Lucy Melford

Poole Harbour is a large expanse of sheltered water named after Poole, the ferry port in East Dorset, close to Bournemouth the famous resort. It's protected from the open sea by two sand spits with a narrow passage between them, the northern one hosting the community of Sandbanks, often mentioned as the place with the most expensive houses (and beach huts) in the country, the haunt of multi-millionaires. Certainly there are some very large luxury houses (and notoriously expensive beach huts) there; but its reputation for exclusivity is questionable, as ordinary traffic and pedestrians can pass through Sandbanks on their way to the ferry across to Studland Bay and Swanage. Double-decker buses too, I believe. There are a lot of trees, but many properties seem wide open to the idle stares of curious passers-by. Still, Sandbank's reputation as a posh Dorset-coast retreat persists. I can see that Melford Investigations will have to look into this at some point.

Here are two location maps. Click on them to enlarge.

Poole Harbour was historically surrounded on all sides by rough and lonely heathland, studded with pines, and that is still true of its western and southern sides, where there are plenty of secluded wooded creeks, some of them still showing the remains of a once-thriving clay industry - rickety piers, and rough tracks leading to them that were once the routes of tramways. Nowadays these creeks are safe anchorages for yachting types. The Harbour also has many islands, big and small, mostly privately-owned. But one, Furzey Island, is owned by an oil-producing concern, for this part of the world is sitting on a discreet oilfield. There are nodding donkeys among those pines, and the crude oil collected is taken away by oil tankers on their own ponderous ferry boats, little more than platforms with a cabin, and barely clear of the water. Odd to think that this rather dirty and messy industry coexists with so much beauty, for taken as a whole Poole Harbour must be one of the most attractive places on the south coast.

The largest island is Brownsea Island, and it's had a number of owners over the last two centuries, all of whom treated it as their own private kingdom, building such things as a castle, a church, a factory, farm buildings and rows of cottages. It was a miniature estate, cut off from the mainland, and able to go its own way. Each owner had a different vision of how the island should be, and what resources should be exploited, or not. At one time, for instance, pottery was made on an industrial scale, and one beach is still littered with the shattered and unwanted remains of that venture, which failed because the clay was not of the quality needed.

A large staff was once necessary. I got the notion many years ago that the forelock-tugging people working on the Island were virtual prisoners - not slaves, of course: they were employed; but the terms of their employment meant that they were not free to pop over to the mainland just as they pleased. They had to get permission, which wasn't readily forthcoming. So unless determined to 'escape', the workpeople might spend years on end toiling on the island, looking wistfully at the bright lights of Poole. Later on they would also gaze at the encroaching suburbs of Bournmouth, and at the exotic yachty goings-on at Sandbanks (seemingly only a stone's throw away, though separated from the island by strong currents in the shipping channel).

It sounds scandalous, that staff should be kept prisoner in this way. And I was completely wrong!

I think now, having at last visited Brownsea Island, that life there might actually have felt idyllic, the place being a peaceful and safe haven set apart from the distressing events of the outside world - and likely a coveted position for servants and farm workers wanting such serene conditions.

Certainly, I can see that if one lives on a small island, daily life can often be congenial, unhurried and stress-free, ruled only by the seasons. The outside world may have its difficulties and tribulations, but they don't impinge on a little place that looks inward on its own affairs. This said, I've never seriously wanted to live on a small island. My personal focus isn't so narrow. I like to roam widely, and would find it confining. Indeed there's a real danger that I would soon 'use it up' and crave somewhere new.

Nowadays Brownsea Island is mostly owned by the National Trust. The Castle is however in the hands of the John Lewis Partnership, as a kind of private hotel, and staff from John Lewis and Waitrose can stay there. It's not open to ordinary members of the public. However the public can walk to all other parts of the island except the farm and a sensitive area in the north part of the island, where rare birds nest.

I made my very first visit last June. It was something of a mission to get there. First I had to park on Poole Quay, which wasn't cheap. I paid £8.50 for six hours. (In the event, I should have bought more time, at even greater expense) Then I queued for the ferry, paying onboard, which was again not cheap. The return fare was £13.50. Hmm! £22 spent before even getting there! Even so, the ferry was well filled with fellow-tourists. Being a Life Member of the NT, I did not have to pay anything more when disembarking. Only for lunch, at the NT's rather pleasant café (£7.80), and for a much-needed ice cream later on (£3.00). Still, that was £33-odd spent, much more than usual. But I make no complaint: the island was a very special place indeed. I intend to go again, if only because I didn't see the thing I chiefly came to see - but more on that in a post to come.

I've got ahead of myself. Back to Poole Quay. A ferry boat was waiting, and I joined the queue. Once aboard I got myself a good seat. I had long looked forward to the short voyage there, and was very curious to see what signs there might still be of repressive past owners' efforts to keep the island very private and possibly fortress-like. In my imagination, I was going to see Alcatraz.

It got breezy as soon as we left the quay at Poole, and immediately I wondered whether it had been wise to bring along my wide-brimmed sunhat, which caught the wind like a sail. Every time I needed to use both hands to take a picture with LXV, there was a risk that my hat would fly off and be lost at sea. But Neptune saw to it that this didn't happen. Here are some shots to show what the voyage was like.

The people in red jackets were NT staff, going over for the afternoon shift I thought. It wasn't a long voyage - maybe half an hour. Brownsea Island was always in view. It looked well wooded.

At one point we passed one of those low-slung oil-tanker ferry boats:

Soon Brownsea Island loomed large, and as we approached the jetty all the buildings suddenly became distinct. There was the Castle; and there were the quirky estate cottages, and other buildings. It reminded me just a little of pictures I'd seen of Port Meirion in North Wales. NT staff were waiting to greet us.

Then we were on land again, and filing through Reception. Flashing my Life Membership card, I fast-tracked through that.

The two girls left-centre in the shot above were going to walk around the island. I had the same plan. I didn't go with them - I wanted something to eat first - but we encountered each other later on that day on a Mindfulness Trail in the woods. They were very pleasant.

The 'village' was very pleasant too. I'd heard that most visitors don't stray far from it. I intended to be much more ambitious. My right knee wouldn't stand up to much strenuous walking, but if I took care, I should still be able to cover a lot of ground. But first, lunch! I sought, and found, the Villano Café with its sea views.

Coffee and a pasty. Good enough for a snack lunch. While I munched and slurped my way through that, I studied the island map.

Not long afterwards, I saw a model of the island in one of the exhibitions, which perhaps reveals its on-the-ground geography a bit better. Here's a shot of it - north is bottommost; the 'village' is off on the far left. I was going to walk around the island clockwise, mostly keeping near the shore.

These were the beach and sea views from the café. The patio outside had a fine view of Sandbanks, and I thought again how the estate workers - wild-eyed and desperate to escape - might look yearningly and hopelessly at the lights there. But all the island boats would be locked up or chained. And swimming was too risky, even for a fit man: the current in the shipping channel was strong and swift, possibly vicious; and a plunge into those waters might well end in tragedy. Or punishment if dragged back.

Had those been watchtowers? With searchlights atop them? And man-traps on the beach? Had there been dog patrols?

It was time to look at the village exhibitions, before beginning my circuit of the island in earnest. These were all housed in one or other of the former workshops or offices. Studying the material presented, I realised that my notion of the island as a virtual prison was completely false. I felt rather silly: where had I got that mistaken idea from? Oh well, I knew better now. The workpeople hadn't at all been denied freedom (although they'd still had to put up with nineteenth-century pay and working conditions).

One thing I couldn't look at closely was the Castle. In fact, at ground level it was largely hidden behind a high wall. This was the best view I had of it.

Even so, it was rather imposing! A pity it was out of bounds to ordinary visitors. There was a gateway, of course.

Ah! Perhaps if I flashed my 'My Waitrose' card, it would magically open those gates? But no joy.

I made what I could of the exhibitions. They were strong on information, but there wasn't much left of the successive enterprises each owner had set up: only a few artifacts that had seen better days. The star exhibit was an old but restored gas-powered engine in the former Engine Room - gleaming of course - which was apparently unique. No doubt much was still hidden out of sight inside the Castle and on the farm.

There were plenty of panels describing life on the island over the years, such as these. Click on them to enlarge.

The last private owner had let the island revert to nature, its out-of-use buildings becoming derelict and decrepit, and its farm run-down. (The cow in the picture above was foraging for food, as it had no proper feed) The NT has been gradually restoring it to something resembling its Edwardian glory, plus the addition of very modern facilities to study the rare birds and other wildlife, for which the island is well-known. But Brownsea Island is famous for more than this. Next post: Lord Baden-Powell and the scouting connection.

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A line from the song Flash Bang Wallop in the early-1960s musical Half a Sixpence, starring Tommy Steele - referring to the kind of old-fashioned flash photography used with a large studio camera on legs, that involved igniting powder to bathe the posing subject or subjects in bright light. This was before flashbulbs were invented, and long decades before electronic flash was available. I imagine it was easy to overdo the powder charge, with explosive effect.

But hats blow off in any breeze too. Last year I bought a nice straw-coloured sunhat, which I instantly took to my heart. But its wide brim was always catching the wind, so that my right arm was forever having to hold it onto my head. This was especially an issue on or near the sea, and it was tedious (and tiring) to keep clamping it into position. It needed to be tied on with some sort of chin cord.

Now I had a stylish red fedora hat, and faced the same problem. It too needed a chin cord.

I decided to equip both hats with a suitable chin cord or ribbon. But how to fix one on, and what to use? And would I tie it, or use a toggle? Would the chin cord have to be on display all the time? How would it affect the fit of my new red hat in particular? A series of small purchases followed: cream and red ribbons, matching cotton thread, white and black toggles.

The sunhat was a light and airy affair, and I thought a length of cream ribbon would be best, its ends sewn simply onto the lining, with a loop under my chin that could be tightened with a white toggle. I wouldn't be wearing this hat in bad weather, nor fierce winds, so ribbon would be strong enough. I had originally considered having two strands of ribbon hanging down, which I'd tie together in a bow - but it might look oddly old-fashioned, even prissy. So I went with a loop, and that toggle, which I hoped wouldn't mangle the ribbon too much. This was the result.

The red fedora was a different case. That would be worn in sterner weather, and serious breezes. Ribbon might not be substantial enough, so I put away the length I'd bought for some other purpose. Discussing what to use as a chin cord with a friend, I learned that a shoelace might be a reasonable choice. Well, I had a single thick round-section cotton bootlace for walking boots (I don't know what had happened to the other lace!) that had been awaiting its moment for over twenty years. Maybe thirty years. It was up in my attic, and I found it where I thought it would be. It would be a perfect match with the red felt of the hat. It helped that it was a lace - the reinforced ends could each be very easily pushed through small holes I made in the hat's lining. I then sewed the lace, including its unwanted excess length, into the inner side of the lining, where it would be invisible. I retained this sewn-in excess because my hat fitted more snugly as a result. But I could easily remove it, if the hat ever shrank from too much exposure to rain, and then felt too tight. The lace that was still visible - now a proper chin cord - hung down in a loop, onto which I put a black toggle for tightening the cord under my chin. This was the result.

Hmm! Taken as a sewing job, it looked pretty good. The chin cord made the hat seem even more 'adventurous'. I needed only a bull whip and a revolver to complete the picture! But if I wanted to convert the hat for more formal use, I could simply pop the chin cord and toggle into the hat, put it back on my head, and voila! The well-dressed Woman About Town! Very county, in fact. But on balance, I preferred the Indiana Melford look.