Tracks across the UK 1.
Station stops 1–3
Isle of Wight and Portsmouth journey log
Day 1. Travel day.
As myself and Nadia, my lovely wife and adventure buddie, board the Train to Portsmouth and Southsea, and shuffle into first class. Bought for the comfort of social isolation and anxiety reduction. We spot the man next to us.
He has set up with a full play mat and set of Pokemon cards. He sits there quietly and diligently sorting through his collection as Nadia chooses to knit her journey away, stopping briefly to take a picture of me on her instax mini neo as we get properly settled.
Partly through our journey, just after the train separated in two at Horsham station, I chose to take a much needed toilet break.
After coming to find the first toilet broken I had no choice but to hazard the full length of the train. The further down I got, the more like a chaotic post apocalyptic society it became.
Feet on chairs minus shoes, men and women sat legs akimbo with their whole groin on display in some misplaced display of power, dominance, or sexual pre mating ritual, like a dancing spider waving it’s front legs in the air desperately, with much less grace. Bags and debris strewn along the floor.
Coming, finally, to what looked to be a crash site on the A1. Two buggies, a mobility scooter, and a wheelchair all crammed into one small section, unable to dock into the trains proper section correctly due to a single man with an empty buggy taking up the one fold down seat in the way.
Very carefully navigating my way around the encumbered section with the skill and poise of Nathan Drake climbing the side of a crumbling Fort, one point literally climbing around the outside of the room by clinging onto the hand holds above the double doors, I masterfully, barely made it to my destination. The disabled toilet.
The toilet, the one with the big round sliding door mechanism, built for wheelchair users, was not in much of a state compared to the first, its broken locking button leaving me at threat of being revealed like a prise on a lost episode of bullseye. “And bully’s special prize!!!” … “oh its a pissing man, unt that lurvely!”
Somehow the journey back became all the more treacherous with the addition of two bicycles in a doorway, blocking the seating area I needed to pass through to return to my safe haven.
As the train passed over the bridge to the island of Portsmouth I recounted Nadia with a story of the time I walked home from a slipknot gig at midnight.
The trains had stopped at 11:30 and if I wanted to get home at good time, walking was still the faster option than waiting for the first train back in the morning and hoping the service would let me on with my at that point day old ticket.
On my three hour walk I remembered passing a car dealership, or maybe old car park, and seeing a man in a hoodie jabbing at the car windows with a long stick of wire failing to jimmy the door open.
I quietly acknowledged me and him, Respectfully keeping our distance until I was finally out of view.
I should have stopped, offered to keep quiet, and asked for a lift.
While waiting for the change of train at Fratton station a young Irish man came up to me, “do you know this place?”
“I, er, well I used to a long time ago…”
“Do you know where the best place to get off for a bus would be? Apparently there is a big bus depot…”
“Oh er.. I’d say Portsmouth and Southsea then…”
Arriving at Portsmouth Harbour you’re immediately confronted with the sight of the HMS warrior ( Latitude 50.7982° N, Longitude 1.1092° W)
Built in 1860, the HMS Warrior, was a 40-Gun Steam-Powered Armoured War Frigate. It and the HMS Black Prince, were the first pair of Armour-plated, Iron-Hulled, warships to be built for the Royal Navy. They had been in reaction to the building of France’s first ironclad ship, the Gloire, the year earlier. Although that ship was only built with a wooden hull.
Being eventually decommissioned in 1883, the ship was later used as a storeship and depot ship, serving as the Royal Navy’s torpedo training school from 1904.
In 1927 it was converted into an oil jetty, which it stayed as until 1979, when it was donated to the Maritime trust to undergo restoration.
She has been based in Portsmouth since 1987, sitting now both directly outside of the Harbour train station, and the entrance to the historic docks.
It’s an impressive sight, although not as impressive as I remember it being, even as recently as five years ago. Maybe it’s the presentation, or the position has changed, or maybe its the renovations to the area, but it just doesn’t hold quite the same mystique as it did.
Quickly we realised that the hovercraft station for crossing to the Isle of Wight was more than a fair few minuets away.
It wasn’t long before Ned (Nadia) pointed out that all the signs at Portsmouth and Southsea station said that there was the place to get off for the hovercraft. As did the big bus and transport hub at Portsmouth Harbour station…
Oh dear…
Immediately my mind went back to the Irish man who had asked me for directions, I had sent him in entirely the wrong direction. It felt almost an instant and appropriate karmic punishment, now having sent myself on my own self inflicted wild goose chase as I plod across the historic dock city dragging an oversized suitcase behind and already tired wife behind me.
We’ll be back in Portsmouth in a few days time, so i won’t cover too much more about that here, but there was an odd melancholy in much of the cost, and that feeling carried over to the island itself, via the high speed, high risk, high stakes hovercraft!
(N 50°47'6.6347" W 1°6'0.2823" )
The Wightlink hovercraft is literally the last of a dyeing breed, being the only active hovercraft travel service still active in the UK.
Certainly the oldest running in the world.
It has the air, no pun intended, of a lost time period. A nebulous age where we dreamed of flying cars, robot butlers, and the solution for world hunger, and it was just the next step on the path to that dream utopia being realised.
Much like a lot of Portsmouth and the Isle of wight, it’s clinging onto the past and with that comes that hidden decay. A decay and melancholy that works at quietly eating away at things, driving society to cling to what it thought were great, instead of investing in building on to the real potential good of that old imagined future.
Once we disembarked at Ryde, we immediately hopped onto the local rail service, and made for Sandown.
The Island Line Railway was not quite as I had remembered it from one of my past visits as a child. Back then it seemed to be constructed from disused 100 year old reclaimed tube trains. Driven with the freewheeling energy of a stunt driver going through a breakdown of his marriage, they would careen at speeds of over 100 times the speed of sound as the inside rattled and vibrated itself into individual parts. Terrifying and exhilarating in equal measure.
These days the service seems to have modernised, or my memory is just corrected from that of a perpetually terrified seven year old, with much better, but not less London style tube trains running all the mainlanders back and forth along its short but busy service. It was also staffed, much as we’d find, like the bus service, by the lovliest staff iv’e ever had the pleasure of being served by. It seemed everyone working on the island (at least who interacted with me) was instinctively lovely at all times. A mix of pleasant and friendly, while also giving as few fucks as possible in the best way. Maybe that lovely smiling woman will come and ask for your ticket this journey, maybe she wont, whatever. Lets go get a nice cup of relaxing tea.
The line only runs along the east coast of the island, servicing along past our location, Sandown, and through to finish at Shanklin. It would eventually necessitate the use of the local buses in time.
(Sandown beach N 50°39'13.0878" W 1°9'13.8314" )
Our first evening on the island and in the coastal town of Sandown was one of moist exploration and investigation, arriving during a light rainstorm as we did.
This need for exploration was mostly due to our arriving at the hotel ten minuets early.
“Its only ten minuets wait” the woman at the front desk said, “you could book in early for an extra ten pounds, But it’s not really worth it”
Instead we went for a brief walk along the seafront, taking shelter at a bench to rest from our journey. We shouldn’t have.
Returning at a few minuets past three to find a monumental line waiting to book in.
The line was quickly becoming unruly and the hotel staff took the unprecedented choice to turn up the music playing over the radio in the lobby, partly in the hope it would drown out the complaints of guests at the back, and partly in the hope that Sade’s classic “smooth operator” would lull everyone to sleep.
We just danced and laughed as everyone around is became ever more perturbed at the state of things.
I had to lean into ned’s side and whisper into her ear, “kind of an ironic song choice”. Everyone was so miserable, I was sure we would be chased out of town before the end of the week for being witches, or demons. We absolutely didn’t fit in.
Later in the evening we took a walk to get an idea of all the local sights. Also I had set us the pointless arbitrary goal of finding us some fish and chips for dinner, it only seemed right, with us staying on the coast.
After two hours of fruitless searching we visited a classic british amusement pier, this one still featuring a string of fun photo stands. You know the type where you pop your head through and snap a hilarious picture of yourself in a ridiculous situation. Except the ones here were the remnants of the 1970’s, aping the gaudy old seaside postcards that used to be a staple of the great british coastal resort. All mullets, sexist jokes, and sizisem. Bleached into ugly muted yellows by the suns angry lazer powers, left as a pathetic and dirty remnant of the past.
Further down the pier, in the rain, we watched with curious glee as two people spun around on the dodgems alone. Local radio blaring out over the speakers as the rides operator stood in the booth, cigarette dangling out of his mouth, barely kept alive and warm by its dim light, and his quiet disdain of all that should visit him there at the end of the world.
Further still, at the end of the pier sat a set of rickety metal stairs leading down to a concrete topped fishing pier. Curled around like the tip of a tail to a stunted end. Damp, windy, and miserable, our highlight was finding a dropped empty packet of Tesco cooked shrimps under a random storage box.
All I could picture was a middle aged man stood there alone, at his emotional end, mindlessly wandering down here to find himself at the whims of the sea and the weather, shovelling damp defrosted prawns directly into his mouth, dashed with the wind and the rain, as tears ran down his face…
Back in the town itself we looped around the local streets in a desperate attempt to find cooked food. Over and over again all we found were boarded up shops, destroyed hotels, and abandoned buildings. A sign of a town in the far side of decline, unwilling to change or even admit admit its being sick.
Finally googling a local shop due to open, we pressed on, stumbling entirely upon a totally different chip shop, that had previously appeared to be abandoned, but had finally opened through some mix of good fortune and magic. And it would have to be magic, as we had passed the shop much earlier, and it was devoid of any obvious equipment or seating. Maybe it was our journey, maybe it was the light, or maybe the whole town is under a magic spell that disguises working food outlets as shuttered wastelands until the sun has gone down and they spring into existence once again like a scene from Spirited Away.
(N 50°39'16.1487" W 1°9'13.281 )
The happy haddock, 53 high Street, was the saviour of our first night.
It wasn’t exactly providing the best fish and chips I’d ever seen, but as apparently the only shop actually running, it was the best we could hope for. Its the type of shop with the classic smiling fish logo. Little does he know what they do with his kind.
As for the food, the chips were cut as thick wide chunks, and the fish was battered to the point of being an, over dry, overly crispy crunch.
It wasn’t the best I’d ever tasted, but so far this week, it was the best I’d managed to find, so it was leading in quality via a technicality, so well done them.
Day 2: A deeper look at Sandown
Along the beach, beside the coastal road, atop it’s wall, lay a long string of granite tiles. Atop each is engraved a different message, a dedication to a beloved person, or pet, often lost years ago.
But, this doesn’t seem to be a dedication exclusively to the dead, although a large number are, it seems literally anything can be added. Marriage proposals, one off messages of encouragement, strange mystery clues to lost treasures, anything!
Nestled between “Gloria, to know her was to love her” and “Colin, you are the wind beneath my sails” is the occasional, “Butch, once a mod , always a mod” or “top bloke”. It feels oddly like a stone guestbook, visitors signing their names when they see it under your geocities front page, except here the front page is the Atlantic ocean, and what has been written is a dirty limerick about an old lady peeing in the sea. Ok, maybe that also would be in a geocities guestbook.
Seems all the more fitting that a seated shelter directly in front of these has a message scrawled on its underside simply reading “gods shelter”.
Myself and ned found these messages at 01:30 as we went out, unable to sleep, and wandered the streets, looking out to the ocean, listening to it as it crashed in against the absolute silence, and back out into the pitch black void beyond.
After our nights adventure ned and myself ensured to wake up nice and early at the crack of dawn… 09:00…
From the damp and overcast weather of the day before, the days clear and sunny skies were a nice and welcome change. We had plans to hit a few spots specifically around Sandown itself, expanding out across the rest of the island in the following days.
That went out of the window after we spotted a possible lighthouse on the cliffs when we first arrived. Except, as a consequence of our being awake during the darkest hours of the night, it was clear that the phallic object didn’t shine any kind of light.
Perhaps it was decommissioned, or maybe a war monument… we couldn’t not know.
So with a bottle of iron bru and a whole lot of gusto we made the long slow climb up the sides of the northern cliffs.
It’s funny how quickly a place can win you over. From the decay and despair of a dead a dyeing town, to the startling and beautiful sight of a seaside cove reborn in the new day sun, we had a near 180 degree turnaround from our experience the day before.
Looking down on the town and bay of Sandown in the mid morning sun, with the pristine blue sky broken only by the perfect fluffy white clouds, has with it the same energy as a Ghibli movie. The feel of being in a bay in Spain or Greece, if you were to see the view from the right angle you’d be forgiven for not knowing it wasn’t.
We joked that Porko Rosso would be set there, as a light aircraft from the local airport appeared as if by some kind of magic overhead and glided out oversea.
A little over an hour and a half climb later we finally made it to the top of the cliffs. Immediately two things became clear as we arrived at the small village at the top.
Firstly, in the glory of the late morning, the view just became all the more beautiful. On the exact right spot it’s almost possible to see clearly across every part of the island, over the ocean to the mainland, and along the coast from Portsmouth, Hayling Island, Wittering, and I wouldn’t be shocked if it were possible to see some of Lemington… it was just that clear.
Secondly, it wasn’t a lighthouse.
(N 50°40'1.2912" W 1°6'19.5563" )
Built in 1849, the monument to the Earl of Yarborough stands, atop the highest point of Culver Down.
It’s inscription reads: TO THE MEMORY
OF
CHARLES ANDERSON PELHAM
EARL OF YARBOROUGH
BARON YARBOROUGH
OF YARBOROUGH IN THE COUNTY OF LINCOLN
BARON WORSLEY
OF APPULDURCOMBE IN THE ISLE OF WIGHT
D.C.L. F.R.S. F.S.A.
WHOSE BENEVOLENCE KINDNESS, HEART
AND
MANY VIRTUES
ENDEARED HIM TO ALL WHO KNEW HIM
THIS MONUMENT
WAS ERECTED
AS TESTIMONY AFFECTION AND RESPECT
BY PUBLIC SUBSCRIPTION
(Inscription on East side)
AS THE OWNER OF LARGE ESTATES
HE WAS ONE OF THOSE MOST CONSPICUOUS
FOR THE QUALITIES
WHICH PECULIARLY ADORN THAT STATION
AND
AS THE FIRST COMMODORE
OF THE ROYAL YACHT SQUADRON
HE WAS EMINENT
IN FOSTERING AND ENCOURAGING
BY HIS EXAMPLE AND LIBERALITY
ALL THAT WAS CALCULATED
TO IMPROVE
THE SCIENCE OF NAVAL ARCHITECTURE
AND TO ADVANCE
THE MARITIME INTRESTS [sic] OF HIS COUNTRY
HE DIED ON BOARD HIS YACHT
THE KESTREL
IN THE PORT OF VIGO IN SPAIN
SEPTEMBER 5TH 1846
AGED 65
Charles Pelham, “was created Earl of Yarborough in 1837. By marriage, he inherited Appuldurcombe, once the grandest mansion on the Isle of Wight, which he took as his second home.
As he was the first Commodore of the Royal Yacht Squadron at Cowes, Charles visited Appuldurcombe frequently; he carried out substantial alterations, giving the house a new entrance and forming a large library where works of art could be displayed.”
I always feel the need question the erection of such a monument, especially that it should be erected to a successful politician, an Earl no less, by the common islanders, who having loved him so much, they just couldn’t live another moment without crafting a massive phallic symbol to show just how much good he did.
Perhaps he indeed was loved for his impact on the island and it’s history, but also it feels just as possible that his wealth and success paid for this spear pointed at the sky before his death, in his will, or through the effort of his equally wealthy chosen hair. Too easily does wealth and fortune dictate what becomes the truth.
While we were there we stopped at a local food-stand. Run by a charming lady in her early 60s, pottering around and warming pasties with a microwave in a space the size of a large shed at the end of her garden. Literally.
We sat on a tiny picnic bench, ate vegan pizza rolls, and I sketched out a new page in my illustrated journal. During our meal two tiny jackdaws hopped up beside us and looked longingly at our food.
Jackdaws are up there with starlings for me, conveying a cheeky and fearless charm, that few animals have. One in particular took dedicated interest in blagging a meal, giving curious and prolonged looks between the scraps I offered in my hand and meeting my eye with a quick but deep glare. It’s brilliant blue eyes glowing like impossible gems.
The lady running the stand told us as we were leaving, and as the jackdaws hopped in to claim our fallen scraps, that she liked to take the pastries not sold on any day, scoop out the fillings and feed the remaining strips and chunks of pastry to all to the gang. She liked to do her bit “keeping the bird economy alive”.
Coming down from the cliffs took a third of the time the journey up did… or it did for us, the inexperienced ramblers we are. Maybe it was just easier, or maybe it was the success of a climb well done, but it’s always funny how time distorts around our minds eye, colouring the journey through our feelings.
Our first official planned stop was at Wildheart animal sanctuary.
(N 50°39'39.3182" W 1°8'18.3483" )
“Originally known as Sandown Zoo, the zoo was established in the 1950s.
By the 1970s it had fallen into disrepair, and was dubbed “The Slum Zoo of Britain” by The Sunday Times. However in 1976 the zoo was taken over by a new owner, Jack Corney, and over the following years it was rebuilt as a sanctuary for big cats and primates.
After Corney died in 2003 the zoo has been run by his daughter Charlotte. In 2017, Charlotte established the Wildheart Trust, making the Isle of Wight Zoo a registered charity and the zoo renamed the Wildheart Sanctuary in 2021.”
The Sanctuary, is what it says on the tin, or granate walls, a sanctuary built for large cats and primates, built, inside the walls of what was formerly Sandown Fort. (which ill get more into later)
The experience of the wildlife sanctuary is much like the experience of Sandown as a whole in microcosm. An aged relic of the past encased in a landscape shaped by war and time, that starts outs as an underwhelming and disappointing visit, but over a short space of time just continues to grow and enrapture.
Our opening minuets in the sanctuary started out as the same enjoyed fulfilment of craved disappointment, empty enclosures and aged spaces.
Things turned around eventually, thanks to a combination of meerkats and monkeys. Which is what Meercats and Monkeys are likely to do to a day. That and a playful tiger.
For such a small and interesting space, the sanctuary is doing the best it can to provide safe, educational, and interesting home for both its residents and their visitors and they obviously cant be faulted for the behaviour of their wildlife. A lion is gonna do, what a lion is gonna do, and in this case, the combination of sun and regular feeding is gonna make a lion do a whole lot of lying, down.
Honestly, its to their credit, I’d love to be in the same permanent position.
Over time more and more animals came out to see their guests, it was a fine way to spend the early afternoon, so I’m not going to complain.
Nestled in one corner of the fort is what feels like an odd and out of place attraction. A section dedicated to the history of Operation Pluto.
Operation Pluto, or ‘Pluto’ for short, was a co managed plan, between oil companies and the British Armed Forces, to construct a pipelines under the English Channel. These would be there to supply fuel to the forces, primarily taking part in Operation Overlord, the Allied invasion of Normandy during the second world war.
It was a fascinating aside, both out of place and common sense, tied to the fort and its history. The pipeline also gets a bit of coverage over in another location we will visit later in our trip, Shanklin Chine, but here is the most in depth place you can find, with an educational tour (which was closed on our visit) and restored pumps.
After almost five hours in the sun, and 18000 steps, we chose our first victims for our itinerary .
Discarding our plans to visit dinosaur island (which appeared to be aimed mostly at kids) and the local gardens (which felt less garden and more theme park tourist trap) and chose to change into some fresh clothes at the hotel instead and head to one of the big reasons I had come to the island…
(N 50°39'0.4639" W 1°9'40.0182" )
“National Poo Museum on the Isle of Wight, southern England, is a museum dedicated to the collection, conservation and display of faeces. The museum, which opened on 25 March 2016, originally as a mobile museum, is now permanently located at Sandown Barrack Battery.”
The poo museum is, well, a museum dedicated to poo.
It’s an incredibly small space, crammed full of people looking to see and hear all about poo. It’s truly impressive the use of the space available, a series of cubicle spaces with interactive elements and educational fun.
Spin around Queen Victoria’s favourite type of toilet. Look at the toilets available to those in a 3rd world country, did you know more people have smart phones than functional clean toilets?
Find out what often flushed objects won’t safely go through the plumbing system, and see the consequences of the bad things that shouldn’t be flushed.
Most impressive is the collected range of different animals poo samples, gathered and preserved in clear resin. Bat, bird, lion and man, the wall of shit on show is remarkable really. What’s more remarkable is the sign on the wall of the exit as you leave.
‘This facility will be closed permanently from October 2011.’
All this, crammed into its perfect home, a repurposed public toilet…
We took home a keyring and a magnet from the tiny visitors shop, but I would have killed for something more substantial.
The island seems obsessed with shit, selling edible bags of droppings in some of the local sweet shops in the vicinity of Sandown. It’s something to hang your hat on I suppose, as good a thing as any.
Day 3:
Another day another 01:30 rise. This time we ended up wandering the streets of Sandown until 02:30 taking pictures of the shuttered hotels and sketching the interesting shops.
One random resident happened upon us as I sketched the rock shop in the middle of the street, “what are you two doing up and about at gone 2 in the morning!?”
Not catching the irony of asking the question themselves, having been also walking the streets at 2 in the morning.
On return to the hotel lobby we ended up sat in armchairs as the desperate for company night receptionist regaled us with his stories.
He seemed genuinely delighted that he finally had to victims to unload his built up frustrations with life at. All I’d done is ask if we could have radio stations on our complimentary TV in our room.
Off he went about having to call the fire brigade that night to break into one of the top floor rooms because a drunk families spoiled brat of a 7 year old had deadlocked themselves into the room, and the awkward questions the family had to answer about leaving a 7 year old alone as they got lit in the hotel bar.
To his tales of visitors demanding a sea view while fully booked, the overbearing guests thinking that working in I.T. gave them in insight into the comings and goings of a chain hotel, and that their dissatisfaction with him had led them to run a sort of bullying campaign against him over the next few nights. Playing guitar in the lobby leading to actual name calling on the last night.
Each new story told with animation and gusto like the best on stage spoken word auteurs.
It feels like to me we are all people with a great story or two tucked away inside of us, just quietly in need of someone to take even a moments interest in our existence to tease it out.
Although in this case it didn’t need much teasing.
“I pushed the panic alarm, under the desk. And like, several hours later, he rang us and said, it sounds like you should ring the police mate! So I just slammed the phone down and said well thanks for that mate!”
We had one goal for day 3, and just one goal. Visit the famous needles…
“I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t this…”
The next morning our major goal, one my wife had talked about for weeks, and I insisted happen no matter the cost, she would visit the needles and ride the chairlift there.
The only major problem was that its located on the direct opposite side of the island.
“The Needles is a row of three stacks of chalk that rise about 30 metres out of the sea off the western extremity of the Isle of Wight.
The Needles Lighthouse stands at the outer, western end of the formation. Built in 1859, it has been automated since 1994. The waters and adjoining seabed form part of the Needles Marine Conservation Zone and the Needles along with the shore and heath above are part of the Headon Warren and West High Down Site of Special Scientific Interest.”
As we had to rely on public transport our options were limited. The train service exclusively serves the east coast of the island, with a little probing, I.e. asking the member of the hotel staff I happened to bump into in the lift, we were on our way to catch one of two buses.
The first, the number 3 would take us from Sandown High Street up through the hills and over some of the most spectacular views, to the town of Newport dead centre of the island.
This first bus ride we sat atop a double decker bus, and listened as a man just behind us quickly lost his mind.
First it was the builder who parked his van to unload several tons of building materials right next to an unrelated roadwork blocking the way for the bus to get through.
Quickly as he grumbled to himself, he picked up his phone to tell what I can only assume is his child that he’d be late because of the aforementioned builder.
“I’m going to be late because of this fucking twat, and I’m going to be pissed off if I have to hop out and pay an arm and a leg to come look after you, I’ve only got fifteen quid to my name… what.. fuck you then.”
From that point on it was war. Every tiny delay or person who dared get on or off the bus would lead to a steadily growing temper. “How long does it take to get off a bus you fucking c***” he’d mumble each time.
He took particular umbrage towards the child holding an open bottle of chocolate milk nowhere near him.
The moment he finally disembarked we could finally take a sigh of relief as though a terrible ticking bomb had finally been safely removed.
The remainder of the journey took us over beautiful hills, past donkey sanctuaries and llama farms. Along with lots of fields of black sheep and goats.
I wonder what it is that makes the odds for black sheep so much higher here, but perhaps its meant to stay a mystery. Or I’m just being lazy.
From Newport we took a second long bus ride through to Yarmouth and around to the needles themselves.
What we found when we got there actually left us… somewhat lost for words.
(N 50°40'4.4736" W 1°33'56.1707" )
I wish I could have been there when the man in the straw hat and stripy jacket arrived to hoodwink the locals into building the gaudy theme park that they did, but he sure saw them coming.
“roll up, roll up, come see the world famous chalk needles. Oh no sir, you cannot get too close, they are very delicate you see, and liable to fall at any moment. Best be safe, how about this viewing platform, stay behind the fence down there!. Maybe ride the chairlift past the spot of outstanding natural beauty. Don’t mind the queue, it’s only two hours long. Don’t want the chairlift. There’s still plenty to do. Ride the rides, visit the shops, hop into the arcades! All here at the world famous needles!!”
Suckers, there’s one born every minute.
And there really must be. The line for the chairlift alone was indeed a good couple of hours wait, in full sun, with no shade. And no one seemed to be bothered at all.
I had already been burned across my face and arms from the walking the day before, even with factor fifty sunblock I was not taking any chances.
So what else was there. The odd dinosaur themed go carts, and mini golf. Which aped the look and feel of Jurassic Park, to go so far as to make the karts look like tiny recreations of the jeep in the film. Adorable yes, but its connection to the actual natural monument being tenuous at best, fossils having been found there in the past. Fossils being, along with shit, one of the islands apparent obsessions.
The other highlights were the merry go round, the previously mentioned arcade with its opportunities to gamble, rigged claw machines, racing games that encourage you to take selfies, and VR attraction that let you visit other world locations. I would be surprised if they didn’t put in a version of the needles in the VR machine so you felt like you’d actually been there.
There was also the gift shop, filled with the largest amount of generic and 95% unrelated tat I’d ever seen. Only some was even Isle of wight related, one tiny section needles centred, and one… one item actually attempted to really do something interesting with the location.
(N 50°40'5.2019" W 1°34'4.6421")
Just beside the one tiny needles viewing platform sits a stone monument to Marconi.
The monument reads:
“THIS STONE
MARKS THE SITE OF THE
NEEDLES WIRELESS TELEGRAPH STATION
WHERE
GUGLIELMO MARCONI
AND HIS BRITISH COLLABORATORS
CARRIED OUT FROM
6TH DECEMBER 1897
TO 26TH MAY 1900
A SERIES OF EXPERIMENTS
WHICH CONSTITUTED SOME OF
THE MORE IMPORTANT PHASES
OF THEIR EARLIER PIONEER
WORK IN THE DEVELOPMENT OF
WIRELESS COMMUNICATION
OF ALL KINDS
THE
NEEDLES
WIRELESS TELEGRAPHY STATION
EXCHANGED RADIO MESSAGES
FIRST WITH A TUG IN ALUM BAY
THEN WITH BOURNEMOUTH 14
MILES DISTANT, NEXT WITH POOLE
18 MILES AWAY, LATER WITH SHIPS
40 MILES SEAWARDS.
THESE WONDERS ATTRACTED WORLD
WIDE ATTENTION AND FAMOUS
SCIENTISTS FROM MANY COUNTRIES
CAME (1898–1900) TO SEE THE
NEW WIRELESS TELEGRAPHY IN
EXPERIMENTAL OPERATION
ON 15TH NOVEMBER 1899
INFORMATION FOR THE FIRST
NEWSPAPER EVER PRODUCED AT
SEA — THE TRANSATLANTIC TIMES -
WAS TRANSMITTED FROM THIS
STATION BY WIRELESS
TELEGRAPHY AND PRINTED ON
THE U.S. LINER “ST. PAUL” WHEN
36 MILES DISTANT
ON 3RD JUNE 1898
LORD KELVIN SENT FROM THE
NEEDLES
WIRELESS TELEGRAPHY STATION
THE FIRST RADIO TELEGRAM
FOR WHICH PAYMENT WAS MADE
MARCONI DESCRIBED THE NEEDLES
STATION AS THE WORLD’S
“FIRST PERMANENT WIRELESS STATION”
IT WAS ERECTED UNDER HIS PERSONAL
SUPERVISION BY HIS ASSISTANT
GEORGE KEMP FOR MARCONI’S
WIRELESS TELEGRAPH CO LTD
AS WAS COMPLETED ON
5TH DECEMBER 1897.
OTHER RADIO TECHNICISTS OF THIS
COMPANY WHO PIONEERED HERE WERE
W. PAGET — A. GRAY — C.E. RICKARD
W. DENSHAM — F.S. STACEY — P.J. WOODWARD
C.H. TAYLOR
THE STATION WAS DISMANTLED IN
JUNE 1900"
I didn’t see anyone stop to take even a moments look at the thing, let alone who likely knew it existed. There was a large number of visitors to the Marconi cafe the other side of the park though. That was sure busy indeed.
It is a sharp contrast that a museum dedicated to the promotion of poo and toilet health based out of a converted public rest room should have more heart and charm than the nightmare town that has erupted around the natural beauty on show essentially for free.
With time escaping, and equal parts delighted and disappointed with the garish and gaudy entertainment presented us at the park we chose to head to Newport and just salvage what we could of the day.
Our highlights involved my getting sunblock in my eyes and walking around like a pirate all afternoon as tears streamed from one eye or on occasion both.
Visiting a book shop that only allowed you upstairs without your bags. Causing me to stand and wait guarding ours as I sat through an in depth discussion on larping between three ginger haired men with beards and ponytails.
“He had his shield and he was being defensive, you have to be on attack when you’re using a shield, amateur mistake” *all nodding*
And looking for food for almost an hour before just going to a McDonald’s and getting late lunch from there.
I had a vegetarian spicy wrap and Nadia the salad.
Being accosted by a surprise scouse appeared out of the air like a genie and grabbed us both by the shoulders. “Isn’t it great that summer is back ay, isn’t it great, it was gone and now its back fantastic.”
Before squeezing firmly on our shoulders and disappearing as quickly as she arrived.
Flummoxed Nadia turned to me and just said. “I don’t know what it is about you rob, but middle aged ladies just love to come and bother you don’t they” this having been the second in as many hours attempting to strike up a friendship.
I couldn’t appreciate it myself, hungry, weeping endlessly out of my right eye, and actively being bothered in that moment by a bee attempting to fly directly into it.
With that I would stuff the remainder of the wrap into my maw and we were off back to Sandown.
I chose to treat the day as a bus tour of the island. We saw amazing views, and aside from the one angry bus guy, everyone had been lovely.
That’s the most startling thing we’ve had found since we got to the island. Everyone had been just wonderful for the most part. Especially every bus driver, who were all helpful and courteous at every moment.
For someone who’s used to bus drivers actively wishing for his death, its quite a shock.
Maybe I wouldn’t remained so shocked after one more full day we were due to head back to the familiar mainland.
Day 4:
After the… experience we had visiting the needles we chose to head to a slightly closer location. Second on Nadia’s list of spots was also close to one of the more interesting, or potentially interesting locations on mine.
On Google maps Shanklin was only a 40 minute walk from Sandown, but that’s assuming you walk in a straight line.
And you know the island well.
And you’re not constantly distracted by every beautiful view, or lovely book shop.
Shanklin was a lovely diversion from the rest of the planned tour. There was the aforementioned book store, a middle ground between the neat heartless cold feel of a franchise book seller and the quiet and messy chaos of a overstuffed and cobweb filled privately run independent store, Babushka books.
Shelves, organised by type, stuffed with new or old, and each with custom signs, like “weird shit” and “dead and boring”. The owners own thoughts falling out onto each shelf and filling the space with charm. Talking of chaotic book shops, while in Shanklin we also found a pair of game stores.
The first, drab, devoid of personality, and filled with a mix of hobby items, including a cabinet of war memorabilia, which was very odd and out of place next to the small selection of used ps1 games on the shelves and the faded cardboard Lara croft standie in the window. Its shop-keep completely blanking us while we were there.
(N 50°37 44.572" W 1°10'44.2838" )
The second store ‘Arcade games’ was a gem of a find. It was honestly the first time I had ever seen a game store successfully replicate the feel and look of the aforementioned classicly disorganised book store.
Games stuff every space, in multiple duplicates, all conditions.
“JUST FEEL FREE TO POP THE GAMES ON THE FLOOR AS YOU LOOK..!” Called a voice from behind us as we searched.
“ALL THE GAMES OVER FIFTEEN POUNDS ARE BEHIND THE COUNTER!”
After the silence of the last store (and a couple of others we had been in earlier in the week) this guy was super chatty…
“FEEL FREE TO JUST SEARCH”
Mmmm hmmm
“BECAUSE ALL THE GAMES OVER FIFTEEN ARE BEHIND THE COUNTER FOR SECURITY REASONS”
yes, you said… its alright I like obscure unpopular stuff…
“THOSE SHELVES ARE FOUR DEEP”
my wife, feeling the intense social discomfort inherent with pushy conversationalists, finally spoke up… “well, we have a train to catch, so we’d better go…”
Dragging me out before I’d even gotten started.
One day I might come back. After winning the lottery, with an empty suitcase.
The other oddity that we had been noticing with the Isle of wight was the quiet underline right leaning conservativeness of the place. It seems at odds with the vibes so far. Everyone was friendly, helpful, and kind. The island moves at a casual pace. Everyone has the friendly and chill vibe.
If everything gets done, it gets done. Otherwise, eh.
It don’t matter…
Yet, turn around the corner, covered in Union flag bunting, there’s a sign for the local Conservative club.
Boy oh boy does Shanklin have one hell of a Conservative club. So taken with its size were we that I insisted on taking a picture of Nadia in front of it before we ate our well earned breakfast baguettes (hers coronation chicken, mine egg mayo).
It made me quietly disconcerted my whole time on the island.
(N 50°37'35.0165" W 1°10'32.9084" )
Shanklin Chine is a rare spot of true natural beauty that you can get properly close to, once you can find the place. And assuming you can afford the over the cost price for access.
“The lights go on at seven thirty and we have live music at nine tonight…” mum led the girl on the ticket booth with all the passion of a melting Feast bar.
It makes the place sound like it’s giving a lot for the cost, but even with the shop and the tea room, and our arrival at 10am, it would take a lot to keep us there for 9–11 hours.
Still, while small and paper thin, it is a startling place to look at. The natural fresh water flow carving a short valley in the cliff side, and creating a smugglers den like those seen in an Enid Blyton famous five yarn.
While the location and learning are delightful there’s still some of that gaudy need to be a tourist attraction… air-quotes.
Firstly is that obsession with the islands fossil history, the location being lined with randomly placed dinosaur eggs and cheap models of a tyrannosaur and brontosaurus.
Most egregious though was the inclusion of loudspeakers dotted along the location.
At first it made sense to have something in place, in case of emergency announcements and the like.
But as we were walking an announcement came over the pa system…
It was advertising the tea room, and Sainsburys products available… that feels a little crass I thought as we explored.
A few moments later.
“In 30 minutes time we will be playing atmospheric music to help you immerse yourself in the location, this will last 45 minuets…”
Now I don’t know about you, but if you’re in a location of nature and majesty, do you really need 45 minuets of music to help? Could it if you aren’t immersed already?
Play music all the time and say nothing, or don’t at all.
Or randomly play ‘Tarzan boy by Baltimora’ if you’re going to go that far, I’d applaud that frankness over the half-arsed attempt to add value.
Perhaps the experience at the needles desensitised me to the whole commodification of natural beauty, or maybe the place just stuck to this side of tasteful, retaining much of its beauty and educational value, but I fear its too close for comfort.
While in Shanklin we also wanted to visit a small teahouse just around the corner from Shanklin Chine, in old Shanklin.
(N 50°37'31.2554" W 1°10'42.1832" )
The old thatch teashop is exactly what it says on the tin, a tearoom based in an old pink coloured thatch cottage. We waited at the door for a few minutes for a table and were lead around into a room filled with the most plates I’d ever seen lining walls. Plates of royals exclusively. Many depicting Diana, or the wedding of Diana and Charles.
Like a shrine to a past that could never be reclaimed, before divorces, deaths, and marrying from… outside the traditional circles…
The experience was mostly pleasant, as always on this trip, I had an overly large meal of a baked potato with tuna mayo. The downside being the coleslaw on the side, I’m just not a coleslaw guy.
Ned had a traditional cream tea, with home-made scones, clotted cream and fresh strawberries.
Oh and I had a carrot cake.
The carrot cake also was , fine, overly dry and crumbly. It had a good flavour and bitter sweet ice topping that accented the subtle flavour of the base cake well.
It was a pleasant experience, but one about experience , over quality of dining. I Have had better , but was it bad… not in the slightest, and for us it being one we made time and effort to find, it was all the more personal.
That evening, after visiting a few stores, including a yarn shop where we partook in a sing along to Bonnie Tyler’s total eclipse of the heart, we finally headed back to Sandown for our final night.
We had intended to go to a pub we had found that had been built into a converted corner bank. Still decked out with original desks and wheely desk chairs. But as Nadia had arrived hungry as sin, and they were not serving food for the strange nebulous two and a half hour period where we found ourselves, we chose instead to find a good location for food over a place to drink.
Besides the night before we had seen the night out drinking shop bought canned cocktails on the deserted beach as the sun went down, alcohol was not as high a priority, and we didn’t want to get a reputation for being those weird drunk out of town mainlanders.
Instead we found our way to the only vegan restaurant in town.
The Bay , Vegan Deli, was the kind of place where you could expect the greatest hits of Tracy Chapman to play overly loud on the radio, while some middle class people talk about how, they’ve not gone into the vegan ‘thing’ yet, but they were mostly there yuh, and this was very lovely yuh’
We ordered two lots of dirty fries. Mine the fire, (fries under a range of different spicy gimmick foods) ned the tropical (which included chunks of pineapple). And we ordered a nice glass of cider. While we waited for our food we sipped calmly at our cider and chilled.
“Rob… “ Hmmm “ I can’t drink any more of this before I eat… because I’m already wasted” 20 minutes later, filled with spices, 4 Litres of two different types of fruit cider, with a head full of Tracy Chapman, I was back in the hotel, and preparing for the next day back to the mainland.
Day 5: travel day two…
With an early start on day two we were welcomed by rainstorms and a need to prep for our journey across the sea.
Thankfully the hovercraft allowed us to use our tickets early… we almost wished we hadn’t.
The journey to the island had been comfortable, almost serene, but returning home, the wrath of Poseidon himself was laid upon us.
Our hovercraft was tossed around like a tin can in a washing machine…
That’s a thing right…
Nadia clinged to my arm like a limpid and I did my best to comfort her…
“I’m going to die..” she said through gritted teeth smile on the way back, the craft at this point moving no longer forwards but sideways to its destination.
As she got off she just calmly said to me “that’s going into my trauma bank to come back for me randomly later”…
We shan’t speak of it again.
For the rest of the day we decided on a spot of capitalism! SHOPPING!
First full port of call was a visit to Portsmouth and Southsea.
On the way around from the hotel, across the road from the train station ned spotted an interesting curiosity nestled between a chip shop and a “boutique hotel”, was the Genesis Expo Fossil shop. “oooh, I want to buy a fossil” she immediately excitedly called before bemoaning the fact the place appeared to be closed.
Immediately we ran… to google to find out more. Initially with the hope to find out the stores opening times. Turns out the fossil shop was instead a museum dedicated to creationism. It’s goal to prove that, as you can imagine, that the earth is not older than 10,000 years.
We didn’t get to visit… sadly… but pictures show that it had one hell of a beautiful tyrannosaur recreation, like a paper mache monster in a fluffy wool turtle-neck, its glorious, and I just wish I had gotten to see it in person.
Alas the institution was shuttered due to ‘ BUILDING WORK ‘, but you never know, maybe the lord will shine on them in 2024. Although some claim it’s due to it’s having posed as a legitimate learning institute.
Sadly I wouldn’t be totally shocked that Portsmouth would be home to such a distinctive institution.
For those who don’t know I was born in Portsmouth. Many of my years growing up I spent visiting this area of shops. I remember the long demolished tricorn centre in its declining years and I have fond memories of the place I grew up.
Now, now it’s a shell. One whole section of the shopping precinct it falling into decay and disrepair, with some long lived institutions having finally bitten the dust. Including the joke and magic shop ‘u need us’ falling to the triple whammy of Brexit, COVID, and cost of living. Surrounded by boarded and steel plated up shop fronts, broken windows, and graffiti.
The decay is travelling along the town too, carving away at a once prosperous area of town.
Our second stop was by our hotel, at the Gunwarf quays.
The contrast is startling. While filled with outlet stores, it’s marketed as higher end. Bustling and busy, it presents a forward facing illusion of success. We picked up a few small items, mostly socks and looked at possible cheap shoes. But it was hollow like most shopping precincts are.
Although the toilets might be the best public toilets I’ve ever seen. The taps spraying water from the middle, and drying your hands from extended pipes on both sides. They also were giving out complimentary hand cream for after you wash…. lush…
Day 6: Portsmouth.
What even is sleep really?
This whole time we’ve been staying at Premier Inn hotels.
Firstly on the beach at Sandown, and on our last two nights, around the corner from the historic docks in Portsmouth.
For the most part our stays have been pleasant, not 5 star no, but very nice experiences. As with all hotels, we have had little issues.
With the Sandown hotel it was the lack of channels on the TV.
Now I’m not a big TV watcher. You could go as far as to say I don’t really watch it normally, but we had stayed in a Premier Inn while in Southend on sea and the ability to turn on the TV, and scan through to sky arts or, more emotionally comforting at the time, a radio station and decompress to some quiet music was a blessing. I’d hoped to replicate that somewhat.
At Sandown there was 30 or so TV stations. Some didn’t get signal. One was just coloured bars. And zero radio stations.
That and channel 8 was set to GB news *spits*
I asked about it a couple of times but while I was told it would be possible to check, and that WOULD be while I was out. I know it wasn’t. I don’t mind being lied to and fobbed off if it’s not mean spirited, even if it’s disappointing that sometimes it feels like an assumption of stupidity on my part is what leads to it.
*pats head* there there, it’ll be fixed right away… now go play out of towner.
I also accept that being an island, maybe its the region, so I didn’t complain.
But in Portsmouth the issue was somewhat more… maddening.
You may not know this, but I have to sleep with a cpap machine strapped to my face. It took a little while to get used to but it always makes a noise. You get attuned to when that sound changes. That whooshing air sound is specific. If there’s an issue with the airflow it could mean I stop breathing in the night.
As such my ears and instincts are attuned to those changes. Another similar sound is that of air-con. Premier Inn has a wall mounted touch control in every room, just a little something that allows you to adjust the temperature to suit your needs.
Its always been fine before.
Until this night.
I cant tell you quite how many times I turned off the air-con It was certainly more than 1.
You can probably do the maths yourself but every time I turned it off, two minutes later (or there about) it was back on.
Turn it off.
Wiirrrrrrrr ooh, back on.
Turn it down .
Wiirrrrr back at 24°c
Turn it up…
Back at 24°c
Up, down, up, down, up, down
Off, on, off, on, off, on, OFF, ON, OFF!!!
What is sleep.
That morning we made out for our main day in Portsmouth.
Much like our time on the island, I had a shortlist of locations I had wanted to visit for our trip.
One of the key places to visit was the historic docks. But its price of entry for the bulk of its attractions was a little too much for comfort. So we resigned ourselves to visiting later on another day.
Instead it was to be a wider overview of the city of Portsmouth. Hitting first Fratton station, and moving along towards the infamous Wedgwood rooms.
The Wedgwood rooms is a famous location for band gigs during their early years. Small, dark, and somewhat sticky, it was a prime location for some absolute classic performances, my memory from earlier started from the Wedgwood. While we were there I recounted the story of the time my friend decided to grind a packet of polo mints to powder and snort them all in one go, only to take a moment, before collapsing with a scream.
Don’t worry he was not badly harmed. As far as we could tell at the time anyway…
Although one has to wonder just what sort of state he was normally anyway, who’s to say.
Anyway we came to find book stores and oddities along Albert Road. Back during my early years Albert Road was the great spot for smaller independent stores, even when chain stores and the growth of the supermarket started to eat away at the viability of more focused small stores.
Just look at the swift rise and death of the games store as a concept, and physical game sales on the whole to grasp the real consequences of the changing markets.
Albert Road was a shadow of its former self. We passed a book-store that we had previously been to a few years earlier. All crammed into a small space and loaded with finds. Now nothing but an abandoned shell.
We did manage to find one small book-store that helped to reignite our hopes. Also a laundrette in a pub…
What is it with pubs not being pubs ?
Instead of heading back to Fratton station, I decided to take a walk along Albert road, and then towards Portsmouth and Southsea station, hopping on the train there.
I had been a good few years since I had made the walk, stopping in an Asian supermarket for provisions, before getting lost in the middle of the local housing estate. A charming woman in her late 60s saw us looking around bemused and decided to throw us a bone, leading us swiftly across a roundabout and back to town centre.
Along the way I chose to make a diversion to the Guild hall, and the Guildhall Square War Memorial.
Unveiled on 19 October 1921, the memorial holds the names of 4,500 dead, killed during the events of the first world war.
A later addition of a cenotaph-style monument to the Second World War casualties was added to the site, in front of the wall, in 2005.
This features carvings of badges of the armed forces and on the front, near the top, is the city’s coat of arms.
A wall containing 610 names was added to this in 2012 after a fundraising campaign.
It’s truly a mind-boggling sight, living in the UK the you become accustomed to every town having a memorial to the solders lost during war time. It can often feel like its pandering to the very worst instincts of the British traditionalist at times, but standing in a monument quite this impactful, being reminded of the lives lost in two of the worlds worst periods of conflict. Just imagining the countless young men and women lost, over five thousand people, it becomes too much to take in as a concept.
It’s no shock that Portsmouth lost more than many towns and villages across the UK during both wars, its function as a military port made this inevitable. But to see so many names in once place is humbling.
Except, this isn’t Portsmouth only war monument.
Just a little walk down from where we originally caught our hovercraft across to the island sits the Portsmouth Naval Memorial (N 50.78242, W -1.09599 ) , containing the names of 24654 men and women across both wars, the second biggest memorial in the UK, feels like too much of a wight to take in during a simple travel log of the south coast.
It helped that sadly we didn’t have the time to pay it a visit. I’m not sure I could find the words if we had.
From there we returned on foot to Portsmouth and Southsea station and hopped once again to Portsmouth Harbour. From here, after a short break, we headed to our last major destination. Portsmouth museum.
( N 50°47'29.8679" W 1°5'51.9204" )
Like every good town, Portsmouth had to have a museum, and much like any good towns museum its, a mixed bag. Or even a grab bag if you prefer. A light sampling of cultural highlights that are attempting to paint a wider picture of what the city is about.
While the city has historically lauded its connection to Brunel this season they have chosen to focus instead on famed author, and creator of Sherlock Holmes, Arthur Conan Doyle, who happened to have been born in Portsmouth.
There’s a ton of displays covering the books and their creation, a large focus on spin-offs, alternative takes on the character from around the world, and one display actually looking at Doyle himself.
It struck me that Doctor Watson was his self insert character. While this was obviously well known already, I never really thought about it before. Our very own Stephen King of classic crime.
An interesting side note, on our return to the hotel that very night, sky arts was showing a mini documentary on Arthur Conan Doyle and how much he disliked being tied to writing Holmes. It was more informative than the museum.
Next, upstairs was a selection of art depicting the Portsmouth landscapes and people.
They were an interesting look at the areas past, often from the viewpoint of a naval painter.
Next over was the classic look at local wildlife, and then the general history of the area. Which featured depictions of living rooms across the centuries. Which, really, could have been living rooms anywhere.
Upstairs there was an odd mix of more creative artisan works through the years, and a light brief history of Portsmouth football club.
I’m not at all interested in football at all, but it was nice to see a little on Lindy Delapenha
Although the rest on local black history was paper thin.
Lastly we found ourselves downstairs working through a section on wildlife and local birds.
The whole museum was a pleasant if light experience, but that is much of what most local museums are, a surface level look at a wide range of interesting or semi relevant things from an area. Sometimes they can be fascinating, sometimes just a nice chill experience, but often lack the hyper focus a more dedicated museum or educational gallery might have.
We quietly pottered around the gift shop and bought the usual tea towels and postcards, along with a fantastic print depicting the now demolished tricorn centre, a prime piece of brutalist architecture gone before its time. I always found the cities overall obsession with this demolished work fascinating. Like a sense of communal loss that was only felt after time. I have vague memories of walking in the building at its tail end of life, my experience of walking its hall to some a privileged one.
Both during my time on the isle of Wight, and in the city of Portsmouth, were filled with that sense of decay, loss before time, an Armageddon, not of bombs or fire, but of slow apathy and mismanagement. I think of the Tricorn and cant help but think about the other spaces that will soon be gone, will people miss them as they miss it? Will their harts look at pictures of these, places, these businesses, these homes, and be filled with the longing for a thing long lost, a thing they probably never saw with their own eyes.
A longing for what they never had, long after it could be saved.
“and as things fell apart, no one paid much attention”
