Poole, Dorset...................
The bustling Quay resonates new alongside old, history and the here and now rub along side by side. There are fishing vessels from small shellfish dredgers and potters to flat bottomed ?Poole Canoes? used for navigating the harbour shoals and shallows. All of which jockey and jostle alongside the shiny ocean going gin palaces being built and sea trialled by the artisans and mariners of Sunseeker. The quay itself is an eclectic and charming mix of historic pubs and warehouses between which narrow alleys such as Paradise street, and Cinnamon Lane. There is a mix of trendy brassieres, fish restaurants and old smugglers pubs. The Poole Arms is one of the oldest pubs on the ?New Quay? dating back to the early 17th century and has distinctive livery, being entirely veneered in bottle green tiles. One of the most interesting hostelries is the King Charles abutting the old harbour office, which is currently occupied by the Coast Guard. This pub dates from 1788 when it came into being due to the Town Cellars being cut in two to open up Thames St. As you enter The Street from the Quay the Town Cellars now form part of the Waterfront Museum on the right. Look carefully at the roof ridges of the two buildings and you can see they align perfectly, haven once been joined. The 15th century cellars we see today stand on the foundations of an even earlier stone building dating from the 14th century or even earlier and at one time was reputed to be the longest building in England. It was around this building in 1405 that fighting raged when the town was attacked by Spanish raiders in retaliation for raids on their northern coast carried out by Harry Paye, the famous Poole Pirate! The main section of the King Charles was built in Tudor times, hence the timber-framed walls and oriel windows. Inside, the old roof beams, panelling and an original fireplace remain. The pub, which is reputed to be haunted, was named after King Charles of France, who landed her on his way to exile in 1830. The Custom House which is close by was the scene of an attack by the notorious and extremely violent Hawkhurst gang from Sussex. In 1748, the gang were waiting on the Sussex shore for the arrival of a cutter by the name of "The Three brothers" with her large cargo of brandy, tea and rum from Guernsey. Unfortunately for the smugglers, the vessel was intercepted off the Dorset coast by a customs cutter called the "Swift". After a chase, lasting for seven hours the captain and her crew surrendered and the vessel with its illegal contents was escorted to the port of Poole.
The goods which amounted to a two ton consignment of tea, thirty-nine casks of brandy and rum and some coffee were seized and stored in the Custom House at Poole. When the gang heard about what happened to the cutter, they assembled a raiding party and attacked the Customs House to rescue their contraband. The Custom Service were so incensed by the assault on the Custom House that they offered a large reward to anyone who could identify the perpetrators. The events which played out are a bloody story of betrayal, kidnap and murder by means most foul. However, in the end one by one the members of the gang were caught, over a period of six months including their gang leader Thomas Kingsmill. The smugglers were soon prosecuted, convicted and executed. Their corpses were gibbet in irons and chains, then displayed in their own villages as reminder of the brutality of their dreadful crimes.
Boating trips from the Old Quay past Brownsea Island, Lilliput and on to Sandbanks, then passing close by Bramble Bush bay in the lea of South Haven Point. On through the race of the narrow harbour entrance hugging the northern shore of the Isle of Purbeck. This avoids the melee of other craft as they navigate either side of the clanking chain ferry or floating bridge, which connect the ?Isle? to mainland Dorset. There are fishing boats drifting for line caught bass, small potting tubs and all manner of sailing and motorised pleasure boats. With Poole?s glorious golden strip to port side basking under blue flags and even bluer sky?s, we pass the golden arc of Shellbay and the broad spit of marram and lyme grassed dunes that defend the inner harbour from the open sea. Once round the ?Training Bank?, which is a long rib of boulders that are submerged for most of the time by the tide, and for this reason are marked by posts to aid safe passage, we head over to South Beach. Here in the shelter of Old Harry?s Chalky cliffs we can moor up and make our way up the little Gwyle to the Bankes Arm?s, host of ?The Studland Beer Festival?. There we can sit in a field nestled in the bosom of the Purbecks over looking Studland and Poole Bays. The view east of the Solent, Isle of White and Hampshire only serve to reinforce that Dorset although sitting betwixt the south east and south west is not only spiritually ?West Country? but the gateway to it. Tucking into thick crust pasties, apple cake, Blue Vinny with cider chutney, served with Dorset Knobs, all washed down with beers such as Betty Stogs, Fossil Fuel and Boondoggle. All this whilst being entertained by a quartet of ruddy cheeked, banjo, accordion and fiddle playing, Amish bearded ?janners?. The brightly clad ?Morris men of Minterne Magna ? skip, weave and peel through an arch of blades until the ?Master Rapper? holds a "nut" of locked swords aloft. The Master skips in a semi circle presenting the ?nut? of interlocked blades, which are formed into a hybrid of Celtic cross and the Star of David as if in a Pagan-Judean offering. Next up is ?Spank the Plank? an Appalachian clog dancing troupe to show us what River Dance could have been had Michael Flatley been born in Eastern Tennessee instead of Chicago Illinois. The eclectic crowd, made up of a smattering of locals looking like farm hands from ?Far from the Madding Crowd?, mixed with ?Posh? families attired in deck shoes, hockey and rugger shirts, long weekending in holiday cottages, on the Blyton/Ransome trail, who in turn are rubbing shoulder to shoulder with the D&G/Tommy H clad hoy-poloy estuarinal home-county dwellers; all of whom look on with equal bemusement at the various acts on stage. As the day wears on and the Wurzels tribute band do a final encore of ?the combined harvester song?, serious Bluesy-Folk-Rock bands take to the stage. As the light fades the names of the ales selected get more interesting - Bladdered Badger, Fursty Ferret and Thirsty Thatcher?s Triple X Barley Wine. By the end of what passes for a cultural evening in South Dorset, more ?Glastonbury? than Glyndebourne, you find yourself all a glow from a combination of getting on the outside of two much strong ale whilst baring to much pale flesh and rolling around in a sunny field like a pig on a spit. Eventually as darkness falls and suffering from the ?multiplying eye?, you stumble back to the beach to sleep the sleep of the happily over sated.
Ad-hoc cricket matches on Long Island, best when the new moon and spring tide dry off the little spit into our own ?Lords? for an hour or two. Where the chance of scoring a six by hitting the ball onto the ?main land? of the Arne peninsular recedes as the tide turns and the wicket is moved back up the beach to prevent the out fielders from drowning. Many chances go begging as the young slips seem more intent on gathering crabs, cockles and razor fish than diving for edged googlies! As Boycott would say ?me old granny could?ve caught that in er pinney!? You can?t beat the sound of wood on willow in a rural British setting on a Sunday afternoon in August. Or in our case the sound of soggy, Cairn terrier tampered tennis ball against plastic. The young batsman with a shock of blond hair offers a wafting flashing blade of a shot. Which connects with more of a ?thwack? than a knock, as a thick edge sends the water logged ball over the head and through the fingers of silly mid-off. The shot as played, serves to remind of young David Gower at his brilliant but fragile best. Parental encouragement comes from square leg, ?come on play every ball on its merits. That was far too wide, now concentrate!? At least the setting could not be more rural. Where else in England can you be less than two miles from the centre of a conurbation of over 400.000 people and yet be so completely isolated from the modern and urban?
The grounds men here are mullet, flounder and wading birds, so the wicket needs a bit of attention and the pavilion is a blanket on the beach, but no cricket pitch has a better back drop to lift the sprit. The winter blanket of dank earthy hues have now long past. Having given way to a quilted brocade of riotous colour made all the more varied by the quality of light, as blue sky meets green water, and farmland, ancient woods and pine stands encroach into the lowland heath. There are the purples, moves and crimson of the heather, gold?s from brilliant yellow to mustard ochre provided by the gorse and broom, and verdure of all hues as the bracken oak, ash and pine spread their foliage. The texture and relief of the landscape illuminated by ever changing light, causes the colours to bleed into one another as the paint on an impressionist?s canvass.
On some occasions and if conditions are favourable, with a westerly breeze pushing a blanket of cloud east just as the sun starts to close on the western horizon. It is as when the master baker opens the oven to check the ?glow of the wood. The affect is that of basking the islands and hills in a warm embracing glow. The lengthening shadows of the quarries, ridges and spires draw east and are contrasted against the blanket of Klimt like burnished gold?s being laid down on the land like a magic fleece draped from the west. No structure natural or mason built wears this better than the skeletal remains of Corfe. Sat as it is on its little hill, plugging the gap in the ridge, it turns from grey Purbeck stone, to luminous gold and then to the Perugia blood orange hue of a castle in the setting Umbrian sun. With a last appeal turned down, the light is offered and the Stumps are pulled. The picnic packed and blankets folded its back to the boats. Then against this back drop of shallow reedy creeks reflecting and blurring the barriers of heaven and earth in all its natural majesty, we embark for the short trip back to the twenty first century. It?s as if Cezanne selected the palate, Turner the lighting and Jekyll had agreed the planting scheme. Sometimes the contemplation of creation over evolution is forced upon us.
Poole, Dorset!