After the success of my walk to the Common, on 26 April, I decided to have another crack at walking along the river. This time, I thought I’d tackle it from a different angle. Rather than trying to get through the crowds at Riverside Park, I decided to start with an uphill walk and then stroll down Cutbush Lane to Mansbridge. Logic told me that this side of the park was likely to be less crowed. The area around Mansbridge is far less populated than Bitterne Park after all.
The uphill walk to get to the top of Cutbush Lane was made more pleasant by bluebells, dandelions and clematis tumbling over a garden fence. The sun was shining and my confidence was high. Once again, there was hardly anyone about on the streets. I saw this as a good sign.
Reaching the cool shade of Cutbush Lane was a relief, although this was tempered by a slight concern about meeting other people along the way. The trail is narrow in parts, and very steep. My walk would be downhill, which is always the preferred direction to my mind, but, if I met anyone coming the other way, things could get tricky. I told myself I’d deal with these problems if, and when, I came to them. In all my past walks along Cutbush Lane, I’d rarely met a living soul except for the odd cat.
The lane runs in a gully through what was once the medieval manor of Mansbridge and Townhill, the reason for the hill part of the name is blinding obvious, especially if you happen to be walking upwards. Originally this leafy lane ran through farmland but, in 1787, Nathaniel Middleton brought the land and turned an existing farmhouse into his residence. On the death of Middleton, William Hallett purchased the estate. A map from 1897, clearly shows how rural the area was back then, and even today, when walking through the steep gully, it is easy to imagine this is a gentle country walk. Well, as long as you don’t look too closely between the trees.
In the mid 19th century, Hallett sold off much of the land to local farmers and, towards the end of the century, Lord Swaythling bought the estate as a country residence for his son. In 1948, almost three hundred acres were sold to Southampton Borough Council for housing and Townhill Park, a suburb of Southampton, was created. Today the world beyond the trees is a mass of council flats and modern houses.
For somewhere so very much in the heart of the bustling city, it is still a surprisingly calm and leafy walk. The dappled sunlight and the decided lack of other humans lulled me into a false sense of security. For a little while I even forgot about the pandemic and social distancing. When I passed the tree that clings so tenaciously to the steep bank it felt like an ordinary day and an ordinary walk.
Onwards I went, to the end of the lane, past the eerily quiet garden centre, where I might have stopped for coffee in a different life, and down Gaters Hill with barely a break in the sheltering trees. Now I had the river to my right. I could see the sunlight sparkling on the water and the meadows beyond. The lack of fishermen lining the banks reminded me this was not an ordinary day or an ordinary walk.
The closed pub was another reminder. The White Swan is somewhere else I might have stopped for a coffee and a rest but every pub in the country was shut. This particular pub is very close to my heart. It’s where I first met Commando. Over the years it has survived many blows, including a fire and countless floods. I couldn’t help worrying that a lockdown might be one disaster too many.
As I walked down the slope towards the bridge a little Christmas bear sitting in the cleft between two tree branches seemed like a good omen. How this little bear got there was one of those wonderful walk mysteries I love to find. I stopped to take his photograph and left him where he was.
If the bear was an omen, I’m not sure now that he was a good one, because this was when my downhill walk flattened out and things took a turn for the worse. There were people on the bridge. On a sunny day this is not unusual. The path is wide enough at that point to avoid them. Even so, they didn’t bode well and my hopes that this end of the park would be empty quickly began to fade. Short of turning around and walking back the way I’d come though, there was nothing for it but to press on.
With a sense of foreboding, I skirted the people on the bridge and set off along the river path. It very quickly became an obstacle course as more and more people appeared. Suddenly, my plan didn’t seem like such a good idea. In hindsight I should have turned back, even if it did mean a steep uphill walk. Instead I decided to keep going, ever hopeful that, when I reached the more open part of the park, it would be empty, or at least I’d be able to keep further away from the people I met.
I didn’t get very far. The first part of the path here has the river on one side and the trees on the other. The ground beneath the trees is boggy and unwalkable, even in the height of summer. Within a few hundred yards those trees give way to open grass, but, before I got to it, I had another encounter. Two young men, by the look of them in their late teens, were cycling towards me. The first moved to my left and cycled close to the trees and I, in turn, moved as close to the edge of the river as I dared. The second young man rode straight at me. Right until the last moment I thought he’d swerve towards the trees and tuck in behind his friend but he didn’t. He stopped with his front wheel within inches of my feet and glared at me angrily. The only place I could have gone was in the river so I stood my ground. After an uncomfortable stand off, the man swore at me and rode off again, far closer than he needed to.
The incident left me shaken and more than a little cross. There was no need for it. I’d moved aside to let him pass and he’d chosen not to. He’d also been too close for comfort when he started swearing. The little Christmas bear now seemed more warning than omen. Disconcerted, I carried on. Just before I reached the open grass I saw a second bear, or given the long ears, perhaps it was a bunny. It was a little grubby and appeared to be sunbathing on top of a bin.
Somewhere, a small child was probably crying over that lost bunny. Hopefully, their parents will have retraced their steps and found it. It was the last photograph I took in the park. As soon as I reached the grass I headed back towards the road. The homeward walk was neither pleasant or flat. As I trudged along the streets, uphill all the way, I decided I would stop trusting in omens of the teddy bear variety and most certainly give the park a wide berth for the foreseeable future.
The White Swan has survived a lot. I’m sure it’s still there. I’ve only ever been inside the once and that was to look for a friend who was supposed to meet me in the car park. It turned out he had the wrong date in his diary.
I once got locked into the outside bit of Haskins. Have I told you about that? It was pretty scary.
The White Swan is open again now. Almost went for a meal there with my son a few weeks ago but his girlfriends got pinged so we had to cancel. Getting locked in Haskins sounds a bit scary.
It was. I was wandering around the outside bit listening to a podcast, so I didn’t hear them saying that the doors would be locked. I assume there was an announcement. It was about 15 minutes before I could get the attention of someone to come and let me out. I was more than a little surprised that no one checked that the there was no one there before they locked the doors.
That sounds quite scary, although I’d rather be locked outside than inside. I worked with someone who got stuck in a lift and locked in a shop overnight years ago. I think I’d be really for the asylum if that happened to me.
I thought I was going to be there for the night, but I eventually saw staff moving around in the shop on their way out and I banged on the doors. I was stuck in a lift once, but that was much less traumatic, even though it was a tiny lift. There were too many people in it, so it hadn’t got very far before it decided to give up and stop. I think we were there about half an hour. Actually, it must have been fairly traumatic,, as it was more than forty years ago and I still remember it.
I don’t like lifts much as I have a fear of being trapped. I’ve been stuck in a lift twice. The first time when I was being shown round a new hotel in Malta. The lift stopped between floors. Thankfully, some Maltese solders were on the floor we were stuck on. They forced the doors open and helped us climb out. The second time was at Reids Palace in Madeira. The lift ran inside a cliff and all the lights went out when it stopped. It was terrifying, but very short lived. It was a good thing it was because I had a plane to catch.
I think the lights going out would have finished me.
It almost did me. I was in charge of a group of travel agents though so had to try to keep calm. Luckily, one of the ladies had a lighter. She calmly lit it so we could see where the emergency button was. It didn’t taken them long to get us out after that and we caught our plane.
What an unpleasant encounter with the rude young man. No wonder you were shaken by the experience. I’m sure it spoiled what had otherwise been a pleasant walk, despite there being too many people. I lost count of the number of people that wouldn’t step to one side, forcing me into a road with my two dogs to keep the required distance from them. There was very much a “I’m not being told what to do” attitude from many.
It was a nasty experience and it did put me off walking along the river. I think the current situation has brought out the best in many people but the worst in a few.
Your photo of Mansbridge brought back happy memories. This stretch of the river was a favourite swimming spot back in the 1960s, although one had to be careful of the long weeds which you could easily get tangled up in. We had a old tyre that someone had tied to a tree branch and on a hot day it was bliss to swing out high over the river and jump into the cold water. That was when the bridge was a choke point on the A27. I recall a coach slowly going by, the passengers watching the crazy kids jumping in the river.
Sorry about your encounter with the idiots on bikes. We had them back in the sixties too. One aspect of my many Southampton walks I was always aware of.
The kids still swim in the river there in the summer. When I was in my late teens i used to frequent the White Swan and a rite of passage was to be thrown in the river on your birthday. I do vaguely remember the days before the new road bridge. It was a route we took to visit my Nan in Bassett Green. The pub on the river always looked like a magical place with lights all around the eves.