There is no doubt that the way to see Hayling is on a bicycle or on foot. “It’s so beautiful here in May and June,” a postman said to me, “that I often feel I should pay for bicycling about these flowery lanes instead of being paid to do it.” And the pleasure of the island is partly the sudden sight of salt water.
I walked down a narrow lane, past bungalows drowned in flowering shrubs, past hedges and under elms. Then I found a path bordered with long grass topped with cow parsley, so that the effect was of breaking rollers rearing backwards to leave me a walking space; and then suddenly there was a pebbly strand with calm harbour water stretching for miles, with sailing boats and dinghies dotting the middle distance, and inland oaks and ilex hanging over the salt waters, and not a soul in sight. And there was the ripple and suck of a smooth tide flooding over silvery mud and the salt, sand-coated vegetation of the marshes. That is part of the quiet country Hayling—the oldest Hayling.
The island divides itself into three kinds of life—farming, amateur sailing, and seaside holiday camps. But the oldest, the farming life, is obviously most efficient. The land is rich; gardens, golden melancholy Guernseys browsing in meadows of clover, rich flat fields on the west and north all proclaim that. Right in the middle by the shops, near the red-brick cinema and the bus stops, is a big thatched dairy farm, where Guernseys look sadly out of their stalls at passing motor buses and motor cars.“Rus in urbe,” indeed.
The two old country churches are founded in agriculture. They are stone buildings of about 1150, each with central tower, shingled spire and lean-to aisles. The smaller one at North Hayling is the prettier, with its sloping east wall buttressed up from falling into the road, and its old timbered roofs and porches, for it has been less tinkered with by the Victorians than the other.
Here and there in the Island old brick cottages with thatched roofs remind one of the country quiet. But what, I ask myself, can account for these trim houses hidden among wind-slashed oaks and elms, each with its mown lawn and quota of purple aubretia, its flowering prunus and scarlet-flowered japonica? The answer is not far to seek. In sheltered creeks on the coast of Hayling are moored privately-owned yachts and dinghies. The directory shows me that captains in the Royal Navy, and even admirals, inhabit the houses around. Colonels too, at last able to indulge their taste for sailing, find retirement here from Army life. Bronzed men in shorts or corduroys with open shirts instead of the dazzling uniforms of their regular occupations are messing about here in boats. The flap of sail, the creak of rowlocks, the splash of water bailed out of the hold, echo in each calm inlet.
I was down by a saltern at six o’clock—that magic hour when tackle is stowed and rubber-soled feet walk homeward from the quay. Cars drawn up outside one of those pretty sheltered houses told me that cocktail time had started. Here was the close and friendly fellowship of sailors—amateur and professional—those other permanent residents of the island besides farmers and tradesmen; contented and busy from one Regatta to another.
Lastly, there is the seaside life. This is seasonable. There is nothing so sad-looking as an amusement park which is not working. The Dodgems and the Giant Wheel down by the seashore rise inertly, among gorse and cupressus.
Some fields were full of empty caravans, the iron tables and chairs of tea places stood vacant in little gardens: no queues were at the ice cream kiosk which had just opened; no cars were parked along the shore. Winter salt had not yet been cleaned off the plate-glass windows of sun lounges in big hotels. Yet the only imposing architecture of Hayling Island—far more imposing than the two old churches or the cottages—is the gracious seaside architecture of another age which may be seen here at the Portsmouth end of the island. A stately Georgian crescent, worthy of Brighton itself, but unfinished, two large stucco Georgian houses near it, and some Italian-style villas behind, show that Hayling Island has been loved for its sands for more than a century.
In June the amusement park will be beginning to turn, families in bright summer clothes will be crowding into caravans, clubs and heads will be showing above the sand dunes of the golf course, bicycles will be stacked against walls, young limbs will be turning bronzed or freckled, stretched out on the long grey sands, shrimping nets and tin buckets will hang like fruit outside the shops. The seaside will be coming to life. From our villages the Mothers’ Union or the Women’s Institute will be packing into a coach for Hayling Island. They will cling to the sea front.In quieter reaches admirals, captains and colonels will be hoisting sail, and in elm and oak-protected fields farmers will be making hay while the sun shines—and so will everyone else. Lyndhurst
Lyndhurst! Lyndhurst Way, Lyndhurst Grove, Lyndhurst Drive, Lyndhurst Crescent. The suburbs of England are full of the name. I cannot think why so small a place should so have taken the public fancy.
I believe Lyndhurst means “Forest of lime trees,” but a more truthful description would be “Forest of Douglas firs” or even “Forest of oak and beech.” Lyndhurst is the capital of the New Forest and it is up at the northern and wildest end, where Rufus was killed by an arrow.
The original New Forest, the Norman Forest, was of oak, then there were plantations of beech and later, in Victorian times, miles
