THE WILD GOOSE CHASE IS DONE
And so, as the end of the year approaches, I reach the final Act of my odyssey, my gift, my pursuit, my drift. I have been led a Wild Goose Chase indeed, fetching Fletchers from the verdant undergrowth of forests, the deep recesses of libraries, the choke and clamour of city streets and the sad vacancy of winter seasides. But my travels and travails are done, and now I can at last reveal this most splendid, thoughful and complex of potlatch presents, delivered to me one Act at a time by a scupulously anonymous donor over the past five months. New and exciting letters would sporadically arrive on my eager doormat, with ever more challenging instructions. One said little more than 'PR2509.W5'. Oh, the delight with which I finally cracked that code and ran into a wet and windy night to confirm my deduction - quod est demonstrandum! And yet, sworn to secrecy, I found myself unable to communicate the excitement of the hunt, to discuss the latest episode of this epic fetching. More than that, I had been provided with no way to correspond with my 'controller', except via this blog, which I was instructed to complete following each Act. I would upload text and photographs, and then wait, impatiently, for the next communique. My final instruction, providing, as it were, the denouement of my 'play' (for am I not both homo ludens and homo faber, prosumer and spectactor, in this swelling scene?), is to publish the account of this invisible performance for all to see. I hope, then, that you will enjoy these pictures and texts, and perhaps feel inclined both to add your comments and to undertake such uplifting wild goose chases yourself. And to the donor, let me just say Thank You for the gift.
Friday, December 11, 2009
Thursday, November 26, 2009
Act Four
FLETCHER FETCHES A PARTICULAR FLETCHER
Trust me to pick a particularly damp and windy day to accomplish this leg of my undertaking. My journey was to take me, first of all, across the border by van and into West Sussex, a familiar route until I came close to my first destination when, following my nose rather than the map, I became rather disorientated in the back streets of a once grand but now rather faded seaside town. I finally parked up outside the distinctly old-fashioned and impressive Picturedome cinema and, crossing the road, on foot now, entered the town's railway termin
us at 11.52am, just in time to rush to the platform and photograph the departure of the double-headed 11.57 to Littlehampton, an echo of that legendary image captured by William Holland Ballett Fletcher in 1891. That task accomplished, I could relax and admire the rather splendid newspaper vending stand on 
the station's concourse, before heading out into spitting rain and along Linden Road. I was beginning to regret not taking a special friend's advice to bring a pair of gloves when, on turning into Town Cross Avenue, I happened upon the town cemetery, always a source of much interest to me. I couldn't stop, however, continuing into Essex Road and then around the corner to arrive at F
letcher Way at 12.25pm. Apparently named after the great man, this modern cul-de-sac did not offer much over which to linger, apart from an alternative route into the cemetery, which I gladly took. The bitter weather was obviously deterring mourners and so I had the expansive grounds to myself, and was able to wander for a while amid the headstones, reading of those who had gone before. Many Pullens seemed to have found their final resting place here, but no Fletchers. So I retraced my steps back towards the station and then on past it, along Lyon Street West and London Road until, beyond the icehouse, I located the entrance to Hotham P
ark. Here I hoped to find a cork oak planted by the great man's wife, Agnes. However, I realised the extent of this challenge when I entered the park and comprehended its arborial profusion. Immediately I intercepted a lady out walking her dog and enlisted her assistance. She didn't know of the tree, but pointed out Agnes in the distance, busy inspecting a shrub. Agnes had heard of the tree, but didn't know where it was - over by the bandstand, perhaps. It was unclear exactly where the bandstand was, but I trudged off in the direction in which she had vaguely pointed, and came across a couple standing rather disconsolately upon the platform of a miniature railway, in the shadow of what I took to be the great man's somewhat Italianate residence. On mention of the cork oak, the gentleman of the couple became quite animated and immediately led me off along the narrow railway tracks to the place where they had altered the route of the line last spring. He pointed out where it had previously gone to
the left of a tree, and now went to the right. At 1.00pm exactly, this tree was a cork oak. As I prepared to photograph this exciting find, silhouetted against a rapidly darkening sky, the helpful gentleman bemoaned the weather which was discouraging potential passengers from taking his train. When I offered myself as a passenger, he delightedly hastened away to open up the engine shed. I made my way back to the platform, bought a wonderfully old-fashioned ticket from the train-driver's wife and watched gleef
ully as the tiny train pulled into the station. I boarded, had my ticket stamped, and then we were off on two long rotations of the park, each time past the fabled cork oak. As we were completing our second circuit, the heavens opened and, on leaving the train, I ran through squally rain to take shelter in a small wooden hut with several other soggy people and two soggy dogs. Thankfully it was only a short, sharp shower and I was soon able to retrace my steps, stopping briefly in a Latvian shop to buy chocolate, before returning to the station which served the big trains. Here I dropped in on a cafe which I had earmarked for lunch earlier, where I had an excellent fry-up and mug of warming tea. Then, with time moving on, it was back to the van and off towards Chichester. My route took me first along the seafront, where I decided to stop briefly in order to capture some images of the raging sea, only to be forced to flee before another icy shower. Instead, I headed inland, across the fertile farmland of the flat coastal plain, looking for the narrow turning to the village of North Mundham. Once here, I located and parked in the church car park, then walked back through the village, umbrella warily at the r
eady, arriving at Fletcher House at 2.38pm. Now, although the great man had been squire of this manor at one time, I could not help but think that this imposing house, now seemingly a retirement home, was in fact named after his brother, Reverend John Charles Ballett Fletcher, who was long-time incumbent of St. Stephen's Church in the village. Similarly, Fletcher Place and Fletcher Close, to be found beside and behi
nd the house, might be named after either one of these gentlemen. Still, the family link was clear, and all that remained for me now to do was to visit the church itself - at 2.52pm - and identify the great man's final resting place. Hampered once ag
ain by the onset of driving rain, I nevertheless spent a considerable amount of time in the church grounds (the church itself being sadly shut, despite it being a sunday), and was sorely disappointed to be thwarted in my search. It was some consolation, however, to discover his reverend brother's gr
avestone, poorly sheltered beneath a bedraggled laburnum. With this, my adventure was complete, and I could gladly wend my way to the warmth and welcome of a chicken casserole and a splendid tarte tatin.
Trust me to pick a particularly damp and windy day to accomplish this leg of my undertaking. My journey was to take me, first of all, across the border by van and into West Sussex, a familiar route until I came close to my first destination when, following my nose rather than the map, I became rather disorientated in the back streets of a once grand but now rather faded seaside town. I finally parked up outside the distinctly old-fashioned and impressive Picturedome cinema and, crossing the road, on foot now, entered the town's railway termin
us at 11.52am, just in time to rush to the platform and photograph the departure of the double-headed 11.57 to Littlehampton, an echo of that legendary image captured by William Holland Ballett Fletcher in 1891. That task accomplished, I could relax and admire the rather splendid newspaper vending stand on 
the station's concourse, before heading out into spitting rain and along Linden Road. I was beginning to regret not taking a special friend's advice to bring a pair of gloves when, on turning into Town Cross Avenue, I happened upon the town cemetery, always a source of much interest to me. I couldn't stop, however, continuing into Essex Road and then around the corner to arrive at F
letcher Way at 12.25pm. Apparently named after the great man, this modern cul-de-sac did not offer much over which to linger, apart from an alternative route into the cemetery, which I gladly took. The bitter weather was obviously deterring mourners and so I had the expansive grounds to myself, and was able to wander for a while amid the headstones, reading of those who had gone before. Many Pullens seemed to have found their final resting place here, but no Fletchers. So I retraced my steps back towards the station and then on past it, along Lyon Street West and London Road until, beyond the icehouse, I located the entrance to Hotham P
ark. Here I hoped to find a cork oak planted by the great man's wife, Agnes. However, I realised the extent of this challenge when I entered the park and comprehended its arborial profusion. Immediately I intercepted a lady out walking her dog and enlisted her assistance. She didn't know of the tree, but pointed out Agnes in the distance, busy inspecting a shrub. Agnes had heard of the tree, but didn't know where it was - over by the bandstand, perhaps. It was unclear exactly where the bandstand was, but I trudged off in the direction in which she had vaguely pointed, and came across a couple standing rather disconsolately upon the platform of a miniature railway, in the shadow of what I took to be the great man's somewhat Italianate residence. On mention of the cork oak, the gentleman of the couple became quite animated and immediately led me off along the narrow railway tracks to the place where they had altered the route of the line last spring. He pointed out where it had previously gone to
the left of a tree, and now went to the right. At 1.00pm exactly, this tree was a cork oak. As I prepared to photograph this exciting find, silhouetted against a rapidly darkening sky, the helpful gentleman bemoaned the weather which was discouraging potential passengers from taking his train. When I offered myself as a passenger, he delightedly hastened away to open up the engine shed. I made my way back to the platform, bought a wonderfully old-fashioned ticket from the train-driver's wife and watched gleef
ully as the tiny train pulled into the station. I boarded, had my ticket stamped, and then we were off on two long rotations of the park, each time past the fabled cork oak. As we were completing our second circuit, the heavens opened and, on leaving the train, I ran through squally rain to take shelter in a small wooden hut with several other soggy people and two soggy dogs. Thankfully it was only a short, sharp shower and I was soon able to retrace my steps, stopping briefly in a Latvian shop to buy chocolate, before returning to the station which served the big trains. Here I dropped in on a cafe which I had earmarked for lunch earlier, where I had an excellent fry-up and mug of warming tea. Then, with time moving on, it was back to the van and off towards Chichester. My route took me first along the seafront, where I decided to stop briefly in order to capture some images of the raging sea, only to be forced to flee before another icy shower. Instead, I headed inland, across the fertile farmland of the flat coastal plain, looking for the narrow turning to the village of North Mundham. Once here, I located and parked in the church car park, then walked back through the village, umbrella warily at the r
eady, arriving at Fletcher House at 2.38pm. Now, although the great man had been squire of this manor at one time, I could not help but think that this imposing house, now seemingly a retirement home, was in fact named after his brother, Reverend John Charles Ballett Fletcher, who was long-time incumbent of St. Stephen's Church in the village. Similarly, Fletcher Place and Fletcher Close, to be found beside and behi
nd the house, might be named after either one of these gentlemen. Still, the family link was clear, and all that remained for me now to do was to visit the church itself - at 2.52pm - and identify the great man's final resting place. Hampered once ag
ain by the onset of driving rain, I nevertheless spent a considerable amount of time in the church grounds (the church itself being sadly shut, despite it being a sunday), and was sorely disappointed to be thwarted in my search. It was some consolation, however, to discover his reverend brother's gr
avestone, poorly sheltered beneath a bedraggled laburnum. With this, my adventure was complete, and I could gladly wend my way to the warmth and welcome of a chicken casserole and a splendid tarte tatin.Sunday, September 13, 2009
Act Three
FLETCHER FETCHES FLETCHERS IN LONDONThank goodness I chose such a good day for this excursion, with so much travelling to do! After two train journeys, first to Clapham Junction and then to Syon Lane, I made my way, on foot, to Gillette Corner and received my first view of Sir Banister Fletcher's monolithic structure, the Gillette Building. Arriving at 11.07am, I was saddened to see the edifice in such an empty and unloved condition, although it seemed that work may be underway to somewhat restore its former glory. Surprisingly, there was no recognition, in the form of plaque or
monument, of Sir Banister's efforts, in 1936/37, in creating this enduringly impressive facade, and so I had to content myself with photographing the clock-tower and wishing that it might still be climbed. I then set out in gloriously warm sunshine along the busy Great West Road, in search of Osterley tube station. Passing the gated manses redolent of 30s London suburbia as reinterpreted by footballers' wives, I chanced upon a male counterpart to the unexpectedly thrusting femininity of the Gillette Building, in the form of an advertising hoarding blazoned upon an otherwise nondescript bus stop.
Surely this rather bizarre conjunction of words and images had not escaped the attention of other travellers along this most historic of thoroughfares? Onward I proceeded until I reached a charmingly original station building where, after a brief wait, I was able to take the Piccadilly Line to Piccadilly Circus, thence on foot through the tourist throng to Haymarket and the grandeur of Herbert Beerbohm Tree's Her Majesty's Theatre, arriving at 12.37pm. Here I was forced to linger, searching high and low, inside and out, for evidence of the stalwart service given by composer Percy Fletcher in his capacity as Musical Director between 1915 and 1932. 
Desperation (and disbelief that there was no memorial clearly on show) eventually led me to join the queue of people seeking tickets for Phantom of the Opera, so that I might quiz the girl in the ticket office. Her undisguised ignorance of the man in question was not encouraging, but she directed me to the Stage Door whose guardian, she suggested, may know more. He, it turned out, was equally ignorant of the great figure of this Theatre's past but, despite it being rush hour past his tiny office, was keen to help in any way possible and gave me the contact details of a Mark Fox, apparently the Theatre's archivist, who he said I might find at the 
Palladium! I decided that further enquiry would have to wait for another day and, instead, walked from Haymarket into Pall Mall East and beyond to Trafalgar Square, where I was just in time to witness a change of personnel on the Fourth Plinth. From there, I descended into Charing Cross tube station and boarded the Northern Line for the long haul to East Finchley where, upon exiting the station, I stopped for a well-earned Full English and cuppa for lunch, sitting outside in the sunshine, now on the Great North Road. Suitably refreshed, I continued on foot, turning into Fortis Green and fo
llowing the road into a most pleasantly leafy and salubrious neighbourhood, dotted with delightfully down-at-heel early Nineteenth Century villas and cottages. These led eventually to a building which called itself Muswell Hill Police Station, an Edwardian pile at which I arrived at 2.27pm. This, of course, was the site of Norman Stanley Fletcher's home visit during Episode Six of the classic situation comedy Porridge, and I could not resist retracing the steps which the great man took around the corner into Fortis Green Avenue back in 1974. I then needed to retrace my own steps, back to East Finchley tube station in order to await a south-bound train to Old Street. 
While waiting, nose deep in a London street map, I suddenly heard my name called and, looking up, saw a man in motorcycle leathers gesticulating from the opposite platform. It seems that M.S., the last person whom I would have expected to see at East Finchley, had been passing through the station on his way to Barnet and had spotted me through the window of his train. Upon short deliberation, he had decided to disembark in order to speak to me, reminding me of a similar occurence nine years ago on Anglesey, when I had rushed off a bus for the same reason. I still had ten minutes to wait for my train, so we were able swiftly to ca
tch up, having not seen each other since his father's birthday party, before just as swiftly bidding farewell to each other as my train pulled into the station. Then I suffered another interminable journey along the Northern Line, confirming me in the view that I do not like underground travel, before emerging again at Old Street, there to witness a rather brief but unpleasant incident of road rage, with baseball bat and the whole nine yards! I quickly moved on, following my nose along Old Street and Whitecross Street. Although tempted to make a small diversion to visit the site of my paternal grandfather's birth, I perservered along Fortune Street, through a 
community fete, into Golden Lane and Beech Street, beneath the Barbican complex. Crossing into West Long Lane, I turned left for Cloth Street and found myself at 3.55pm outside the Farmers' and Fletchers' Hall, housed in a remarkably modern building considering that the Worshipful Company of Fletchers has been around since 1371. The Hall was unfortunately not open, but there was a window that could be peered through to admire the custom-made corn and arrow themed carpet, as well as prominently displayed coats of arms, with the Fletcher motto 'True and Sure'. But there was little time to linger, so I nipped around the corner 
into Aldersgate Street and headed relentlessly south along St. Martin's Le Grand until I reached the domed splendour of St. Paul's Cathedral, where I imbibed a peach green tea before receiving my first sight of the River Thames since crossing it by train at Barnes Bridge. I was disappointed to see that the tide was in, rendering the idea of a bit of beachcombing out of the question. Strains of music also alerted me to the festival taking place on the South Bank, which seemed to be teeming with people, as did the Wobbly Bridge. I therefore decided to walk along the north bank until I could cross at Southwark Bridge which, as it happens, had been closed to traffic and turned into a vibrant food 
market, with long tables reminiscent of VE Day street parties. I tried on a range of salad hats - some rather fetchingly fashioned from lampshades - before meeting the lovely M.C. in the shadow of the bridge and proceeding with her along the embankment to Southwark Cathedral, formerly the Church of St. Saviour and St. Mary Overie, and the place where playwright John Fletcher was buried on August 29th 1625, after contracting the plague. Arriving at the Cathedral at 5.08pm, I enquired of a steward and was led to a memorial tablet laid into the floor of the choir, the first such Fletcher relic that I had managed to locate all da
y. The steward was quick to point out that John Fletcher's exact burial spot was unknown, but that he was definitely laid to rest with fellow playwright Philip Massinger, with whom he shared a 'special friendship'. I and my special friend circumnavigated the Cathedral and watched a squirrel voraciously devouring peaches or apricots on a tree, before making our way to our own delightful repast in the lee of the Globe Theatre. As night drew in, we wandered once more to the embankment for the most enchanting son et lumiere of music and fire, shared with gentle thousands of other sitters, promenaders and photographers, among them S.P., whose path we amazingly crossed, considering the throng. The day was completed with a gentle stroll through stalls of food, clothes and crafts, wending my way back along the river to Waterloo Station and the weary train home.
Surely this rather bizarre conjunction of words and images had not escaped the attention of other travellers along this most historic of thoroughfares? Onward I proceeded until I reached a charmingly original station building where, after a brief wait, I was able to take the Piccadilly Line to Piccadilly Circus, thence on foot through the tourist throng to Haymarket and the grandeur of Herbert Beerbohm Tree's Her Majesty's Theatre, arriving at 12.37pm. Here I was forced to linger, searching high and low, inside and out, for evidence of the stalwart service given by composer Percy Fletcher in his capacity as Musical Director between 1915 and 1932. 
Desperation (and disbelief that there was no memorial clearly on show) eventually led me to join the queue of people seeking tickets for Phantom of the Opera, so that I might quiz the girl in the ticket office. Her undisguised ignorance of the man in question was not encouraging, but she directed me to the Stage Door whose guardian, she suggested, may know more. He, it turned out, was equally ignorant of the great figure of this Theatre's past but, despite it being rush hour past his tiny office, was keen to help in any way possible and gave me the contact details of a Mark Fox, apparently the Theatre's archivist, who he said I might find at the 
Palladium! I decided that further enquiry would have to wait for another day and, instead, walked from Haymarket into Pall Mall East and beyond to Trafalgar Square, where I was just in time to witness a change of personnel on the Fourth Plinth. From there, I descended into Charing Cross tube station and boarded the Northern Line for the long haul to East Finchley where, upon exiting the station, I stopped for a well-earned Full English and cuppa for lunch, sitting outside in the sunshine, now on the Great North Road. Suitably refreshed, I continued on foot, turning into Fortis Green and fo
llowing the road into a most pleasantly leafy and salubrious neighbourhood, dotted with delightfully down-at-heel early Nineteenth Century villas and cottages. These led eventually to a building which called itself Muswell Hill Police Station, an Edwardian pile at which I arrived at 2.27pm. This, of course, was the site of Norman Stanley Fletcher's home visit during Episode Six of the classic situation comedy Porridge, and I could not resist retracing the steps which the great man took around the corner into Fortis Green Avenue back in 1974. I then needed to retrace my own steps, back to East Finchley tube station in order to await a south-bound train to Old Street. 
While waiting, nose deep in a London street map, I suddenly heard my name called and, looking up, saw a man in motorcycle leathers gesticulating from the opposite platform. It seems that M.S., the last person whom I would have expected to see at East Finchley, had been passing through the station on his way to Barnet and had spotted me through the window of his train. Upon short deliberation, he had decided to disembark in order to speak to me, reminding me of a similar occurence nine years ago on Anglesey, when I had rushed off a bus for the same reason. I still had ten minutes to wait for my train, so we were able swiftly to ca
tch up, having not seen each other since his father's birthday party, before just as swiftly bidding farewell to each other as my train pulled into the station. Then I suffered another interminable journey along the Northern Line, confirming me in the view that I do not like underground travel, before emerging again at Old Street, there to witness a rather brief but unpleasant incident of road rage, with baseball bat and the whole nine yards! I quickly moved on, following my nose along Old Street and Whitecross Street. Although tempted to make a small diversion to visit the site of my paternal grandfather's birth, I perservered along Fortune Street, through a 
community fete, into Golden Lane and Beech Street, beneath the Barbican complex. Crossing into West Long Lane, I turned left for Cloth Street and found myself at 3.55pm outside the Farmers' and Fletchers' Hall, housed in a remarkably modern building considering that the Worshipful Company of Fletchers has been around since 1371. The Hall was unfortunately not open, but there was a window that could be peered through to admire the custom-made corn and arrow themed carpet, as well as prominently displayed coats of arms, with the Fletcher motto 'True and Sure'. But there was little time to linger, so I nipped around the corner 
into Aldersgate Street and headed relentlessly south along St. Martin's Le Grand until I reached the domed splendour of St. Paul's Cathedral, where I imbibed a peach green tea before receiving my first sight of the River Thames since crossing it by train at Barnes Bridge. I was disappointed to see that the tide was in, rendering the idea of a bit of beachcombing out of the question. Strains of music also alerted me to the festival taking place on the South Bank, which seemed to be teeming with people, as did the Wobbly Bridge. I therefore decided to walk along the north bank until I could cross at Southwark Bridge which, as it happens, had been closed to traffic and turned into a vibrant food 
market, with long tables reminiscent of VE Day street parties. I tried on a range of salad hats - some rather fetchingly fashioned from lampshades - before meeting the lovely M.C. in the shadow of the bridge and proceeding with her along the embankment to Southwark Cathedral, formerly the Church of St. Saviour and St. Mary Overie, and the place where playwright John Fletcher was buried on August 29th 1625, after contracting the plague. Arriving at the Cathedral at 5.08pm, I enquired of a steward and was led to a memorial tablet laid into the floor of the choir, the first such Fletcher relic that I had managed to locate all da
y. The steward was quick to point out that John Fletcher's exact burial spot was unknown, but that he was definitely laid to rest with fellow playwright Philip Massinger, with whom he shared a 'special friendship'. I and my special friend circumnavigated the Cathedral and watched a squirrel voraciously devouring peaches or apricots on a tree, before making our way to our own delightful repast in the lee of the Globe Theatre. As night drew in, we wandered once more to the embankment for the most enchanting son et lumiere of music and fire, shared with gentle thousands of other sitters, promenaders and photographers, among them S.P., whose path we amazingly crossed, considering the throng. The day was completed with a gentle stroll through stalls of food, clothes and crafts, wending my way back along the river to Waterloo Station and the weary train home.Sunday, July 12, 2009
Act Two
FLETCHER INVESTIGATESAlthough Act Two proved deceptively simple, in that I could accomplish the performance within walking distance of my residence, it struck me initially as fiendishly complicated, and I spent a couple of highly involved hours researching the details of this upcoming challenge. The answer, of course, lay in the dramaturge's careful and considered use of words, which eve
ntually led me through teeming rain to the hallowed portal of the Hartley Library. Here, I was able to use my academic identification to persuade my way past security, and then it was in the lift up to the fifth floor where, amid silent and deserted racks, I searched for what I believed was the Library of Congress designation PR2509.W5. I was delighted not only to find the appropriate shelf, but also to discover that it was on one of these track systems which mean that they have to wheeled apart. Having done that, I arrived in
front of the desired tome - A Critical Edition of John Fletcher's The Wild Goose Chase - at 19.36 on Saturday 11th July 2009, there to garner an eagerly awaited and most exciting reward. It seems, then, that Act Three is to take place in fair London Town, an experience which I keenly anticipate. So pleased was I with my evening's performance that I decided to treat myself with a post-performance libation in a local hostelry - a large and fragrant Laphraoig which completed an excellent undertaking.
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Act One
FLETCHER FETCHES FLETCHERSIN THE FOREST
So, Act One saw me making a journey, first of all, to Fletcher Close in Dibden, where I arrived at 13.42 on Thursday 9th July 2009. It was rather a surprise to find this little cul-de-sac nestling in the heart of what are locally known as the 'C' roads, since they all begin with the letter C. I should know, since I lived in Cygnus Gardens - just a few streets away - for two years from 1993 to 1995. There was, then,
something a little nostalgic about this visit, and I took the opportunity to take a look at the old place before making my way to Fletcher Close. It's an odd area because there are so few people around during the day. It's like a dormitory town (and renowned for its wife-swapping!). I was hoping to get someone to photograph me, but had to make do with a rather awkward self-portrait.
something a little nostalgic about this visit, and I took the opportunity to take a look at the old place before making my way to Fletcher Close. It's an odd area because there are so few people around during the day. It's like a dormitory town (and renowned for its wife-swapping!). I was hoping to get someone to photograph me, but had to make do with a rather awkward self-portrait.
Anyway, from here I had to drive to my next destination, pausing briefly in Beaulieu to photograph some classic cars before heading on through Brockenhurst to Ober Corner, where I parked up beside a rather lovely campsite (although it doesn't take tents unless you bring your own chemical toilet!). I changed into walking boots and made my way through the campsite and out into open gorse and heather heathland, searching for Fletcher's Green. Now this was going to prove more difficult to locate than my previous goal, since there were no signs to indicate exactly where I should be looking. Luckily, I had been given a nicely detailed map to guide me, and so could orientate from a dry stream bed and a boggy depression which
, in wetter weather, probably resembles a pond. Interestingly, I had also visited this part of the New Forest before, and had a strong and clear recollection of a raised hide, accessed by a wooden ladder, which I had discovered and climbed perhaps ten years ago. Unfortunately, this hide was nowhere to be seen, so I contented myself with locating the 'Green' in amongst the other scrub at 15.02 and pausing briefly to rest and record the location before moving on.
, in wetter weather, probably resembles a pond. Interestingly, I had also visited this part of the New Forest before, and had a strong and clear recollection of a raised hide, accessed by a wooden ladder, which I had discovered and climbed perhaps ten years ago. Unfortunately, this hide was nowhere to be seen, so I contented myself with locating the 'Green' in amongst the other scrub at 15.02 and pausing briefly to rest and record the location before moving on. My path, then, lay away from the heathland and towards a more wooded area where I was hoping to locate what the map r
eferred to as Fletchers Thorns. This was not too difficult as I shortly found myself beating my way through ferns and thorny stunted trees. Were these blackthorns? I have no idea. Suffice it to say that the prevalence of them led me to believe th
at I was in the right location. I forced myself carefully into the heart of the thicket, arriving at 15.20, and found
eferred to as Fletchers Thorns. This was not too difficult as I shortly found myself beating my way through ferns and thorny stunted trees. Were these blackthorns? I have no idea. Suffice it to say that the prevalence of them led me to believe th
at I was in the right location. I forced myself carefully into the heart of the thicket, arriving at 15.20, and found myself surrounded on all sides by thorns and completely secluded. Furthermore, the sun had decided to appear from behind the clouds and suddenly it was warm and rather lovely. Amongst the trees was a fern-filled clearing where I decided to repose and sun-bathe for a while. I beat the ferns down to make a soft surface and relaxed in the warmth of the sun's rays.
But I couldn't rest for long. I still had two locations to find. So I carefully extricated myself from the thorns and continued my journey, the terrain changing again to tussocked grassland as I searched for and located a thin ribbon of silver called Fletchers Water. This I followed until it opened up a little and presented a more delighful aspect - at 15.58. The stones on the stream's banks were stained with the darkness of the brackish water. No wond
er, then, that this is called Black Water upstream. I decided not to follow my first inclination to bathe my feet in the cooling rill. Instead, I found a ford in which I could stand with my boots still on. The weather by now was glorious and, away from the roads, there was a sense of utter peace and quiet about the scene, the only noise the gentle hum of flies busying themselves over the water. And I was quite alone. I hadn't seen another soul in over an hour - just horses and rabbits!
My final location was a little distance away, along a broad track which led away from the ford and into dark evergreen woodland. The needle-straight trees rose high above me now, and I was gratified to see that the path was inexorably rising towards what the map called Fletchers Hill. I was hoping for some clear and well defined hilltop at the end of this walk, but what I actually reached, at 16.22, just before the first road I had seen since I parked my van, wa
s a subtle levelling out beside what looked like a denser clump of pines. This, I calculated, was the top of the hill, and here I paused once more, pleased to have completed Act One of my performance, and musing upon who this Fletcher might have been to put his or her name to such a large swathe of this New Forest landscape. Perhaps they had something to do with Rhinefield House, which lay so close by that I could hear them playing tennis in the grounds.
er, then, that this is called Black Water upstream. I decided not to follow my first inclination to bathe my feet in the cooling rill. Instead, I found a ford in which I could stand with my boots still on. The weather by now was glorious and, away from the roads, there was a sense of utter peace and quiet about the scene, the only noise the gentle hum of flies busying themselves over the water. And I was quite alone. I hadn't seen another soul in over an hour - just horses and rabbits!
My final location was a little distance away, along a broad track which led away from the ford and into dark evergreen woodland. The needle-straight trees rose high above me now, and I was gratified to see that the path was inexorably rising towards what the map called Fletchers Hill. I was hoping for some clear and well defined hilltop at the end of this walk, but what I actually reached, at 16.22, just before the first road I had seen since I parked my van, wa
s a subtle levelling out beside what looked like a denser clump of pines. This, I calculated, was the top of the hill, and here I paused once more, pleased to have completed Act One of my performance, and musing upon who this Fletcher might have been to put his or her name to such a large swathe of this New Forest landscape. Perhaps they had something to do with Rhinefield House, which lay so close by that I could hear them playing tennis in the grounds.
As a postscript, I should just mention that, as I made my way back across Ober Heath towards my van, what should I come across but the hide that I had sought earlier in my journey. To be honest, I am not convinced that it was the same one that I had climbed all those years ago, but that did not stop me ignoring the "For Official Use Only" signs and ascending for a fine view over this beautiful Fletcher territory. What an excellent way to conclude Act One!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)