Where is my bench?

Friday 13 January may not have been the most auspicious of dates for my inaugural 2023 walk, but it was the first non-stormy day that I felt well enough to risk venturing further than the local shops. It was still cold and windy, so I planned a route that gave me plenty of chances to cut things short if the weather turned nasty or my post-Covid tiredness got the better of me. I began with a slow stroll along the cut way beside the old St Mary’s College playing fields. I wanted to see if building work had started on the site since the College closed.

My old junior school used to hold sports days on these playing fields. They were hot, thirsty affairs, and I hated them with a passion. I had far better memories of long summer holiday afternoons playing on the empty field with my friend Jane, or bonfire nights bundled up in hats and scarves, staring skywards at the annual fireworks displays. The idea of lots of little box houses appearing here makes me quite melancholy, to tell the truth, but so far, nothing much seems to have changed.

Slowly, I trudged up the cut way. It’s a steep old climb, a proper test of my post-Covid fitness, or lack of it. At the top, the first green shoots poking through the soil near the crumbling brick wall gave me an excuse to stop and catch my breath. After crouching for a closer look, I decided they were daffodils. The idea of spring being around the corner made me smile.

The most ambitious version of my plan was to head up towards The Castle — once a pub and focal point of my teenage evenings, but now a Tesco Express. If the climb didn’t kill me, I’d carry on to Woodmill before walking home along the riverbank. Despite the climb, I wasn’t feeling especially tired, so I crossed the road and kept heading upwards. Along the next alley, the sun cast leafy shadows on the fence. At first, I thought someone had painted the alley fences a surprising shade of spring green, but a closer look showed Mother Nature had wielded the paintbrush. The sound of a struggling engine overhead disturbed my pondering over whether she’d used moss or algae.

The hill I meandered up is on the airport flight path. Planes come in so low it feels as if you could reach out and touch them. In such circumstances, a labouring engine is not a pleasant sound. I stopped and scanned the sky. A helicopter circled overhead. From the green and yellow colour, I assumed it was the air ambulance looking for somewhere to land. On such a blustery day, with an unhappy-sounding engine, I was glad I didn’t need its services.

As the helicopter circled lower and lower, I kept climbing, wondering if it would land on the college field or the grass at Riverside Park. When I passed the end of Avon Road, I knew I was closing on the summit of the hill. It was the first time I’d walked this way since they cleared the giant boat from the garden. How strange not to see it there. 

Surprised at the sadness and nostalgia I felt for the lost boat, I carried on climbing. Thoughts of the helicopter curbed any temptation to cut my journey short and take one of the side roads towards the park. If that was where it had landed, I’d sooner not see. Before long, I really was at the top of the hill, one of the highest points on this side of the river. In the distance, I saw the airport runway. Now the only way was down, and a steep old drop it was too.

As I descended, my mind turned to my late teens. Back then, my friend Mel and I often walked this steep road to another favourite pub, The Hop Inn. Memories of the friends we met there, back in the days when we dressed in denim and leather and rode motorbikes, swirled around my head. Where were they all now? Unlike the Castle, The Hop Inn is still a pub. Had it been open, I’d have been tempted to stop for a coffee for old time’s sake. As it was, I crossed the road and headed for the park. A small lake beside the road showed how much rain we have had.

When I reached Woodmill, the water gushed through the open sluice, creating a tidal wave on the shingly shore. The mill is where the river changes from freshwater to salt, and for the next half hour or so, I’d be walking beside the briny waters as they flowed towards the Solent. We have two rivers here, the Itchen and the Test. They meet at Weston Shore and flow together as Southampton Water into the Solent, a strait between the south coast of England and the Isle of Wight. Of course, I wouldn’t be walking as far as that today.

Considering how much rain we’ve had, I thought there’d be a chance of spotting some jelly ear fungus if I stuck to the river bank. Many years ago, I found a spot where they grow, and after wet weather, I stop to look for them. I found the spot, but the tree they grow on was gone. I guess the fungus finally digested it.

Heading back to the main path, there was evidence of several fallen trees. Some, like the jelly ear fungus tree, were fairly small, others much larger. The wind can be fierce along the riverbank, and coupled with boggy ground after heavy rain, it’s hardly surprising to see fallen trees. Generally, the park keepers chop them up and leave them for the insects and fungi to deal with. With luck, one of them will attract more jelly ear fungi because I do love the look of them.

This stretch of riverbank is dotted with benches, and I’d been walking for almost an hour. A particular one was calling me. On the bank near the reed beds, there’s an oak tree. Something about the shape of its branches pleases me. In fact, I’d say it’s my favourite tree in the park. Beneath it is a bench where I like to sit. As I rounded the bend, the sun shone through the bare branches, and I smiled to myself, anticipating a few minutes of peaceful contemplation beside the river.

Then I saw my bench had gone! The paving slabs beneath the tree were still there, but the bench had disappeared. To say I was disappointed would be an understatement. I stood looking at the spot for a long time, hardly able to believe my eyes. No matter how hard I stared, though, the bench didn’t reappear, and eventually, I had to concede defeat and carry on walking.

Walking towards the jetty, I thought about the missing bench. Where could it have gone, and why? Had someone come to the park at night and stolen it? That seemed an unlikely scenario. A great big wooden bench would be hard to carry away. Had it been vandalised, maybe set on fire or thrown into the river? There were no signs of this, and it would hardly have floated away. It struck me that the park keepers might have removed it. Maybe it got damaged? If that’s the case, I hope they replace it because I will miss sitting under the oak tree if they don’t.

While I was feeling miffed about the missing bench, I’d walked into swan territory. There is nothing quite like swans to lift my mood. Curious about the grumpy-looking woman marching along the path, these ones came to have a look at me. Soon, I was surrounded by swans and gulls, all eyeing me greedily, hopeful of being fed.

I had left the bird food at home, so the gulls and swans were out of luck, but I stopped to watch them for a while. I spotted two black swans amongst the crowd of mute swans, along with a few of last year’s mute swan cygnets, their feathers still a dirty brown. By the summer, they will have transformed from ugly ducklings into snowy white swans. With luck, there will be fluffy new cygnets by then.

A while ago, the park keepers planted a row of new saplings at the bridge end of the park. This was the first time I’d seen them close up, and I was pleased to see they all looked healthy. Hopefully, they will provide a little shelter from the biting wind as they grow, and maybe even suck up some of the water when the river overflows its banks.

Cobden Bridge was in sight, so my riverside walk was almost over. The last mile would be boring streets with nothing much to see. A trio of black swans huddled near the bridge. Seeing them reminded me of the days when a black swan on the river was a strange sight. They aren’t natives, and no one knows where they came from. The first arrived about ten years ago, probably an escapee from a collection somewhere. I always felt sorry for him, being the lone member of his species on the Itchen. Then a couple more black swans appeared, and I wondered if they would breed.

In 2015 or 2016, the first black swan cygnets were born. We were ridiculously excited to see them. People came to feed them and take photographs. I’m sure the mute swans must have felt left out. A diet high in white bread isn’t healthy for wild birds. In late 2016, CJ and I saw evidence of the damage it can do with our own eyes. We found a black cygnet with a deformity called angel wing, caused by being fed too much white bread at a young age. Angel wing is incurable. Affected birds can’t fly, and predators often kill them. Seeing the three black swans reminded me of the poor, deformed cygnet, and I wondered what had become of him.

As I left the park, I was still thinking about it. Then something else caught my eye, and my butterfly mind was off on another tangent. On 8 January, I’d seen a post in the Southampton Heritage Photos group. A man called Scott Allen removed and restored the Bitterne Park Triangle sign back in 2018/19. He hadn’t been past for a while and wondered if it still looked good. I’d promised myself I’d have a proper look the next time I passed. Now was my chance.

I’m pleased to say the sign still looks fabulous, and seeing it from the top of the slope with the clock tower featured on it as a backdrop, made me smile. I love that we have these wonderfully quirky signs all over the city, and this one, with the clock tower and the swan, is one of my favourites.

Now, all I had to do was trudge the last mile home. When I set out, I wasn’t sure how far I’d get or how I’d fare with my post-Covid fatigue. It turned out I managed far better than I’d expected, although I’d have liked a little sit on my favourite bench.

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