ladyofastolat (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ladyofastolat) wrote2013-03-04 08:24 pm
ladyofastolat) wrote2013-03-04 08:24 pm
Undercliff, overcliff, rambling free
I did a Big Walk today, but instead of just walking non-stop for 7 or 8 hours, as I was doing when training for my big coastal path adventure, I decided to stop off to explore anything interesting that I passed.
I started at Blackgang, where there was a rather confusing sign stuck in the middle of a random hedge. I did find a pound coin in the mud not very far away, so I can only assume that one is supposed to leave payment under the hedge, and the elves or pixies will deliver the ice-cream. Either that, or it's some sort of treasure hunt, in which you need to pick a direction and walk a mile in it, and see if ice cream results.
For the next few miles, my path stuck to the top of the inland cliff above the undercliff. The undercliff, according to an information board, is "the single largest area of landslipped topography in western Europe." It consists of a strip of hummocky land, created by repeated landslips of an inland cliff that keeps retreating ever further from the sea. The land, very waterlogged just a few weeks ago, has dried remarkably in the last ten days of mostly dry weather, with a sharp, cold wind.
The weather forecast had promised a nice day, but it was very hazy all day, even when the sun finally decided to appear in the afternoon. Almost lost in the haze, here is St Catherine's Lighthouse, the most modern of the three lighthouses that have been built on this stretch of the coast.
All the footpaths in this area are old, with old names: Cripple Path, St Rhadegund's Path (an old pilgrim path from the coast to the holy well at Whitwell), Bury Lane, etc. I descended the cliff into St Lawrence, where I visted the old church, which is possibly the teeniest in England, at 25 feet by 11 feet. It dates from the 13th century, but it really wasn't in the mood for conveying any information to the visitor. It did, however, say "walkers welcome!" and have a table with water bottles, squash and biscuit tin, which was a nice touch. Last time I visited, I read that the north door was blocked in in the 19th century, when a rector, running late for the service, bumped his head and died. Since the door in question can't be much more than four feet high, I'm surprised he managed to only bump his head.
The new church was built in the 19th century, and is obviously very proud of its pre-Raphaelite stained glass, made by Burne Jones, William Morris and others. It was originally housed in the chapel of the National Hospital for Consumption and Diseases of the Chest, now Ventnor Botanic Gardens.
I liked this house name, which I spotted in St Lawrence:
The coastal path to Ventnor was as hazy as the rest of the path, but even in the haze, I always like the grisly fiendly rokkes black.
In Ventnor, I spotted a household god lurking behind a wall. This is Hygeia, the patron goddess of Ventnor.
I walked the sea wall all the way to Bonchurch, where there's another teeny-tiny church - slightly bigger than St Lawrence - a full 12 feet wide! - but quite a bit older, dating as it does to 1070.
Apparently St Boniface was an early 8th century monk, originally called Winifrid, who decided that it was good idea to convert the scattered fishermen who lived on the undercliff. He then moved over the Channel and went off to be martyred in the Netherlands. Very early after the Norman Conquest, some monks came over from Lyra in Normandy, and built a new church on the site of the original Anglo-Saxon one.
Charles I attended a funeral in the churchyard, while on a day trip from Carisbrooke Castle, where he was imprisoned in a rather half-hearted fashion. There's also allegedly the grave of a French knight who came a-raiding in 1545. In the words of John Oglander, writing in the early 17th century, "he was assailed by us. His company fled, and he being shot in the knee by an arrow, whereupon some country fellow (I can imagine him no better), he calling for Ransome, clove his head with his Brown Bill."
There were some vague wall paintings in the nave. The 1945 guidebook says these are "not of special interest," but a 2006 note says that they're actually 12th century Romanesque and the earliest examples on the island.
I did like the fruit bowl font.
Bonchurch is a little village that pretty much every 19th century artist or literary person seems to have either lived in or visited: Keats, Swinburne, Dickens, and many more. It is also a place of Enormous Climbs. I had to climb at least 250 steps to get to Upper Bonchurch, some of them hewn in the living rock of the cliff.
I got a bit mislaid trying to get to the top of St Boniface Down, and my journey involved Mighty Goats, but I got there eventually.
St Boniface Down is a Gurt Hill indeed - the highest point on the island, and a "marilyn," which means that it does all its climbing all in one go. (Yes, I noticed!) Everything started to fall apart a bit when I tried to get off it, though, as my paths kept betraying me, by leading me into fields with no way out. I had to do a good amount of clambering guiltily through barbed wire fences before I made it up to the next down over. (There were far too many contours in this route.)
Hielan Coos watched me as I blundered:
From the top of the Next Down Over, I descended into Whitwell, site of the holy well that was the centre of all the pilgrimaging I mentioned earlier. The church was positively ginormous compared with the others. It was originally two different chapels, built in a semi-detached way, each dedicated to a different saint (St Rhadegund and St Mary) and linked with different parishes. Finally, in the 15th century, they decided that this was Very Silly, and demolished the partition wall to make a single church.
Here is a 19th century painting of a much earlier wall painting which they uncovered during restoration, and accidentally broke. (I'm envisaging Ben Miller here: "it's... absolutely... priceless.") It shows St Elmo being disembowelled with a winch. I like the villains!
The rooks were roosting very impressively outside. Here are about ten percent of them:
From Whitwell, I'd intended to climb (more climbing!) up to the Hoy Monument, but took yet another wrong turn and ended up accidentally missing it. Since it was going on for 5 o'clock and I'd been walking for 7 hours, I decided not to take the detour to go back. I like the Hoy Monument. On one side, it has a plaque commemorating the visit of the Russian Tsar to the island in 1814. On the other side, it had a plaque commemorating all the valiant dead, killed in the Crimean War against the Russians.
My path took me through a farm yard full to the brim with industry and timber... and these fine fellows:
Finally, I reached "the pepperpot," or St Catherine's Oratory. This is a medieval lighthouse built in the 14th century by a local nobleman who helped himself to a lot of wine that was being carried by a shipwrecked ship. Unfortunately, the wine was destined for a rich abbey, and the abbot told him that the Devil would eat his soul if he didn't atone by building a lighthouse to prevent future shipwrecks. Apparently it's the oldest surviving medieval lighthouse in Britain. Nearby is the stump of a half-finished 18th century lighthouse, which was presumably abandoned when they decided that building lighthouses nearly a mile inland on a fog-ridden hilltop was not that sensible, and it would be much better built actually on the coast.
And if anyone's actually read all this, they probably deserve a medal!
I started at Blackgang, where there was a rather confusing sign stuck in the middle of a random hedge. I did find a pound coin in the mud not very far away, so I can only assume that one is supposed to leave payment under the hedge, and the elves or pixies will deliver the ice-cream. Either that, or it's some sort of treasure hunt, in which you need to pick a direction and walk a mile in it, and see if ice cream results.
For the next few miles, my path stuck to the top of the inland cliff above the undercliff. The undercliff, according to an information board, is "the single largest area of landslipped topography in western Europe." It consists of a strip of hummocky land, created by repeated landslips of an inland cliff that keeps retreating ever further from the sea. The land, very waterlogged just a few weeks ago, has dried remarkably in the last ten days of mostly dry weather, with a sharp, cold wind.
The weather forecast had promised a nice day, but it was very hazy all day, even when the sun finally decided to appear in the afternoon. Almost lost in the haze, here is St Catherine's Lighthouse, the most modern of the three lighthouses that have been built on this stretch of the coast.
All the footpaths in this area are old, with old names: Cripple Path, St Rhadegund's Path (an old pilgrim path from the coast to the holy well at Whitwell), Bury Lane, etc. I descended the cliff into St Lawrence, where I visted the old church, which is possibly the teeniest in England, at 25 feet by 11 feet. It dates from the 13th century, but it really wasn't in the mood for conveying any information to the visitor. It did, however, say "walkers welcome!" and have a table with water bottles, squash and biscuit tin, which was a nice touch. Last time I visited, I read that the north door was blocked in in the 19th century, when a rector, running late for the service, bumped his head and died. Since the door in question can't be much more than four feet high, I'm surprised he managed to only bump his head.
The new church was built in the 19th century, and is obviously very proud of its pre-Raphaelite stained glass, made by Burne Jones, William Morris and others. It was originally housed in the chapel of the National Hospital for Consumption and Diseases of the Chest, now Ventnor Botanic Gardens.
I liked this house name, which I spotted in St Lawrence:
The coastal path to Ventnor was as hazy as the rest of the path, but even in the haze, I always like the grisly fiendly rokkes black.
In Ventnor, I spotted a household god lurking behind a wall. This is Hygeia, the patron goddess of Ventnor.
I walked the sea wall all the way to Bonchurch, where there's another teeny-tiny church - slightly bigger than St Lawrence - a full 12 feet wide! - but quite a bit older, dating as it does to 1070.
Apparently St Boniface was an early 8th century monk, originally called Winifrid, who decided that it was good idea to convert the scattered fishermen who lived on the undercliff. He then moved over the Channel and went off to be martyred in the Netherlands. Very early after the Norman Conquest, some monks came over from Lyra in Normandy, and built a new church on the site of the original Anglo-Saxon one.
Charles I attended a funeral in the churchyard, while on a day trip from Carisbrooke Castle, where he was imprisoned in a rather half-hearted fashion. There's also allegedly the grave of a French knight who came a-raiding in 1545. In the words of John Oglander, writing in the early 17th century, "he was assailed by us. His company fled, and he being shot in the knee by an arrow, whereupon some country fellow (I can imagine him no better), he calling for Ransome, clove his head with his Brown Bill."
There were some vague wall paintings in the nave. The 1945 guidebook says these are "not of special interest," but a 2006 note says that they're actually 12th century Romanesque and the earliest examples on the island.
I did like the fruit bowl font.
Bonchurch is a little village that pretty much every 19th century artist or literary person seems to have either lived in or visited: Keats, Swinburne, Dickens, and many more. It is also a place of Enormous Climbs. I had to climb at least 250 steps to get to Upper Bonchurch, some of them hewn in the living rock of the cliff.
I got a bit mislaid trying to get to the top of St Boniface Down, and my journey involved Mighty Goats, but I got there eventually.
St Boniface Down is a Gurt Hill indeed - the highest point on the island, and a "marilyn," which means that it does all its climbing all in one go. (Yes, I noticed!) Everything started to fall apart a bit when I tried to get off it, though, as my paths kept betraying me, by leading me into fields with no way out. I had to do a good amount of clambering guiltily through barbed wire fences before I made it up to the next down over. (There were far too many contours in this route.)
Hielan Coos watched me as I blundered:
From the top of the Next Down Over, I descended into Whitwell, site of the holy well that was the centre of all the pilgrimaging I mentioned earlier. The church was positively ginormous compared with the others. It was originally two different chapels, built in a semi-detached way, each dedicated to a different saint (St Rhadegund and St Mary) and linked with different parishes. Finally, in the 15th century, they decided that this was Very Silly, and demolished the partition wall to make a single church.
Here is a 19th century painting of a much earlier wall painting which they uncovered during restoration, and accidentally broke. (I'm envisaging Ben Miller here: "it's... absolutely... priceless.") It shows St Elmo being disembowelled with a winch. I like the villains!
The rooks were roosting very impressively outside. Here are about ten percent of them:
From Whitwell, I'd intended to climb (more climbing!) up to the Hoy Monument, but took yet another wrong turn and ended up accidentally missing it. Since it was going on for 5 o'clock and I'd been walking for 7 hours, I decided not to take the detour to go back. I like the Hoy Monument. On one side, it has a plaque commemorating the visit of the Russian Tsar to the island in 1814. On the other side, it had a plaque commemorating all the valiant dead, killed in the Crimean War against the Russians.
My path took me through a farm yard full to the brim with industry and timber... and these fine fellows:
Finally, I reached "the pepperpot," or St Catherine's Oratory. This is a medieval lighthouse built in the 14th century by a local nobleman who helped himself to a lot of wine that was being carried by a shipwrecked ship. Unfortunately, the wine was destined for a rich abbey, and the abbot told him that the Devil would eat his soul if he didn't atone by building a lighthouse to prevent future shipwrecks. Apparently it's the oldest surviving medieval lighthouse in Britain. Nearby is the stump of a half-finished 18th century lighthouse, which was presumably abandoned when they decided that building lighthouses nearly a mile inland on a fog-ridden hilltop was not that sensible, and it would be much better built actually on the coast.
And if anyone's actually read all this, they probably deserve a medal!
no subject
The oldest medieval lighthouse in Britain, presumably not to be confused with the oldest Roman lighthouse in Britain, at Dover Castle?
no subject
no subject
I can't help thinking it looks more like a stone rocket-ship rather than a pepperpot, but perhaps that's the result of spending the weekend hanging out with sci-fi fans.
no subject
And, yes, it does look very like a rocket. The lighthouse story is doubtless just a cover story, to keep us from learning the truth about the alien-inspired medieval space programme. :-)
no subject
Agree about the stone rocket!
no subject
no subject
no subject
Also, we still have two feet of snow, and no bare ground.
no subject
no subject
Maybe the goats on St Boniface Down lay false trails to lead travellers astray?
no subject
no subject
no subject
Hmm... When I entered the churchyard, a passing dogwalker said, "It's closed today!" although I tried the door anyway after she'd gone, and found it open. Maybe she was trying to protect me from killing myself on the door, and save the locals from yet another guilty midnight burial. Or else she was just trying to keep me from raiding the Weary Ramblers' Biscuit Tin.
no subject
Also, I didn't realise 'nook' was a verb, and I wonder why it is the sort of thing innovators are particularly likely to do?