This morning Dee and I took Daisy for a walk around the edges of the New Forest. Tiny paths led up to roads where large houses nestle into the trees, one of which was where Dee had worked for a lady before and after her children were born. I pictured Dee, struggling up the path with two babies in tow, cleaning and cooking while keeping little fingers away from precious items, and catering to her mistress’s idiosyncrasies. A horse with foals was grazing in an open space, keeping an eye on us as we passed. 
The names of the houses were like those from a children’s story – Oak Cottage, Crooked Cottage and Widden Lodge – and the trees like those in cultivated gardens at home – oaks, hollies, beeches and conifers. I expected Little Grey Rabbit to hop out at any moment, wearing her blue apron and looking out for visitors to her burrow.
Badgers live in the forest, and Dee and Wilbur have seen them and showed us a set. Gilbert Smith advises you not to have a dog or an excitable child with you when sitting silently for hours at night waiting to see the badgers appear. It sounds sensible to me. One of the jobs of a forester was to know where all the sets of all animals were and to block them with earth before each fox hunt.
A pond is reserved for the use of model yachts, with the path we took skirting its edge then turning back to home. A mossy bank reminded me that the Gipsies used to sell moss collected in the forest, as well as flowers that were, on some occasions, collected from nearby gardens. Gilbert Smith caught one woman when he put gramophone needles in the back of some nearly ready daffodils in a garden, and the next day was able to identify the very flowers in the bunches she claimed to have bought at the market. He was a wily one. The beautiful forest paths, the ancient trees, and finally catching a glimpse of some deer the day before, along with the stories of the place, created a fairy tale atmosphere for me. I wished we were staying longer to explore the forest.
When we returned, it was action stations to pack up and be on the road to Brockenhurst in time to catch the train. As we entered the village, horses and donkeys were wandering down the road and along the footpaths, out for a stroll amongst the Saturday morning shoppers. We worried about the safety of driving with animals all over the roads but to Dee and Wilbur it was normal and they just said that you did have to watch out a bit.
We were so glad to have caught up with Dee and Wilbur and we are sure that it will not be too long before we see each other again in one country or another. If their dream of travelling in England in a narrow boat on the canals comes to fruition, we just might have to join them for a little trip.
It was well after midday when we arrived at Polegate, having changed trains at Southampton and Brighton. Keith’s father’s cousin, Beryl, and her son, Stefan, arrived to meet us and to take us to Beryl’s home. Beryl is eighty, and had spoken enthusiastically of us coming to visit her when we had phoned a few weeks earlier, never mentioning that she had broken her wrist lest we might feel that a visit would be too much for her. She and Stefan had been in Australia earlier this year, staying with and meeting various members of the family. Stefan had stayed with Joel and they had been down to our house together to clear up a fallen tree, so he had more recent news of Inverleigh than we did. Despite a broken wrist, Beryl had prepared lunch and we sat around talking in such a comfortable way that it was impossible to believe that we had never met before. The plans for the afternoon were put on hold while Beryl and I had a rest and Stefan and Keith tidied up.
We drove out to the Seven Sisters Park near Seaford, passing Beryl’s old house where she used to be able to walk out of the end of the street and up the hill onto the South Downs, which Stefan described as ‘a ridge like an eyebrow’ running up from the coast. For an island with a comparatively large population, much public land is respected and really used for recreation by the people. The path we took to the cove where the River Cuckmere enters the sea wound down between windswept grassy meadows. The coast line is being rapidly devoured by the sea, with the cottages at the bottom under threat if the sea wall is not maintained. One cottage was used in a film, but we are not sure which cottage or which film, so that is not very helpful.
Built in 1818, the bottom cottage housed the officer of the coastguard watch and the garrison lived in the other cottages. Their task was to stamp out the smuggling and wrecking (luring ships onto the rocks to scavenge the cargo) which were rife at the time. Apparently even vicars were known to assist with smuggling. During the war the area was heavily fortified and bombed and we could see the concrete bunkers on the cliffs. What to do about global warming and the rising sea is a real problem for England and, as we had seen at Hurst, building coastline defences against the sea can have unwanted repercussions in other area. The expected increase in inundation of land and in cliffs falling into the sea poses questions of budget as well as whether some communities should be saved over others and of whether nature should just be allowed to take its course. The owners of the cottages had put up an informative sign, which was asking for support in their bid to have their sea defences maintained, as they have had to fund it to this point themselves. 
Later we called at another spot along the coast and saw the place where a row of terrace cottages nears the edge of the cliff. One has already fallen over so the owner simply moved into the next one, and is now waiting for the time not too far away when the next one will start collapsing. That is definitely what I would call living on the edge.
The beach was heavy underfoot until just near the sea; heavy with stones, many of which were flint. Flint is very hard, looks like a dark, sucked boiled lolly and can be napped to chip off sharp pieces to use for cutting or as arrow and spear heads. The tide rises about three metres here, with a drop to the river’s path carved out by the water. Turning back we noticed a building, permanent but looking like it had started as a sometimes shack, and Stefan told us that many people had lived in railway carriages and other temporary homes along the coast after the war, when the areas had been cleared of mines. It became quite an alternative way of life.
Near a pond which is part of the area’s protected nature reserve, we saw our first building built of flint, set in a considerable amount of gravelly mortar. We were to see many more buildings made using the local material, with some stones carefully selected and placed, and others roughly put together, in the little village of east Dean. 
We hopped out to examine the church walls and the very unusual double gate fixed in the middle and swinging to make two lanes when it was open. A local lady, taking her dog for a walk in the grave yard, told me that it is an ancient tradition in East Dean for brides to be lifted over the gate on their way into the wedding. She didn’t know what had started it or what it signified, and wasn’t sure if they were also lifted over on their way out, but like all dog owners we had met, she would have been happy to speculate on it for ages. Perhaps no-one wanted to seem too eager or perhaps it was literally handing the bride ‘over’? What a pity I had to leave just when I was doing some real in-depth historical research.
Just as the sun was setting we stopped at Belle Tout, at Eastbourne Downland, and walked across the downs until we could see the lighthouse in the distance. A high cliff here has been the site of many suicides; a sad reminder of the suffering and desperation in some people’s lives.
I helped Beryl with the tea, and after an evening of catching up on some of the eighty years and more of family news, we climbed the stairs to bed.
The names of the houses were like those from a children’s story – Oak Cottage, Crooked Cottage and Widden Lodge – and the trees like those in cultivated gardens at home – oaks, hollies, beeches and conifers. I expected Little Grey Rabbit to hop out at any moment, wearing her blue apron and looking out for visitors to her burrow.Badgers live in the forest, and Dee and Wilbur have seen them and showed us a set. Gilbert Smith advises you not to have a dog or an excitable child with you when sitting silently for hours at night waiting to see the badgers appear. It sounds sensible to me. One of the jobs of a forester was to know where all the sets of all animals were and to block them with earth before each fox hunt.A pond is reserved for the use of model yachts, with the path we took skirting its edge then turning back to home. A mossy bank reminded me that the Gipsies used to sell moss collected in the forest, as well as flowers that were, on some occasions, collected from nearby gardens. Gilbert Smith caught one woman when he put gramophone needles in the back of some nearly ready daffodils in a garden, and the next day was able to identify the very flowers in the bunches she claimed to have bought at the market. He was a wily one. The beautiful forest paths, the ancient trees, and finally catching a glimpse of some deer the day before, along with the stories of the place, created a fairy tale atmosphere for me. I wished we were staying longer to explore the forest.
When we returned, it was action stations to pack up and be on the road to Brockenhurst in time to catch the train. As we entered the village, horses and donkeys were wandering down the road and along the footpaths, out for a stroll amongst the Saturday morning shoppers. We worried about the safety of driving with animals all over the roads but to Dee and Wilbur it was normal and they just said that you did have to watch out a bit.We were so glad to have caught up with Dee and Wilbur and we are sure that it will not be too long before we see each other again in one country or another. If their dream of travelling in England in a narrow boat on the canals comes to fruition, we just might have to join them for a little trip.
It was well after midday when we arrived at Polegate, having changed trains at Southampton and Brighton. Keith’s father’s cousin, Beryl, and her son, Stefan, arrived to meet us and to take us to Beryl’s home. Beryl is eighty, and had spoken enthusiastically of us coming to visit her when we had phoned a few weeks earlier, never mentioning that she had broken her wrist lest we might feel that a visit would be too much for her. She and Stefan had been in Australia earlier this year, staying with and meeting various members of the family. Stefan had stayed with Joel and they had been down to our house together to clear up a fallen tree, so he had more recent news of Inverleigh than we did. Despite a broken wrist, Beryl had prepared lunch and we sat around talking in such a comfortable way that it was impossible to believe that we had never met before. The plans for the afternoon were put on hold while Beryl and I had a rest and Stefan and Keith tidied up.
We drove out to the Seven Sisters Park near Seaford, passing Beryl’s old house where she used to be able to walk out of the end of the street and up the hill onto the South Downs, which Stefan described as ‘a ridge like an eyebrow’ running up from the coast. For an island with a comparatively large population, much public land is respected and really used for recreation by the people. The path we took to the cove where the River Cuckmere enters the sea wound down between windswept grassy meadows. The coast line is being rapidly devoured by the sea, with the cottages at the bottom under threat if the sea wall is not maintained. One cottage was used in a film, but we are not sure which cottage or which film, so that is not very helpful.
Built in 1818, the bottom cottage housed the officer of the coastguard watch and the garrison lived in the other cottages. Their task was to stamp out the smuggling and wrecking (luring ships onto the rocks to scavenge the cargo) which were rife at the time. Apparently even vicars were known to assist with smuggling. During the war the area was heavily fortified and bombed and we could see the concrete bunkers on the cliffs. What to do about global warming and the rising sea is a real problem for England and, as we had seen at Hurst, building coastline defences against the sea can have unwanted repercussions in other area. The expected increase in inundation of land and in cliffs falling into the sea poses questions of budget as well as whether some communities should be saved over others and of whether nature should just be allowed to take its course. The owners of the cottages had put up an informative sign, which was asking for support in their bid to have their sea defences maintained, as they have had to fund it to this point themselves. Later we called at another spot along the coast and saw the place where a row of terrace cottages nears the edge of the cliff. One has already fallen over so the owner simply moved into the next one, and is now waiting for the time not too far away when the next one will start collapsing. That is definitely what I would call living on the edge.The beach was heavy underfoot until just near the sea; heavy with stones, many of which were flint. Flint is very hard, looks like a dark, sucked boiled lolly and can be napped to chip off sharp pieces to use for cutting or as arrow and spear heads. The tide rises about three metres here, with a drop to the river’s path carved out by the water. Turning back we noticed a building, permanent but looking like it had started as a sometimes shack, and Stefan told us that many people had lived in railway carriages and other temporary homes along the coast after the war, when the areas had been cleared of mines. It became quite an alternative way of life.Near a pond which is part of the area’s protected nature reserve, we saw our first building built of flint, set in a considerable amount of gravelly mortar. We were to see many more buildings made using the local material, with some stones carefully selected and placed, and others roughly put together, in the little village of east Dean. We hopped out to examine the church walls and the very unusual double gate fixed in the middle and swinging to make two lanes when it was open. A local lady, taking her dog for a walk in the grave yard, told me that it is an ancient tradition in East Dean for brides to be lifted over the gate on their way into the wedding. She didn’t know what had started it or what it signified, and wasn’t sure if they were also lifted over on their way out, but like all dog owners we had met, she would have been happy to speculate on it for ages. Perhaps no-one wanted to seem too eager or perhaps it was literally handing the bride ‘over’? What a pity I had to leave just when I was doing some real in-depth historical research.Just as the sun was setting we stopped at Belle Tout, at Eastbourne Downland, and walked across the downs until we could see the lighthouse in the distance. A high cliff here has been the site of many suicides; a sad reminder of the suffering and desperation in some people’s lives.I helped Beryl with the tea, and after an evening of catching up on some of the eighty years and more of family news, we climbed the stairs to bed.
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