and maintain the property – the masons, the diggers, the bricklayers, later on the painters and decorators, all rubbing shoulders with the monarch and their lords and ladies of court…maybe even the cleaning ladies who were once paid to spend four days giving the place a good scrub.

    It wasn’t all fun though, the Middle Ages in England were turbulent times. Corfe Castle had to withstand sieges and it was used to hold hostages from time to time.

    Another typically beautiful view of the Dorset countryside, this time from the Butavant Tower. Around 1206 when King John took his niece Eleanor hostage, 22 of her loyal French knights were lucky enough to stay in this tower. Unfortunately, I don’t think they got to enjoy the view. Or the dining options, it turns out, as King John had them dropped down a pit into an oubliette, a special dungeon where you leave the guests to rot (oublier : forget in French). So the reception desk forgot about them and they all starved to death. (The records do not state whether or not they were ABTA-protected.)

    The weight of history.

    Surprisingly, it wasn’t all those mediaeval dynastic squabbles that left Corfe Castle in ruins.

    Elizabeth I sold the castle in 1572 and eventually it ended up in the hands of the Bankes family. If you own a big property like this, you have to take all sorts of things into consideration; upkeep and maintenance, general estate management and security, not being on the Royalist side during the English Civil War and forcing the Parliamentarians to try and take the castle by force, marketing the castle to tourists, that sort of thing. The Bankes family got at least one of these wrong.

    When Cromwell’s forces finally took the fortress in 1645, they were so impressed by the resistance Lady Mary Bankes, the owner, had put up, they gave her and her family free passage out. How nice. Then Parliament voted to blow the place up. And that was it. Much of the Purbeck stone used to build it ended up lining the walls in the village of the same name down the hill.

    Well the Restoration came and the Bankeses got it all back, but they’d had enough – who can blame them! – and set up shop in Kingston Lacey. In 1981 a descendant bequeathed the whole place to the National Trust, with whom it remains – an evocative, fascinating, rather sad testament to the brutal but compelling story of these islands. That we can all agree on – unless we’re British Rail in 1972.

    That reminds me, time to get back down the hill and get the train back to Swanage. Back we go to that rather marvellous full-size Hornby train set…

    …and back to Swanage, the bus, top deck this time, and some final views of Poole Harbour from Shell Bay.

    Well, you know you might prefer your 1950s Britain, or your 2020s Britain, but aren’t we all learning to discover and appreciate Britain itself, whichever year we fancy? I know I am.

  • P and C

    Bournemouth in Dorset. Actually it was in Hampshire up until local government reorganisation in 1974 dragged it into Dorset. Further messing around a couple of years ago merged it into a unitary council with Christchurch and Poole (the BCP council). We’ve had a look at B, time for a peek at P and a call into C.

    There’s more to Poole than my earlier snide suggestion of smuggling. The spectacular Poole Harbour is, after Sydney, the next largest natural harbour in the world. Sandbanks, as the name suggests, is a spit of land running alongside the east of the harbour that provides it with good protection from the wild English Channel. The fine location, decent weather, and great sailing also makes Sandbanks one of the most desirable – and expensive – places to live in the world.

    In earlier times Poole had also made it rich, and the background behind it is truly fishy. The intrepid sailors here were some of the first to get to Newfoundland and corner the market in fishing the incredibly rich stocks of cod that swam around the island. They’d then trade their catch with the Catholics of the Mediterranean (no meat on Sundays or through much of Lent) in return for wines and other goods that they’d bring back to Poole. You can almost hear the local ne’er-do-wells licking their lips and sharpening their cutlasses.

    Eventually other nations musseled in (sorry) on the trade and then Poole’s wide but shallow harbour was unable to host the larger ships of the 19th century and onwards. But it remains a pleasant and prosperous town and well worth a few hours of your time if you’re in the area.

    So that was a bus trip to Poole. But Bournemouth is in the middle of nine miles of sandy beach and cliff paths between Poole and Christchurch, and the following day I decided to walk the five miles east to Hengistbury Head, lying at the mouth of the entrance to Christchurch harbour.

    Cue photos.

    Looking back west to the Isle of Purbeck. You can just make out the red-and-white helter-skelter of Bournemouth pier in the bottom-right, just above the bush. (The Isle of Purbeck isn’t really an island. And the pier isn’t really up to much.)
    Overcliff, the cliff tops above the beach, is all that remains of the old heathland that used to cover Bournemouth. Goats are used to chomp at the bush to maintain the level of grass and scrub. The number of goats surprised me as I thought there were only two. (Messi and Federer.)
    Boscombe Pier
    The green hill in the distance is Warren Hill, overlooking Hengistbury Head. On the horizon is the Isle of Wight. You may just be able to make out the Needles. Later in the day, as the sun heads west and dips in the sky, that cliff face reflects the sunlight and turns a ghostly white set against the distant blue of the rest of the island. Magical.
    Two hours later and we’ve made it to the top of the hill! To celebrate we turn around and take in the whole sweep of the beach, through Bournemouth and onto Sandbanks and Purbeck.
    Looking east, across the mouth of the harbour and over to the Isle of Wight

    That’s not the end of the walking though. Christchurch is another couple of miles away.

    Another lovely little picture-postcard town, Christchurch is best known for its eponymous Priory.

    This church and monastery dates back to Anglo-Saxon and Norman times, and survived the Dissolution when the clergy here promised Henry VIII they’d switch sides. It has gone through many alterations down the years, and one of the earliest involved the builders having to deal with their miraculous beam.

    What? In the ceiling of the nave juts out a wooden beam. The story goes that during an Anglo-Saxon rebuild the workers noticed that one of their number came to work, did the job without speaking to anyone, and just as quietly left for home. At some point they’d realised they’d screwed things up a bit and one of the beams was a bit short. Worried about the embarrassment and the waste of a precious building resource they all went home to come up with some excuses. When they came back, the beam had amazingly become the right size – and the mysterious co-worker had disappeared!

    Without thinking “well if the guy was so good why didn’t he stop us making a mess of the job in the first place?”, or “if he was who we think he was, well, aren’t Middle Easterners supposed to be a bit browner than that?” they did what any self-respected Dark Age person in a time of mystery and legend would do, and put it all down to Jesus himself. Jesus the Carpenter, no less. The church was renamed Christchurch, and eventually the town. So there you are. The Miraculous Beam. Go figure.

    Before we leave C and head back to our base in B one more example of Christchurch craftiness, as told to me by one of the attendants at the church (I haven’t corroborated it as it’s too good a yarn to falsify; blame him if this is all rubbish). At the west end of the Priory is an elaborate 19th-century memorial to a local husband and wife. Well the wife had links with Bournemouth, but the church there thought the memorial too showy for them. Christchurch said “we’ll have it” and into the priory walls it went.

    A few years later Bournemouth had second thoughts, for some reason, and asked for it back. At this point the good folk at the Priory turned to Holy Scripture, and they told Bournemouth to Go Forth and Multiply. And so to this day the memorial remains here – despite the woman being of Bournemouth stock and actually being buried in a Bournemouth church.

    I can’t work out why Bournemouth would make such a fuss about a simple monument.

    Nope, can’t see it at all.

  • Chines at Midnight

    Well, if we’d been here when it was just heathland, we might have had more to write about.

    Stretching along the coastal cliffline between the ancient harbours at Poole and Christchurch, jutted above nine miles of pristine sand, there was – nothing. Just a vast bracken heathland reminiscent of the New Forest a few miles to the east, a deserted spot mainly frequented by the odd fishermen…and lots of smugglers!

    In fact even respectable Poole and Christchurch were happy now and again to make a few bob by pulling a fast one on the Revenue men. In one notorious incident in the 1800s it looks like the whole of Poole went out on the lash for a few days partying on some ill-gotten liquor. But the long stretch of heathland between them, known then as Westover, was particularly suited to the trade, being empty, desolate, and riven with lush deep valleys – or chines – where rivers cut through the sandy cliffs and many a dark deed could be done hidden away from prying eyes.

    It sounds romantic, but for those on the wrong end of it, no it wasn’t. And no, it isn’t. Old-style big-time smugglers like Isaac Gulliver were really not much different to today’s drug trade kingpins and people smugglers. As far as Westover went, back in the late-eighteenth century the army decided to send an officer called Lewis Tregonwell to do something about the smugglers while he was watching out for the French during the Napoleonic Wars. Tregonwell kept at it until 1810, by which time the local bigwigs started inclosing the heaths.

    But he liked the area so much he and his wife had a house built here in 1812. Immediately following the parcelling-out of the now private land, it’s considered to be the first proper house of the town that would soon grow up on the Westover, all around the mouth of the little river Bourne . A town that would get a new name.

    The Bourne, near its mouth
    Part of Tregonwell’s house forms a wing of the Royal Exeter Hotel

    And so developed a pretty little resort town just as the Victorians were developing a taste for the seaside, and just in time for Victorian railway mania. You can guess the rest – well-to-do tourists – hotels – retirees – genteel Edwardiana – bigger town – more tourists – yawn…once you get past the smuggling and the building of a town from scratch, the story becomes very predictable, very bland, very twee.

    …still, if the inhabitants were lucky enough to have escaped the rawness of truly interesting history (apart from some bomb damage in the Second World War), they were also lucky to live in this lovely South Coast gem, with its beautiful walks, gardens, views along the coast to the Isles of Wight and Purbeck, and that glorious beach. And if I really can’t find anything else to write about here, that just means I have more time to enjoy it for myself.

  • Mersey miscellany

    Well, soon it’ll be time to get the train out of town, so it’s time I jot down some final thoughts about my time here and push out some more snaps.

    A good place to spend a few days

    I’ve enjoyed my time here. Lots to see, decent sightseeing, interesting stories to uncover, good places to eat and drink (although not as cheap as it might have been before). I’ve mentioned before that this has always been an outward-looking and ambitious place so it somehow feels different to your average English city. Maybe it’s just the accent.

    One regret: for various reasons I didn’t get to see the museums I wanted to visit, the Maritime Museum, the Slavery Museum, the Beatles one in Albert Dock. Well, if international travel restrictions remain in place for a good while yet then maybe I’ll come back and finish the job.

    Talking about that last museum…

    Not enough Beatles. Sorry

    Well I did go to Mathew Street…

    …and the Cavern…

    …but I didn’t go in; despite the very few numbers of tourists there it was getting a bit leery at the door.

    And I didn’t do any of the specialised Beatles tours that are available here, or visit Paul’s old house, or John’s LSD seller, etc. It was enough for me to be in the city where it all happened, a city that remains incredibly proud of them. And, anyway, I already have the best tourist souvenir of all. Their music.

    I did bump into an old friend of theirs though.

    Ferry ‘cross the Mersey?

    Yup.

    Merseyside loves its long rectangular obelisk things

    Don’t worry, they’re ventilation shafts for the various Mersey tunnels.

    I think.

    An old friend of the blog

    Despite the devastating May Blitz of 1941, Liverpool retains a decent amount of its pre-war architecture particularly in the city centre. The friezes on some of them commemorate the city’s global and imperial trading heritage, some more sensitively than others.

    This old building near the waterfront pays tribute to a group of lads the city burghers obviously felt a kinship with, the old-time Spanish conquistadors of yore.

    The medallions continue on around the corner, Columbus is there too, and … well who’d have thunk it!

    It‘s none other than our old friend from the Dominican Republic posts, Taino queen Anacoana. If you read the blogs you’ll might understand her doleful expression, here surrounded by the guys who were going to make her’s and her people’s lives a misery. Interesting how all these stories tie up, isn’t it?

    If you’d like to acquaint yourself with Anacoana and friends, you can check out my Dominican Republic posts. Just select Menu at the top, press the arrow next to Home and all the posts are under – guess what – Dominican Republic. While you do that…oh, is that the time? I need to check out and get that train. Hope you enjoyed the journey with me.

    As they say here, taa-raar!

  • Cathedrals

    Liverpool – oppressed, defiant, emotional, wild-hearted Liverpool – has a number of spectacular places of worship that seem to capture the passion and ambition of the city. Let’s visit the four most significant ones.

    As the city expanded in the 19th century, the many parish churches around the town just weren’t sufficient to host the growing congregations. The Church of England thought their main church “ugly and hideous”. So they were first up and set about requesting submissions for a new cathedral. It would be only the third new CofE cathedral built after the Reformation (St Paul’s and our old friend Truro being the others). And it was Liverpool so it had to be enormous.

    The winner was a young architect called Giles Gilbert Scott with his Gothic design, and the foundation stone of Liverpool’s Anglican Cathedral was laid in 1904. Scott was very inexperienced so it’s a mystery how this scion of a famous line of architects, whose famous architect dad was an in-law of one of the judges, had got the commission. Scott then changed his design in 1910 and it all had to be resubmitted for approval. Then there was a war. Then they started again, aiming to complete by 1940. Then there was another war. Then they had to fix the bomb damage. Then Scott died in 1960 (having also come up with the red telephone box) and his son took over the firm. Eventually it was all done and officially opened in 1978.

    But if the customer contract stipulated “has to be absolutely ginormous and you have to be able to see it from everywhere”, well, tick in the box. At 189 metres from west to east, it’s the longest cathedral in the world. By volume it’s the fifth biggest. They even put it on a hill just in case you missed it the first time. Nice of them.

    Don’t have nightmares.

    I managed to get inside a couple of days later. Fair to say, it hadn’t shrunk.

    Peace Doves, a mass-participation art installation created by Peter Walker, containing 18000 paper doves each with a message from a member of the public.
    The sign below the west window was created by Tracey Emin when Liverpool was European City of Culture in 2008. It was meant to be there for a month. Fortunately, they left it.

    So that was the Anglicans sorted. What about the Catholics? Hundreds of thousands of Irish migrants poured into the city in the 1800s, and the Catholics amongst them needed their own new cathedral. And it had to be Liverpool-big too. Step forward the great Sir Edwin Lutyens and his plan to build the second-largest church in the world, with the biggest dome. And it was also going to be on a hill, at the other end of Hope Street to the Anglican Cathedral that it was meant to rival.

    Work on the Metropolitan Cathedral started in 1933. Then there was a war. Then Lutyens died in 1944, surrounded by his drawings. When work restarted they only managed to finish the huge crypt before they realised they were running out of money. So they wiped the slate clean. The new architect, Gibberd, came up with something a little more space-age, a main circular space under a conical roof with Thunderbird 6 sticking out of it.

    The Metropolitan Cathedral of Christ the King. Also known as “Paddy’s Wigwam” or “The Pope’s Launching Pad”. Scouse wit. Also known as “The Funnel”. Scouse practicality. Started in 1962 and finished five years later, eleven years before they finished off down the road. But act in haste…the church ended up suing Gibberd because bits of it leaked.

    The four bells on that concrete screen at the front are known as Matthew, Mark, Luke and John. To the clergy, that is. Guess who the locals name them after. Hint: this is Liverpool.

    Two great Liverpool cathedrals done, two to go. I went to the other two places earlier in the day, catching the bus from the city centre to the idyllic Stanley Park.

    Another ginormous place of worship arising above the rather dilapidated housing all around…

    They were formed in 1878 from a local church team, and moved into this new stadium in Anfield in 1884, winning their first League title in 1891.

    They, of course, were and still are, Everton.

    The ground was owned by a man called John Houlding. Everton fell into a messy legal and political dispute with him, and in 1892 Houlding had a right hissy fit and created his own team, Liverpool FC. Everton responded by taking their ball away – literally, striding the ten minutes walk across the park to a new site, on Goodison Road.

    From here…

    …to down there…

    I’ve been following football now for decades and I feel I know so much about Liverpool and Everton, their history, their great players and the great matches they’ve played, the ups, the downs, the tragedies, the controversies – and yet I had no idea how tranquil Stanley Park could feel on a sunny day, as if everything that surrounds these teams – and football – didn’t exist at all.

    Once you get down to Goodison, football truly reasserts itself.

    Whereas Anfield sits in its own extensive grounds, Goodison feels more homely, closer to the street, almost like a large car dealership or industrial park.

    And that’s a problem. Everton need to grow that stadium to be competitive with the truly big boys, and there’s no room here. So in 2024 they’ll be moving to a new stadium by the docks.

    It’ll be sad to lose one of the great historic British football grounds, but it’ll also be sad to break the ties between Liverpool, Everton, and the park that divides them but also binds them.

    And we’ll never get to see this view on Match of the Day…

  • A day in the history of…

    Unless you were someone peaceably living your life somewhere in West Africa when you were kidnapped and led in chains to the stinking hold of a slaver, to be transported (if you survived) to a life of back-breaking servitude in a West Indian sugar plantation, making fortunes for Liverpool merchants, well with that slight caveat the Georgian era was a golden era for the city of Liverpool. A fishing town that had taken advantage of its sheltered location at the banks of the Mersey, its traders had made themselves big players in the triangular trade between Europe, Africa and the Americas. I’m no expert in the economics of employee relations, but if you can get away without the bother of “employee relations”, treat your employees like animals, and stop them from seeking alternative employment – or retirement – you’re onto a winner.

    And Liverpool was onto a winner. The centre of the city is still replete with fine Georgian-era buildings and terraces – Rodney Street is one of the longest Georgian terraces in the country – as the slave trading interest rolled in it and flaunted it. But they didn’t stand still. Rather than let their ships suffer the elements and the tides of the Mersey, they came up with the idea of sheltered docks. And as trade flourished into the 19th century, Liverpool kept pushing the envelope.

    In the mid 1800s, one of their most prominent dock engineers, Jesse Hartley, came up with an idea to eliminate the effort involved in transporting goods between dock and warehouse. Why not build a dock with the warehouses on the dockside? Literally sail the ships to the warehouse door! By 1849, he had constructed a dock surrounded by a stunning set of fireproof warehouses which could store goods for long enough to avoid import taxes, and with the help of hydraulic cranes, loading times were cut in half. All at a snip of the equivalent of £41 million today. On July 30th the Albert Dock was ready for its opening, by the man himself, Prince A.

    Sounds great, and it was. Until steamships started replacing the old sailing boats twenty years later. And the Albert Dock wasn’t big enough for steamers. Oops.

    The warehouses were still used for storage, but the shipping itself disappeared from the docks until the second World War, when warships and support craft sailed in. Soon the Luftwaffe took an interest, and the south-west corner of the dock took a battering. That’s near where we’re standing.

    There was no peace dividend for the Dock, and its days looked numbered. The board responsible for it didn’t clean up the bomb damage and really wanted rid of it. Plans to knock it down and build flats and shops here came and went, until the Thatcher government in the 80’s decided to facilitate its regeneration. Granada TV moved in and filmed breakfast telly here. Over the last twenty years or so this superb site has become the most-visited multi-use site in the country outside London, hosting museums, restaurants, bars, shops. In short, it’s great.

    A good story of how one part of Liverpool has bounced back from long-term decline. But long-term decline was what was in store for the rest of Liverpool’s docks, and for the city itself. Right up to the 60s the docks were busy, and the army of dockers could find employment – however precarious. But then along came containerisation, along with the emergence of European markets across the North Sea, and Britain’s decline as a maritime power. The dockers lost their jobs, the city fell into poverty. However much it would recover some of its prosperity, the great seagoing, outgoing city of Liverpool had lost its place at the centre of the world.

    Until four local lads came along…

  • Birds of a feather

    That sitcom from the Seventies was nearly right. There are indeed two Liver Birds, but one of them is male. Atop the Royal Liver Building they stand, one on each tower. She looks out to sea, representing the sailors’ wives watching over their menfolk and welcoming them home. Meanwhile, he looks landwards, over the city, as the men at sea contemplate their families left behind. And also to check that the pubs are still open. Scouse wit.

    Whatever else you have heard about Liverpool, and there will have been a lot, it is a place first and foremost defined by the sea. Its fortune was made on it, brutally and cynically, it’s fine architecture was paid for by it – that and chattel slavery – and above all it’s vibrant culture was shaped by the people who were drawn over it from all over the world to service its maritime economy – sailors, dockers, navvies, migrants – until the bottom fell out of the ocean in the post-war years. And here we come in, staggering into the light after another COVID lockdown, ready to explore this world city’s unique heritage and its people, their individuality, their resilience, their wit, and of course, their music.

    We’ll start our story at that Liver Building, as it encapsulates a lot about the unique history of this city. Let’s get those birds out the way first.

    Liverpool received its royal charter as a borough in 1207, and that gave it the right to use a seal. The earliest seal we have dates from 1352, and shows a … well, is it an eagle with a sprig in its beak, or another bird? A spoonbill, a duck, maybe? The seal being so rubbish, it allowed all sorts of interpretations down the centuries, and by the 19th century consensus appeared to have agreed on a cormorant. Or some mythical bird representation. A mythical cormorant. (thing).

    Anyway, there they are on what is probably Liverpool’s most iconic building. Opened in 1911 it resembles an early-20th century skyscraper that would fit nicely on the skyline of Manhattan or Chicago, as befitting a city that has always looked outwards, a chief port of a global empire. But Royal Liver Insurance itself grew out of a mutual aid society for poor working men. Mysticism and humour, Atlantic opulence, mixed with working-class self-sufficiency from a community that had always had to look out for themselves. A more “Liverpool” place is hard to find.

    The Royal Liver Building sits on the quayside as one of the Three Graces, three gems of British 20th-century architecture. The other two are the old home of the Cunard shipping company and the domed home of the port authority (incidentally based on the abandoned plans for the Anglican Cathedral).

    It’s a delightful place to be, Pier Head, a wide esplanade flanked by these fine buildings and the Mersey on the other (the building on the right is the ferry station. There you can get the ferry across the Mersey. Has a ring to it for some reason.) but there’s more to the waterfront than this, seven miles more if you want. That’s the length of the Liverpool docks during the truly great years, when the city was a world trading centre. To find out more about those times, and what happened next, let’s take a wander past the ferry station…

    …past a promo for one of the local bands

    and down to the Albert Dock.

    But take a jumper. Yes it’s delightful, but it’s May 2021 – and God it’s windy!

  • Home Thoughts from Home

    That was the last day of the trip. As I write, the train home is making its way out of a rain-sodden Plymouth on its way to a rain-sodden London

    Well at least the speed of the train is no longer a surprise. I’ve got used to that now. And, slowly but surely all the other things I like doing on my travels – seeing interesting sights and understanding their stories, writing about it, travel itself – I’m getting back to as well. And you also get used to the face covering and just get on with it. The current moment is all about accommodation, making normality out of abnormality, hoping for the best while helping out by doing the right things.

    Soon I’ll be back to my old life in an abnormal moment. It’s impossible to say where we’ll all be in the autumn, let alone the winter, let alone next year. So I’m not going to predict where I’ll be going next, or when, or even if.

    But I’ll end with this; would I consider a longer trip through this fascinating, beautiful, infuriating, rain-sodden island? Yes. Because it is fascinating, beautiful, infuriating and rain-sodden. And it has one advantage over all the other wonderful places I’ve been lucky enough to see.

    It’s home. And there’s no place like home.

  • Plymouth, Ancient, Modern, and Nautical

    You know, once I’d got back from Truro I noticed I was becoming more taken by the monumental sweep of Plymouth’s city centre. But not enough to move hotels and stay in the middle of it. Give it a day or so and I’ll think I’d start seeing the dreary monotony in it.

    But it turns out that not all of the old town was destroyed in the Plymouth Blitz after all.

    Just off the main avenues running through the centre of town we find peace and quiet on the corner of the Minster Church of St Andrew and the 15th-century Prysten House, the oldest building in the city.

    St Andrew’s was actually bombed. As an act of defiance a local headmistress nailed a wooden sign over the door. “I will rise again”. The old sign has been replaced, but the Church did rise again, and so did Plymouth.

    But round the corner, the Charles Church didn’t.

    It’s left as a memorial to the 1172 civilians who were killed here over the course of the war.

    A couple of streets away we find another piece of unspoilt historic Plymouth hiding amongst the modern offices that predominate here.

    The Merchants House, a charming Elizabethan house belonging to one William Parker. So the city centre does retain its old delightful character after all!

    Oh dear.

    A few streets away lies a much more popular area of town. Old port, new marina, rabbit warren of old houses and warehouses turned into vibrant pubs, restaurants and cheesy craft shops, the Barbican is the oldest part of Plymouth and one of its most exciting. During Plymouth’s maritime heyday, many famous voyages set off from hereabouts, and voyagers such as Drake, Charles Darwin and Sir Francis Chichester clambered aboard here. As did a notable collection of religious refugees.

    In 1620, a Puritan leader called William Bradford received an email from “AllTheNativeAmericans@gmail.com”. It read “Hi. We heard about the trouble you’re having with the established church in England. Here’s an idea. Why don’t you come over here and take over our land? We were kind of getting bored with the whole freedom thing and some of us are itching to find out what subjugation felt like. Don’t worry, it’ll all work out just fine. Just go easy on the genocide. See you soon!” Bradford dropped everything and got his congregation together, and soon they were in Plymouth descending these very steps to board the Mayflower, the ship that was to take them to a new life in the New World.

    The Mayflower Steps

    Now you may have your suspicions about what I’ve just said, and you’d be right. The Mayflower Steps aren’t authentic! They were created in the 20th century to commemorate the Pilgrim Fathers’ voyage and were placed here because the Mayflower would have been boarded somewhere around here, and this spot was as good as any.

    Never mind. A number of other important colonising voyages started out from Plymouth, and they each have their own commemorative plaque on the wall and their own stone in the ground.

    (It only feels that long since they’ve been in.)

    Another treat offered in the Barbican is the sightseeing boat trip. Plymouth is one of the biggest working harbours in the world and there’s quite a variety of places you can ride over to for visits to sights, hiking, or other fun. We’re just going to do the one-hour trip into the naval dockyard and point out interesting information along the way.

    But the real reason is just to take some nice snaps on the water.

    And so on.

    Coming back round again, we pass the Royal Citadel. An important naval asset such as Devonport (where the dockyard actually is) itself needs defending. The 17th-century Citadel was – and still is – a redoubtable fort with impressive seaward defences. You can see one of the old guns on the wall to the right. To this day an Army detachment is still based here.

    I wonder what 17th-century Dutch is for “phew, we’d better not mess with these guys!”

    Ah, here comes the jetty again and we’re docking. It’s time to go back to our room, so let’s avoid the crowds by using the narrow residential back streets of the Barbican.

    And, oh look, here now are the landward walls of the Citadel. Commissioned by King Charles II himself, you know.

    Awkward.

    Plymouth was Parliamentarian during the recent Civil War. Parliament cut Daddy’s head off.

    So some of the guns point towards the city.

    I wonder what 17th-century Devonian is for “phew, we’d better not mess with these Royalists again, guys!”

    Well, hotel beckons and it’s time for a break.

    That was fun.

  • Truro

    Plymouth lies on the Devon side of the Tamar as it slides out into the Sound. On the other side lies Cornwall.

    There’s something strangely magical about getting on a train here and crossing Brunel’s famous bridge over to the Celtic mysteries of Cornwall, England-but-not-quite, even if Cornish is not as prevalent here as Welsh is in the valleys over the Bristol Channel.

    Unfortunately photos through a train window struggle to do justice to the rolling bucolic landscape, the steep green valleys and hidden estuaries, the old tin mines and overgrown slagheaps. You’ll have to come and see for yourself. As it’s one of the country’s most-visited counties, you probably already have.

    An hour or so later, we’re there.

    Once a port that made its money from tin, until the river silted up and the tin ran out, Truro turns out to be a delightful little big town that claims to be the southernmost city on the British mainland (Penzance doesn’t have a cathedral).

    Boscawen Street

    Truro’s cathedral, neo-Gothic, triple-spired, local rock, was built between 1880 and 1910. The town was incorporated as a city in 1876 so maybe someone just went, oops, we’d better have a cathedral then.

    The first bishop of the new diocese which came with city status was one E F Benson and, if you like your Christmases traditional and choral, you have much to thank him for. For the Christmas of 1880, in the temporary wooden structure that was in place during the building of the cathedral, Bishop Benson came up with the idea of a service featuring nine lessons and carols, a format brought to glorious life by Kings College Cambridge at 3pm every Christmas Eve (at time of writing only God knows what will happen in 2020).

    For many people that boy soloist’s shaky but tender delivery of the first verse of Once In Royal David’s City marks the beginning of the festive season. But back in Truro in 1880, Bishop Benson’s motives were much more blunt.

    We leave the Cathedral, and it’s time for a relaxed stroll around town as we head back to the station. A couple more pics from earlier as we make our way.

    Ah, one moment. This is Cornwall so we need a pasty.

    Oh, and a local beer.

    Don’t tell Bishop Benson.