gosport by katharine eastman
Oh wasn't it glorious - yesterday - I never apologise when I rave about the weather because yesterday was so beautiful and I passed a thousand people and everyone was so happy and friendly and that is not coincidence. Yes I do know that as one of the world's leading (or trailing, really) experilalalamental musicians I am meant to be deep and morose and brooding and all that stuff but actually I am usually very cheerful and shallow and yesterday it was almost excessive. Yesterday I walked from my sweet little house in the middle of Southampton to Gosport - or, if you are generous and allow me the walking-onto-and-walking-off-the-ferry bit as well then I walked all the way to Portsmouth. It took less time than I expected - about 6 hours to Gosport.
Of course I went as close to the coast/river as possible - across the Itchen and down along Weston Shore and then up to Bursledon and then down the Hamble and along the coast to just about that first fort near Gosport, just past the Danger Zone, and then I walked inland to the heart of Gosport. So much to say - and so much of it incredibly boring (for you) so I will spare you. Just to say that as someone who, like most Sotonians, never goes in that direction (we only ever travel north or west) there were huge stretches of my walk that were totally new and surprising to/for me. I'd heard of Stubbington but never had a clue where it was. Now I know. I thought it was near Winchester. I loved the rickety wooden hand-made Meon Coast Village Huts (????), like a compressed Dungeness. I enjoyed walking along the long long concrete walkway that pretty much takes up most of the coast walk (exaggeration), especially around Lee On Solent.
I've walked on enough mud this winter. The main drama was that my boots fell apart - the sole of my right boot fell away from the upper - but no problem - I knew this was on the cards and I was carrying my emergency trainers in my backpack. You might be wondering why you are reading about some boring unknown failed-muso writing about collapsing shoes when there are much mightier things to be worrying about - has Jack White found another set of those impossibly rare rat-gut gtr strings ? has Thurston Moore recovered from that embarrassing food poisoning incident he had on stage last night ? - but shoes are so important. The weather, shoes, the mood of the nation - these are the key things. Gosport is one of the last truly friendly towns left in Britain and as such it is the sort of place that gets laughed about in the Guardian because, well, no one in Gosport reads the Guardian.
I like it, but the place is doomed. I arrived in the early-ish afternoon and the high street was like it was a serious Bank Holiday. No one. Last time I was there it was brilliant for charity shops. Now, even the charity shops are struggling - the British Heart Foundation shop still had its sign up but it was empty and the To Let thingy hung over it. If charity shops are struggling, then that's pretty much it.
I struggled a bit. The original plan was to get the Gosport bus back to Southampton, but at the bus station the only buses were going to Fareham. I know that Gosport is having a bus revamp or something and that most of the buses now leave from somewhere else but I just couldn't be arsed and the ferry is only 8 yards away so I bought a ticket and stepped on board and climbed up and marvelled at the two aircraft carriers against the green hills and beneath the blue sky and across on the Portsmouth side of the harbour it is again only about 8 yards to the train and the long slow ride back home which truly felt longer than the walk, this is such a tiny country and our transport system manages to make such a meal of it - everywhere beautiful is just a few hours walk away.
recorded this morning, photo Portsmouth Harbour yesterday afternoon
