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.