Back in January 2014, I wrote a post about a famous Southampton landmark. It wasn’t the Bargate, the medieval walls, the Civic Centre, or any of the usual monuments; it was a giant boat in a humble garden in Midanbury. To be honest, it was more of an analogy than a history, a cautionary tale about things getting out of control and ignoring the elephant in the room — or the boat in the garden. Sadly, Peter Bromley, the man who built this unintentional folly, has now passed away, aged 93, and, this week, the boat was finally dismantled. Avon Road will never be the same.
More myths than facts surround this modern-day monument. As far as I can tell, Mr Bromley, an engineer, or a maths teacher, depending on who you believe, began work on his dream in around 1962. Some say he built it to sail around the world; others say he was refused planning permission for an extension, so he built a boat instead. Jokers say he had a premonition about a flood. I’m inclined to believe the former, but I’m sad that he never got to live his dream. Whatever his reasons, I can’t help but admire his tenacity and skill.
So why, after sixty years, did this lovingly crafted catamaran never make it to the River Itchen? Again, there are a host of answers, ranging from the sublime to the ridiculous. He ran out of money and never managed to complete it. His wife became too ill to sail, so he abandoned the idea. The cost of moving it was too great. Moving it would damage the surrounding buildings. Aircraft use it for navigation, so it can’t be moved. The most plausible explanation is that it’s just too big to move. The size of crane needed to lift it, combined with the width of the catamaran, would undoubtedly have made it a very tight squeeze on the narrow, hilly roads of Midanbury. The river may be less than a mile away, but getting to it might well be impossible, especially considering the depth of the water and the height of the bridges it would need to pass under.
Whatever the real reason, and I suspect there was more than one, it never did make it to the water. In recent years, I imagine it wouldn’t have floated if it had because it had deteriorated badly. It may not have made it to the river, but the boat was finally moved this week. Unfortunately, it was dismantled piece by piece and taken away in a truck rather than sailing off into the sunset.
I didn’t get the chance to see the slow demise myself. I’m not sure I’d have wanted to witness it even if I had. It would be like watching someone’s dreams torn apart. Matthew Wills @NavalAirHistory, did see it. He even took a series of photographs and posted them on Twitter. Very kindly, he has allowed me to share them.
I suppose the end of this era was always inevitable. Nothing lasts forever, and a boat in the garden of a humble house is not a monument. Perhaps some of the neighbours will be glad to see it gone. Others may well miss living beside such a well-known local feature. The next incarnation of Google Maps will certainly be less interesting without it, and Midanbury will be far less colourful. I wonder if it will go down in local legend like other lost features? Will people talk about the giant boat in the same way as they do about Six Dials or The Stag Gates, or will it be forgotten in a few years and become nothing but an urban myth? Whatever happens, I’d like to think that Peter Bromley is looking down from a boat somewhere and feeling proud of all he achieved.
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The 21st century was not kind to Peter Bromley’s catamaran, and while it was becoming decrepit it will be a loss to the neighbourhood. I grew up with it. Aged ten I moved to Midanbury Lane in 1962, a little over 150 yards up hill from where it was built, and, in 1969, I was taught maths at Richard Taunton’s Collage by Mr Bromley himself.
I had a few brief chats with him over the years (the last around 1974/5 I would guess) and I can confirm he built the vessel in hopes of Shanghaiing his wife into joining him for an epic cruise.
As for launching it, he assured me that it had been designed so that it could be transported by a large flatbed lorry and loaded by a vehicular mobile crane. I cannot recall discussing where he intended to launch it.
Thinking on it, there should have been a ceremony — an unlaunching? — before breaking the boat up. Drinking the champaign rather than smashing a bottle of it on the bow.
Thank you for adding your memories. I love the idea of an unlatching ceremony. I do wish he’d managed to live his dream though.
Wow this boat was always part of my childhood, grew up in Bitterne Park, went to the Secondary school and played in Deep Dene, always walked by this, it was my friends uncle who owned it. Many happy memories. Thank you for sharing as I now live in Yorkshire and wouldn’t have known it was being removed.
Thank you. I’m glad to bring back some happy memories. I was sad to learn about the boat going though. It’s been a part of my life too.
I spent the first few years of my life in Summit Way in the late ’60s and early ’70s, before moving to Townhill Park (where my mum still lives). This boat was a local landmark, so familiar to me that I eventually barely noticed it because I’d passed it so often. I remember being told by my father that the hull was made from concrete, although that could also be another one of the urban legends associated with it! It’ll be weird seeing the space where it stood for all of those years when I next pop home.
I have yet to walk past. I’m not looking forward to it because I’m sure it will make me feel sad.
That may be true! Ferrocement yachts were pretty common in the 60s and 70s, I think there’s probably a good few around nowadays.