sea, ruins and melting snow

3 Fenruary 2015

Pretty soon I was crunching through the snow around the corner, where the Seaweed pub used to stand, to the shore. Beside me snow was caught in the seed heads of the swaying grasses and I could see a ragged line of white where the shingle beach should be. Despite the dark clouds everything looked sparkling and bright. The brooding snow cloud on the horizon almost hid the towers and spires of Fawley on the other side of the water but the sun was doing battle with them, trying hard to burn through.  Across the road the little beach shelters looked lonely on the empty foreshore, it seemed as if I was the only person in the world, with the whole beach to myself.

It felt like I should be running across the road to the sea, as I had as a child, but instead I stood on the crisp snow of the foreshore and looked out. Even the sea was empty but there were tracks in the snow and on the low wall of the promenade telling me others had been this way before me. There was no way of telling where the grass ended and the shingle began apart for the feeling of the stones moving under the snow as I followed the footprints towards the beach shelter. A familiar womp, womp, womp sound made me look out to sea where three swans were taking to the sky in an ungainly fight against gravity. Swans don’t fly that often and, when they do, I always seem to be in the wrong place to get a decent photo. This time they were just tiny specks on the water heading toeards my home. Perhaps the sea here was too cold and exposed and they were seeking shelter.

When they disappeared out of sight I carried on along the promenade towards West Wood and Abbey Hill. Above me in the flats a window opened and someone looked out for a moment then closed it again. At the playground I’d expected to see children throwing snowballs or building snowmen but the swings and the sunken ship were deserted. When I reached the end of the promenade the trail running through towards Netely was a mass of tracks, feet and wheels with a few gull footprints mixed in but still there was no one about. The waves lapping at the sparkling snow seemed loud when everything else was so silent. Even the gulls bobbing on the water were quiet.

Originally I’d meant to turn back at this point but I was enjoying my walk, seeing the familiar in a new light under this thin blanket of white. I didn’t want it to end and thought I’d go just a little further to see West Lodge, one of my premier house envy properties. Walking along the cycle path, the white topped rustic fences and contorted branches of bare trees lit by a dim sun had an otherworldly quality. This is usually such a busy path and the emptiness added to the illusion. When I turned to look back along the deserted shore it felt good to have all this to myself.

West Lodge was built as a lodge for a Netley Castle and, in around 1885, Col. Sir Henry Crichton had it remodelled in a romantic gothic style by John Dando Sedding. Sadly it fell into disrepair and, a few years ago the little cottage was delightfully derelict but on the verge of falling down altogether. Thankfully someone stepped in and renovated it, building an extension very much in keeping with the original. Every time I pass it makes me smile but also gives me a stab of jealousy that I don’t live there. Seeing it with a sprinkle of snow on the roof looking even more like a fairy tale house made me gasp with awe. Imagine waking to the sound of the sea on the shingle and a view through the trees to the shore every morning! It would be heaven on earth.

It was hard to tear myself away but a new plan was forming. By now I wasn’t too far from Netley Abbey and, although I knew the big wrought iron gates would be closed. it was too good an opportunity to miss. After all, when would I have the chance to see the abbey surrounded by snow again? I followed the trail past the sailing club and the trees twisted and bent by the sea winds. Netley castle was a silhouette on the horizon as I turned up towards the Abbey.

For a moment, as I waited to cross the road, I thought the gates might be open and I’d be able to wander around the abbey. This turned out to be nothing but wishful thinking though, they were firmly closed when I reached them. Luckily the bars are widely spaced and, by putting my hands and phone through, I was able to take a photo of the ruins standing amid a field of virgin white with an icing sugar dusting on the tops of the crumbling walls.

The ruined medieval monastery is one of the best preserved Cistercian monasteries in southern England but is only open to the public in the summer months which is a shame, especially on days like these when some beautiful photos could be taken. It was founded in 1239 and, for three hundred years, the monks were generous in their hospitality to travellers. In 1536 the Dissolution of the Monasteries brought this golden era to an end and time and weather have left it just a shell of its former glory. From pervious trips I knew there were a couple of gaps in the hedge around the perimeter fence and I managed to get two more shots, slightly obstructed by trees and undergrowth before conceding defeat and turning back to the shore.

Back in sight of the castle The first humans I’d seen since I reached the shore were walking their dogs who were dashing back and forth in the snow chasing a ball. The dark clouds seemed to be gathering again and the sun was losing its battle against them, looking more moon than sun. Maybe there’d be more snow. A new plan began to form. If I walked back along the shore to the Itchen Bridge I could either walk or catch a bus to town and visit the old walls. Then again, it might rain and that would be the end of the snow.

There was no time to lose so I made my way down to the sea wall. In the spring the wall crumbled under the onslaught of the violent spring tides and there are piles of rubble all along the shingle path. Further along some of the path actually collapsed and is still cordoned off. Soon I was back on the promenade passing the painted tower blocks that dominate the skyline. There were swans on the water. Maybe the ones I’d seen flying earlier had come back or perhaps these were different swans.

I crossed the shingle to get a closer look and they swan towards me. When I left them they swan after me for a while before sensing I had nothing for them and giving up. By the time I made it to the wave benches at the other end of the shore the sun was winning its battle again. There was blue sky ahead and everywhere the sound of dripping as the snow began to melt. Walking towards Woolston it was obvious I’d never make it across the bridge, bus or no bus, before the snow disappeared.

While I’d been walking through a snowy landscape I hadn’t for one moment felt tired. Even the most mundane things looked interesting. Now, as the snow melted until I took my Yak Trax off because they were now more hinderance than help, so did my energy and enthusiasm. The uphill walk towards the village seemed to take forever and, for the first time all day, my fingers and nose felt cold. I’d been looking forward to a snow bound church on Peartree Green but, by the time I got there, hardly any snow was left. Now all I could think of was the cup of warming hot chocolate I’d make when I got home.

When I left the house, just before nine, the world was a winter wonderland of shimmering white. Now, just after midday, the crystalline beauty was disappearing before my eyes. Here and there the odd patch of dripping white remained on a patch of lichen, a fallen branch, the top of a wall turning the moss into an alpine forest. Snow is a transient thing, especially in southern England where we get so little of it. It brings out the curious child in all of us. Sadly, this time is was far more short lived than I’d hoped. By the time I walked down the hill to my own little garden there wasn’t a trace left. It was fun while it lasted.