The last Elizabethan Sunday – Overton

I spent the last Sunday of the second Elizabethan era in Overton, a chocolate box worthy Hampshire village between Andover and Basingstoke. Obviously, I didn’t know it was the last Sunday in Elizabeth II’s reign. Truth to tell, I didn’t know much about Overton, either. My knowledge extended only as far as the Overton Five Mile race I’d come to photograph, and the Bombay Sapphire distillery we’d passed on the edge of the village. Actually, I only knew about the gin factory because I’d noticed the polished metal cylinders as we passed. A little Googling told me the distillery had moved from Cheshire to this disused paper mill, Laverstoke Mill, in 2014. The visitor centre looks well worth checking out, if you’re a gin fan.

My first task, once we’d found the sports field where the race started, was to round up the Hamwic Harriers for a team photo. Behind them, I noticed two things. The first was a church with a graveyard I thought might keep me occupied while the runners were doing their thing. The second was an alarming bank of dark cloud. It looked like I would get wet before the day was over.

Another quick Google search, while the runners were busy discussing the course and their hopes for PBs, told me more about Overton. People have inhabited the area since the Stone Age. Archaeological finds include burial mounds, Roman pottery shards, a Roman Road and strip lynchets (rows of earth terraces used in ancient field systems in Southern Britain). King Edward the Elder gave Uferantun, as it was then called, to The Bishop of Winchester in 909. By the time of the Doomsday Book, the village had many dwellings, several corn mills and had built the church, St Marys, on the far side of the field. A five-mile race wouldn’t give me enough time to explore it all.

While I was trying to work out how much I could fit in during the race, the runners had discovered we weren’t at the start. The race finished on the field we were standing in, but it started on another playing field over half a mile away. Moments later, I found myself caught up in a mass exodus of runners and spectators, heading for the start line. The half-mile walk was mostly uphill, and when we reached the field, there was no vantage point to see the runners set off. Feeling a tad hot and grumpy at wasting valuable exploring time, I set off down the hill again.

Back at the bottom of the hill, Helen and Andy, two of the other disgruntled spectators, went into the pub to drown their sorrows. Had I known that the White Hart dated back to 1442 and was the oldest inn in Overton, I might have joined them, or at least taken a proper photo. Until the railways came in 1854, the White Hart was an important coaching inn on the London to Exeter road. In 1805, Lieutenant John Lapenotiere changed horses there on his way to bring news of the Trafalgar victory and Lord Nelson’s death to London. In 1830, there were serious riots outside, when several hundred angry labourers marched through the village demanding higher wages.

Instead of visiting the historic inn, I turned back towards the finish line. The road crossed the River Test, and earlier, I’d seen evidence of a mill. Caught up amongst the runners, I hadn’t had a chance for a proper look. My brief Googling told me that there were four historic mills in Overton. In 1712, a Huguenot exile called Henri Portal founded Portals Paper Mill on the River Test between Overton and Whitchurch. Seven years later, he bought Laverstoke Mill (now the Bombay Sapphire distillery). These mills helped him win a contract to make banknote paper for the Bank of England. In 1922, the Portals company built Overton Mill, near Quidhampton, where they still produce high-security paper for over one hundred and fifty currencies. According to urban legend, ‘quid’ as slang for pound notes came about because the paper for bank notes was made in Quidhampton. There are many stories about the origin of ‘quid,’ so this is probably apocryphal, but it’s still a good story.

As I crossed the River Test, I looked around for evidence of a mill. Across the road, I saw the name Town Mill on a wall. The building had the look of a mill, but it had obviously been turned into apartments, so I didn’t think any bank note paper was being produced there. Later, I discovered that Town Mill had once been a corn mill, and it was now retirement homes. It would be interesting to see if any of the mill workings remain.

Feeling a touch disappointed not to have found the mill that gave us the word ‘quid,’ I went back to the church. At least I’d have time to poke around the churchyard and look at graves. As I got closer, I noticed that the low wall enclosing the church was flint clad, as were the church walls. Earlier, I’d read that the churchyard was one of the few places in the UK to still have a colony of glowworms. In daylight, I was unlikely to see them, but I had high hopes for interesting graves.

Inside the gate, the war memorial caught my eye. When I stopped to read the names, I was touched to see painted stones and crosses arranged around the tiered base. The lost men of Overton have definitely not been forgotten.

The second thing I noticed was an open church door, a rare sight these days. It tempted me to go inside for a look round, but time was at a premium and rain looked imminent, so I decided to check out the graveyard while I had the chance.

The tower was not flint clad, so I surmised it must be a newer addition to the building. Later, Googling proved me correct. The current building is mainly Norman, but the tower was rebuilt in the fifteenth century, west of the original. The fifteenth-century tower had a wood-clad belfry and a timbered spire. In 1853, soon after it was rebuilt again, a large crack appeared. The new spire had to be removed and the west wall of the church shored up with expensive oak beams. In 1908, the tower was rebuilt for the third time, and a new spire was added in 1913.

In the tower’s shadow, I found a lovely little garden with raised beds and benches to sit and contemplate. Had the race been longer, I might have lingered there, but the graves were calling, and I had the inside of the church to see if there was any spare time.

Behind the church, the graveyard had an enviable view of fields and woods, but it was soon apparent that most graves were too old to read. The hillside site was exposed and windy, which may well have contributed to the weathered graves. One readable grave caught my eye. It belonged to a little girl called Sandra Denise Oates, who died in June 1963, aged two years and eight months. Had she lived, I realised she would be the same age as me.

Most of the other graves were so weathered and lichen-covered that I couldn’t make out a thing. Then a few drops of rain fell, and the dark cloud above the church told me there would soon be more. It was time to see if the church door was still open.

Earlier, I’d only glanced at the door. Now I saw it was hinged in the middle so that it folded in half. The church website dates it to around 1350, and suggests it was locally made. Cautiously, I stepped inside the church, half expecting to find cleaners or clergy working. It was so dark I could hardly see, and I thought I might have to give up and shelter in the porch. Then I realised I was still wearing my sunglasses! Once I’d taken them off, things looked a whole lot brighter.

There is a story that the unusual church door dates from a dramatic incident that occurred in 1390. That Michaelmas, a stranger called John Bentley, arrived at the church seeking sanctuary. He said he had accidentally killed a man. After evensong, a local man, Richard Dingle, distracted Bentley, while Geoffrey the shoemaker and others dragged him to the village stocks. They later sent him to Winchester prison. The Bishop of Winchester, William of Wykeham, was angry to learn that they had violated sanctuary. He petitioned the king to return Bentley to the church until the case was settled, and sent to Overton to find the offenders. Whether they proved Bently guilty or innocent, and what happened to the men who’d dragged him out of the church remains a mystery.

Sadly, there wasn’t much time to explore inside the church, but as usual, my focus was on the stained glass. I dashed about, taking as many photos as I could, none of which turned out especially well. Still, I suppose it gives me an excuse to return another day.

By the time I went back outside, the rain had stopped and the first runners were coming down the hill towards the church. My timing had been perfect. I dashed across the road to my photography duties and managed to capture all the Team Hamwic runners crossing the line. Do they ever wonder what I get up to when they’re running?

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