Bloodthirsty geese

I go down to Chichester Harbour, about an hour's drive westward, at least once a month. I have some favourite destinations on this big expanse of tidal water, with its creeks and channels backed by breezy farmland. Places like Dell Quay and nearby Apuldram; Bosham and Chidham; West Wittering and East Head. And there's West Itchenor.

West Sussex is a posher and more moneyed place than East Sussex, and West Itchenor is one of those West Sussex villages that attracts well-heeled residents more than most. If you want to spend a lot of cash on a big house, especially if you own a boat, then this is most definitely a spot to consider. Not all the houses are the size of a mansion. Some are more modest. The oldest terraced houses in the street that leads down to the quay are normal-sized. But none of them is affordable to people on ordinary incomes. 

I am not envious. I'm happy in my modest home in Mid Sussex. I don't have to keep up an immaculate front. I can cut my own grass. My Council Tax is affordable. I am close to (and can see) the South Downs. Besides, all I have to do, to enjoy places like West Itchenor, is fire up my car and whizz down there. 

I did so a few days back. I wanted to have a good walk, and my local friends had got me an extra little birthday present, a recently-published book of Sussex walks. One of them featured the shore and farmland footpaths around West Itchenor. So having had a nice lunch in Chichester, I drove there, parked Sophie, grabbed my stick, and set forth with this little book in my Barbour jacket pocket. 

The first instruction was to turn into the Yacht Club entrance. I'd not done so on my two previous visits to the village because it looked strictly members-only, and I didn't want to trespass. But it was all right. The way I had to go ran down the side of the clubhouse, and I was surprised how easy it would be to stroll onto the decking and moorings on the Harbour side of the building, as if I were indeed a member. I doubted whether I'd be challenged.

The path then followed the shoreline for a bit, passing the massive posts of a super-stout fence that a resident had recently installed. It must have cost an awful lot.   

For now it was blue sky, fluffy clouds, and bright sunshine; but I was dressed for sudden showers. The path turned a corner, and began to head away from the Harbour between two very substantial properties. Meanwhile, there were serene views of moored boats and private jetties, with trees behind: typical Chichester Harbour scenery.

This was the first of those very substantial properties, the one on my left. It was a very large house, with a very wide rear lawn, and its own jetty, complete with a boat. Very impressive! The only thing it didn't have was privacy. Every footpath-user must peer at this property, and perhaps - like me - take a picture. 

The house on the right of the path had an even more extensive rear lawn, rather longer, so that the house was set back more. The grass was cut to a bowling green standard. I was surprised though that they made do with such a ramshackle fence.

The public path now joined a private road, and trusting the walk book not to lead me astray, I turned left, passing the front of that house with the boat moored at the bottom of its rear garden. It had a crescent-shaped drive, and therefore two entrances. How convenient - just drive in and out, and no need to mess about with reversing.

What a nice house! If you had the money to buy it (or build it) and a family to fill those many rooms, and a boat to moor, what better? 

But should I have been taking these admiring photos? Well, there seemed to be no attempt to hide the house behind gates, or a kink in the drive, or tall shrubbery. Presumably the owners were happy for their neighbours and passers by to see all this, and wouldn't kick up a fuss if a discreet picture or two were taken. As a legal matter, I could of course shoot what I liked, so long as I was standing on a public road and wasn't being an intrusive nuisance. This road was private, but it doubled as part of the New Lipchis Way, one of those official long-distance footpaths, that started in Liphook in Hampshire (where Mum and Dad lived in the 1980s) and ended in West Wittering. That presumably gave me certain viewing rights, so long as I behaved myself.

You'll note the Mercedes and BMW cars on the driveway: standard accessories associated with the well-off. I mean no irony. Of course you'd want a nice car if you owned a property of this calibre. And really the choice of suitable upmarket makes is not that large. What comes to mind? Mercedes and BMW, as here; Range Rover, Land Rover, Audi, Porsche. Volvo wouldn't be out of place, but the conventional list was quite short, and confined to one of the top German makes, with Range Rover as a safe and posh alternative if wanting to be very British. As to colour, something sober but classy: grey, black or silver. Nothing flash or loud, unless the car were a track-ready sports car.

Opposite this big house, an equally imposing residence was being constructed.

I'm assuming this imposing new build was going to be a family home, to justify the size. Even for a couple, a house as big as this would make no sense. Or perhaps it did. After all, the married couple might hate each other, and stayed together only because of the lifestyle they could jointly afford. Money takes the strain out of living, but doesn't necessarily buy happiness.

I couldn't see the point of my owning a large home, just for myself. The cost of upkeep would frighten me. And living in a rich person's colony, with its standards and social codes, had no appeal. 

I followed the road for a bit. More large residences. Although I was definitely out of my league, I found this fascinating. I wondered what lives the residents really led. Well, they all had similar types of car. Here, a BMW and a Land Rover Discovery:

Here, a Porsche and a Land Rover Defender:

Here, a Range Rover, with a RIB tucked away on the drive:

Concentrating on just the houses, these caught my eye:

And here was a new build, another very large house:

Goodness knows how much something like this might cost. Somewhere between three and four million pounds perhaps.

The walking route now left the private road and headed out over fields. I'm usually pretty good following directions, but somehow I took the wrong path and ended up walking further than intended. My right knee began to complain. Eventually I came back to the tip end of West Itchenor. Walking close to the church, I came across this warning notice:

No doubt about it. The geese hereabouts had fangs, and meant to kill. Look at the blood. Of course, geese are renowned as property guardians. If they don't like an intruder - basically meaning anybody at all - they begin to honk and create a dreadful racket. If that doesn't frighten off the intruder, they will then advance on the unfortunate person with necks extended, hissing, a mad glare in their eyes. Failure to withdraw will mean a full-on attack and a gory outcome. No, I wasn't going to mess with a gaggle of geese bent on murder. 

Soon after this point, still disconcerted by the prospect of death by a thousand goose bites, I took another wrong turning. This mistake took me well out my way. I had to retrace my steps, and by then I'd had enough walking for one afternoon. I decided that a refreshing gin and tonic was called for at the village pub, The Ship.

That went down a treat. Revived, I hit the road again in Sophie. It took just over an hour to get home.

I will have to return. I missed half the walk.

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