Tag Archives: Isle of Wight

An Island Day

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Islands can be magical. We’re lucky enough to live close enough to an island to be able to make a day trip. In order to do this we must make one of the most expensive crossings of water, in terms of distance- probably only topped by Italy’s Capri [unless you, clever reader, know better!].

To get from our house to the Isle of Wight we need only to stroll the 3 minutes to our local railway station, take a train to Brockenhurst in the New Forest, change on to a tiny, two stop train to Lymington and get a ticket for the ferry, which makes regular departures to the island. the short train merely shuttles between Lymington Pier and Brockenhurst, back and forth. In the past we’ve gone by bike and stayed overnight but not on this occasion-

The Isle of Wight has a special character of its own, in that it is quaint and olde worlde- a throwback to the 50s in many ways. At this time of year there’s a steady flow of visitors so the boat is busy. Our nearest point is Yarmouth, where the ferry deposits us, having meandered its way over the short stretch of water following the line of buoys to avoid grounding. The channel between the mainland and the island is certainly hsort enough for a road bridge, but so far it’s unbreached, The miniscule town/village of Yarmouth is crazily busy with tourists, the island being a magnet for holiday makers, with many attractions, theme parks, walks, cycle paths and so on. It’s also a yachty heaven with boatyards, marinas, regattas, chandleries and all things for sailors.

But we’re here just for the day, so lunch and a stroll will certainly do. With a strong desire for fish and chips we try a few places, including one mysterious restaurant which ‘cooks on stones’. We’ve sat down before we realise it isn’t what we want, then make our excuses and leave, heading instead for the cavernous, quayside pub, which does indeed offer fish and chips- and beer!

After lunch we amble off up the road, following the coast, past reed beds, along the beach, up into the woods until we reach Victoria Fort, which has been tourist-ified with a reptile house, cafe and tiny shops. We continue on, over a stretch of grass housing barbecue grills. much in use today and on through some more woods, where views of the sea through the trees are lovely. The woods are full of enormous hearts tongue ferns.

We’re aware that time to the next, return ferry is ticking and we turn back, stopping at the fort to climb up on to the roof and take in the vistas, then back to picturesque Yarmouth, where the ferry is just leaving the quayside- so there’s time for a cup of tea before the next one; just the thing for a follow-up to fish and chips!

I’m a big fan of public transport and I’m always sad when a journey comes to an end, so I feel reluctant to disembark, then reluctant again to leave the train, but we’ll definitely be going again!

For fiction by me, Jane Deans, search for novels: The Conways at Earthsend [an eco-thriller] and The Year of Familiar Strangers [mystery drama]. Visit my website: janedeans.com

Ticket to Ryde

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Day two of our local jaunt to Southsea dawns gloomy and overcast, but we decide to press ahead with a hovercraft trip to the Isle of Wight anyway. At this time of year we can’t expect tropical temperatures or baking sun and it’s a bonus if there’s no rain.

We’ve had a good breakfast at the hotel. It’s just a couple of minutes walk across the common to the hovercraft ticket office and once we’re there there’s a short wait but even so a perusal of the key rings/pens/fridge magnets on offer does nothing to fill the time. Ferries continue to criss-cross on the water outside, beautifully coordinated so as not to collide.

We can see the hovercraft approaching long before it arrives, then it swoops up on to the beach, lifting its skirts and then dropping them in a wheezy curtsey as the air is expelled. The doors lift open at the end and the steps descend, followed swiftly by the passengers, before we’re ushered up and in. This is no sluggish turnaround! Once we’re seated, the vessel rises up and is soon up to speed, whisking across the waves for a ten minute trip to the island. Of course there are no vehicles on this crossing- they must go by ferry. This is an expensive stretch of water; the price of a car or van is quite outrageous, given the short distance; even these passenger tickets are not a bargain.

We’re soon at Ryde, swooping and curtseying then exiting- all over in a flash. Ryde seafront is undergoing a transformation, with new paving, signs and so on. The hovercraft terminal sits next to both the train and bus station- very fancy, although we fail to locate any public lavatories in spite of searching all over the place. Then it becomes clear that the workmen-type portaloos in front of the station are, in fact, the temporary public loos. Later I notice a tiny sign to the effect in the information office window- hmmm.

We catch a bus to Sandown, which has a decadent, neglected air, its once grand hotels and apartments tumbling down, windows boarded, ivy taking hold and mould blackening; and even on the seafront, where rooms and homes face the water providing a wonderful view. Further along, beyond the pier there is an unlovely block of flats and I wonder why anyone would prefer one of these to the grand old Victorian buildings that are becoming ruins.

The pier is dedicated almost entirely to slot machines and on this overcast Saturday, this is where people have come- to play ‘Penny Falls’ and virtual golf. Seaside resorts in winter can often feel melancholy but Sandown feels positively dismal.

We drift back to find a bus stop- there being little else to see.

Back at Ryde we have a look at the pier, which is spectacular, before calling it a day and going for the hovercraft. The later it’s fish and chips in the cosy pub and a nightcap before bed…

Jane Deans has published two novels: The Conways at Earthsend and The Year of Familiar Strangers. Visit my writer page on Facebook:https://www.facebook.com/people/Jane-Deans-Novellist-Short-Fiction-and-Blog/100063988575981/

The Tale of a Festival

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The hedonistic, gargantuan, explosion that is the festival season is well underway. Here in the UK we have just had the mother of all festivals in the form of Glastonbury, to the excited trilling of some and the grumpy grumbles of the ‘not-like-it-used-to-bes’.

No, festivals, and indeed live music concerts are like anything else, not what they used to be. This is generally taken to be a bad thing but is not necessarily always so.

The first Glastonbury festival [known then as the Pilton festival] was held in 1970, although festivals had begun to take place on the Isle of Wight and elsewhere before this. In the USA there had already been Woodstock, which set the bar for festivals to follow, was turned into a feature-length movie and passed quickly into legendary status. Watching the film was the nearest we British teenagers were going to get to a Woodstock experience although not all of it was riveting. I remember the thrill of Ten Years After but Sly and the Family Stone must have been somewhat less enthralling because I did actually drift off during that bit.

As the third and last child of the family I was cut some slack during my teenage years and able to do pretty much as I liked. My then BF was a grammar school attendee and a choirboy, attributes which must have assuaged any fears for my safety and morals my mother had. This meant I was able to attend live music events and indulge in the inevitable, obligatory experiences they provided, legal or otherwise, with impunity.

As much as anything, festival or concert going enables those who’ve been there to analyse, relate and share years after the event. Hence ‘I saw The Stones at Hyde Park’ or ‘I saw Dylan at the Isle of Wight’ bestows a kind of status on the sharer of this information. Knowing this, merchandisers can make loadsa money from flogging commemorative T-shirts bearing details of the festival and most importantly, the date. This says of the wearer ‘I was there’.

This weekend, the first in July is the date of our own, local, modest music festival. During the last few years Husband has taken on an organising role, provoking much gnashing of teeth and tearing of hair as the date approaches. The regulations, risk assessments and fire documents, which become more demanding each year have at last been completed. The fencing, stage and marquee are all up. I prepare to step into my, more meagre role-that of selling tickets at the gate or picking up litter. The proceeds, such as they are go to local charities, the bands giving their performances free, the crowd gathered from the immediate community. It is anxiety-inducing and exhausting-no less for the fact that we stagers are increasingly old-stagers-but remains fascinating and fun. As they stream through the gate dressed in their ‘festival’ finery, children, dogs, wheelchair grannies, minders, partners and friends in tow it is like watching a smiling carnival procession, and all with one aim-to enjoy a weekend of music in the summer sunshine…