Old farts railway adventure Portchester

When we got off the train at Portchester station, it was hotter than either of us had envisaged. We’d set out on our Old Farts Railway Adventure knowing it would be warm. It was 25 June, after all. We hadn’t expected the sky to be quite so cloudless or the sun so hot, though. From my previous trip with CJ  in 2015, I knew it was about a mile from the railway station to the castle. A mile is no distance, and at least I knew the way. Even so, when we passed an old-time bus going to and from the station, I was miffed we hadn’t known about it earlier. It would have saved us a hot walk and brought back memories of hopping on and off the dodgy platform at the back as kids. 

Still, if we’d caught the bus, we would have missed all the lovely houses along the way. I do like a bit of house envy, especially when they have a bit of history. Last time, I didn’t take any photos of them, so this time, I made up for my omission. The first to catch my eye was a cottage used during the 18th Century as a Quaker meeting house, and the second was the most beautiful chocolate box thatched cottage.

The next was a touch more imposing. A plaque told us this was once the home of Rear Admiral John Cooke – (17 February 1762–21 October 1805). Cooke was only eleven when he first went to sea aboard the cutter HMS Greyhound, and he later attended the naval academy at Greenwich. He was a naval officer during the American War of Independence, the French Revolutionary War and the Napoleonic Wars. He died during the Battle of Trafalgar in 1805, after sailors from the French ship Aigle boarded his ship HMS Bellerophon. Musketeers and grenadiers had climbed Aigle’s rigging to fire on Bellerophon, and Cooke, standing on the quarterdeck in his uniform coat, was their prime target. His epaulettes told them he was the captain. Wearing them was a mistake, he soon realised. ‘It is too late to take them off. I see my situation, but I will die like a man,’ he said. Aigle’s Captain Pierre-Paul Gourège ordered his crew to board and seize Bellerophon, but Cooke went down fighting. He threw himself at the men invading his ship, shot a French officer, and fought hand-to-hand with the men behind him. He died on the quarterdeck with two musket balls in his chest. His last words were, ‘Let me lie quietly a minute. Tell Lieutenant Cumby never to strike.’ Despite the loss of their captain, his crew drove off the French invaders and ultimately forced Captain Pierre-Paul Gourège to surrender Aigle.

I could have spent the whole morning taking pictures of enviable houses, but Commando kept urging me onwards. We saw the castle, shortly after passing an irresistible pink-painted thatch. Unlike other local castles, such as Southsea and Hurst Castle, which are short squat forts, this is the real deal with a tower, a moat, and a complete circuit of walls. In fact, it is the best preserved Roman fort in Northern Europe.

Last time I visited, CJ and I crossed the stinky moat and entered through the North Postern Gate, one of four gates in the outer bailey. This time, Commando and I headed for the Land Gate. This gate was part of the original Roman defences, but Richard II had it rebuilt in the 1300s as part of his improvements. Of course, I had to stop for photos.

The cool shade under the stone archway was so pleasant it tempted me to stay there for a while. How many other feet had passed this way since the Romans built a fort here in the 3rd century AD? Roman centurions, Saxon settlers, Normans after the Conquest of 1066 when it became a Norman castle, medieval kings on their way across the channel, and prisoners of war. In 1665, the castle was turned into a prisoner of war camp, and they housed prisoners from the French Revolution and the Napoleonic Wars in the tower.

We dashed from the shade of the gateway to the shadow of the tree we saw through it and sat on the grass to recover from our hot walk and drink a little water. Our spot on the grass gave us a great view of the inner bailey. Originally built in the late 11th century, it has been much altered and added to over the years. They built the imposing tower centrepiece in three stages. The first, completed in the 1130s, was only as high as the outer walls. The second stage, completed in the mid 1100s, doubled the height, and they added the crown in the 1320s. During the Napoleonic Wars, they inserted extra floors to squash in more prisoners, up to 8,000 at times. Back in 2015, CJ and I climbed the tower and explored the history of the place. If you’d like to read about it, check out the post linked above because this time I was more interested in the bits we didn’t have time to see before.

A churchyard stands diagonally opposite the inner bailey, built in the 1120s and given to a priory of Augustinian canons by Henry I. The church, St Mary’s, is built from Isle of Wight stone. It has been more or less untouched by the years, but the cloister that once ran between it and the fort has been lost without a trace. Apparently, if you look closely, a scar is visible where the west range joined the church and the remains of the reredorter (lavatories).

We entered the low flint walls of the churchyard by a beautiful wooden lichgate. A sign under the archway told us that this gate had been built in 1897 to commemorate Queen Victoria’s diamond jubilee and was restored as a memorial of the silver jubilee of King George V in 1935. Tempting as it was to stay in the lichgate’s shade, we inched our way into the churchyard. Unfortunately, we were not alone. We quickly realised we’d stumbled into some kind of open day at St Mary’s Church. They had set up marquees, and crowds of visitors queued to get inside the church. Neither of us was inclined to join the queue or be hurried around the church, so after a quick snap of the doorway, we wandered off to look at the graves instead.

Interesting as the ancient graves were, the faded inscriptions proved impossible to read in the bright sunlight, and even peering at the photographs later didn’t help. We wandered for a while, peering at them, but only really made out one. William Lionel Wyllie’s grave stood out, being one of the largest and most ornate. The metal letters made it easy to read. Born on 5 July 1851 in London, he followed in his father, William Morrison Wyllie’s footsteps and became a painter. His chosen subject was the sea and ships. He was a founder of the Society of Nautical Research and campaigned to have HMS Victory restored. One of his most well-known works is a 42-foot panorama of the Battle of Trafalgar, now hanging in the Royal Naval Museum in Portsmouth Historic Dockyard. In 1906, he moved to Portsmouth and formed a close association with the Royal Navy there. In fact, on his death in 1931, they buried him with full naval honours. They rowed his body up Portsmouth Harbour in a Naval cutter. Battleships dipped their colours, bugles played, and dockworkers on the quayside stopped work to watch. 

Eventually, the ever-increasing crowd of visitors and the burning sun became too much. We found what shade we could in the shadow of the walls, but as tempting as the shady bench in a small flint and stone nook looked, the call of the sea breeze outside the castle walls was louder. We stopped briefly to smell the roses of the memorial rose garden and look at the stone labyrinth for the burial of cremated remains, but the Watergate on the other side of the churchyard wall kept calling us.

The Water Gate formed part of the Roman defences of the castle, but was rebuilt in the 1300s. The lower level, made from greensand and sandstone blocks, is late Saxon, and they added later the upper levels in the twelfth century. Much like the Watergate in Southampton’s medieval walls, a portcullis once protected this gateway. Kings and noblemen would have passed through, heading for ships, and they would have unloaded goods coming by sea here. Unlike Southampton’s gate, the sea still laps at the quayside, and a few little sailing boats waited for us outside to give an idea of what it must once have been like.

There wasn’t as much shade outside the walls as I’d have liked, but the sea breeze was more than welcome. We sat on the quay wall for a while, let the wind ruffle our hair and cool us, and drank more water. The huge bottles Commando had scoffed at when we bought them in the little Portchester precinct at the beginning of our journey were almost empty by this time. We thought about walking around the castle perimeter, but the heat put us off. Instead, we looked at the skyline of Portsmouth across the water and picked out landmarks like the Spinnaker Tower.

I noticed a row of curious openings in the wall behind us and wondered what they were. Later, I discovered these were the nine openings of the reredorter cut through the Roman wall. Presumably, this was where the effluent came out to be washed away by the tide. It probably wouldn’t have been the best place to sit in medieval times.

Due to the heat and the need to ration our water supply, we plumped for a different path back to the station. Last time we visited, I’d noticed a waterside trail, but I’d been too concerned about getting lost to take it. This time, the idea of walking beside the sea and the chance of the shade outweighed my worries. At first, I thought I might have made a mistake. The narrow path took us past the Portchester Sailing Club and zigzagged along the shoreline without the slightest hint of shade.

When we spotted some huge buildings on the waterside, Commando recognised Trafalgar Wharf, where he’d worked occasionally during his days as a shipbuilder for Vosper Thorneycroft. Before we reached it, we turned off onto a shadier-looking path through Castle Shore Park.

What a relief to be out of the sun at last! The final part of our journey was far more pleasant. We even stumbled upon a mysterious building, half hidden by the trees. What it was remains a mystery, but it gave us something to talk about as we walked. We also saw a sign on a wall to make us smile.

We stopped off in the little precinct to replenish our water supplies and buy a much needed ice cream, and made it back to the station just in time to catch our train home. On the journey, a young lady entertained us by loudly trying to impress her male companion with tales of how she planned to make a fortune by becoming an ‘influencer.’ Somehow, I kept my laughter under control. This Old Farts Railway Adventure malarkey is the gift that keeps on giving.

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