In the wet and wild places of the world, things tend to grow. Not in Portsmouth. As The Mathematician and I make our way at night down familiar but unvisited roads, we can’t get over how low the houses sit, how squashed they look.
“Is it subsidence?” I say, astounded. “It used to be marshland here …”
“It was always like this,” says The Mathematician. “I noticed when I first came over.”
“But this small?”
She nods.
“You’ve got used to German Mehrfamilienhäuser. They’re all just two floors here. With low ceilings.”
The effect is mesmerising. The more streets we pass, the greater the feeling I’m inside some giant Portsea Island model.
“Maybe it’s the streelights.”
“It’s not.”
We walk past front gardens a mere metre wide. Some walls are only as high as my knee.
“That’s not going to keep anybody out,” I mutter, but I’m missing the point. As a kid, I remember walking past houses with front doors that opened directly onto the pavement and thinking they were somehow … wrong. A garden — back and front — belonged to a home . I also remember that many of them had great displays of flowers and shrubs for such a tiny space. Now, most seemed empty or used to store the bins.
We walk a little up London Road in North End, where all the local shops are. Yes, I’ve taken us on the scenic route from the ferry port.
“Lidl, Aldi … it’s like we never left. Hey, what’s that?”
I’m looking at the white concrete monolith that used to have “Odeon” emblazoned across it in giant red letters. There’s now a Polish grocery store in what used to be the foyer.
“They closed it ages ago, didn’t they?” says The Mathematician.
She’s not wrong, but I’m looking at the place through Eyes of the Past™ and seeing the queues for the box office. I even smell the popcorn and worn carpets.
“Bring back memories?”
“Yeah, it kinda does. I had friends who worked there — free tickets. And, wow, I remember going there as a kid and in the intermission — or maybe just after the adverts? — some women would come out with trays strapped over their shoulders stacked with crisps, sweets, ice creams, and drinks. I think the trays had little lamps on them.”
“That makes you sound old.”
“I guess. Hey, look! The library’s still there!”
Now I do have a lot of memories of this place, perched at the end of Gladys Avenue by the roundabout. I’m amazed they haven’t knocked it down.
“I’m amazed they haven’t knocked it down!” I say.
“One of the lucky ones.”
“Yep. Let’s go down this road. It’s nicer.”
“Is it shorter?”
“It’s … about the same. It’s more—“
“Scenic?”
“Yeah.”
Going up the stairs, I notice they’re narrower than I remember. Either that, or my feet have grown.
We arrive at my parents’ place around half ten at night and walk right past it. They’ve new (to us) patio doors and a glass plaque with the house number, which you can’t see in the dark.
We find the new doorbell. It doesn’t work. I pump it several times, reasoning some kind of CPR might bring it back to life. Eventually, it rings. A joyous reunion ensues, only slightly delayed by us having to squeeze through the single open side of the PVC double doors, which we can’t do with rucksacks on.
“Do you want me to open the other side?” says Mum.
“No, no, it’s fine. They have to come off anyway — might as well be now.”
Even sack-shorn I have to turn sideways. The Mathematician and I give each other knowing looks. Small.
There’s no such thing as a quick hello with people you’ve not visited in years, which is nice, but it means we don’t get to bed till after midnight (which our heads, still on CEST, tell us is after one). Going up the stairs, I notice they’re narrower than I remember. Either that, or my feet have grown. The floorboards creek and groan beneath us.
“It’s hard to move around quietly,” says The Mathematician as we lie in bed, staring up at what used to be my old bedroom ceiling.
“Don’t worry, it’s the same noisy boards as when I was younger. I have a map” — I tap my head — “right here. Just step where I step.”
“Or I could just walk like a normal person.”
“Well, yes, but—“
“I’m tired,” she says. “Night.”
I turn off the light and plan my manoeuvres in darkness.
Two men sporting A&E barnets cross from Clarence Esplanade and spook a few elderly strollers.
We do a café-and-coast tour the next day, the parents flashing their pensioner passes on the bus and treating us to all-day travel cards, drinks, and meals. It’s good to be back on the gulled and stone-girded coast, the pleasant patter of English in my ears. That, and a stiff breeze.
I enjoy the sound the pebbles make underfoot, that stone-and-shingle croak as you walk to the waves to stare at shells and seaweed. (Other things also occasionally wash ashore here. Just make sure to wash your hands afterwards.)
On the promenade to the Pyramids we hear a vigorous PumpPumpPump: two men sporting A&E barnets cross from Clarence Esplanade and spook a few elderly strollers. As a cluster of tuts spreads over the seafront, I can’t help but grin.
“They’re so Leipzig,” I say to The Mathematician.
She laughs. “Connewitz for sure.”
They strut a good ten metres before turning off into the rock gardens to tussle with topiary. I remember the 80s when the seafront was full of skinheads in denim and Union Jack vests. I guess this is better: same ‘tude but less shiny up top.
“What do you think of the sea wall then?” says Dad, pointing.
I look about for a bit until I find it.
“Um … low?”
“Well, they’re still building it, I think. They’ve only just started here. Isn’t that right, Love?”
She thinks that it is. I shrug.
“It’s not like there’s any rush,” I say.
“Exactly.”
“Worst case, every house gets a sea view. Very egalitarian.”
I feel like I’m bobbing on the current. I quite like it.
We spend the evening with Ocean, Owl, and Ember, friends who’ve arranged to meet us twice over the five days we’re here, to our delight. It’s Italian food and tales, and more than a little you’re really here (at least in my head). We’ve only seen Ember online (and in the womb), so it’s delightful to see her IRL, which we later discover means In Relentless Legato. (She has hay fever/not-a-cold and streams more than a melting glacier.) The hours whizz past and, as it’s a school night, we reluctantly call time at nine.
At home, we chat with the olds again (also nice) and retire to bed, quite full. It’s been somewhat non-stop since leaving Leipzig at 5 a.m. two days ago (only?!) and won’t let up till we leave. I feel like I’m bobbing on the current. I quite like it. I ask The Mathematician how she feels. She snores. I switch off the light and pretend to sleep until I finally believe myself.
Breakfast is coffee on the patio wall. As a golden wedding gift to my parents, we’ve brought seven days of astonishingly good weather to the UK, which we set about enjoying. We’ve knocked the rust off the French press, exorcised some old grinds (ten years old, it turns out), and breathed hot, delicious life into it in the form of ground beans from Arbuste(*).
“Ah, Caen,” I say as I sit and sip. Since descaling the kettle (fistfuls), it tastes almost like it should. We listen to the gulls. We listen to the dog two doors down that won’t stop barking (and sometimes starts around 6 a.m.). We watch the high clouds over the low roofs. I reminisce.
Today’s plan is a walk around the Hilsea Lines — an old stomping ground — to see the sea and weigh the workmanship of an already complete stretch of sea defence. (Some locals are given to say things like: “At least we’ll be fine if the sea level rises”, their stretch of coast being protected an’ all. I remind them they live on an island that’s barely above sea level: the other bits matter too.)
It’s pretty good. I though they were just going to plonk a bit on concrete onto the edge of Stanshaw Esplanade (“The Foreshore” — the raised path built in the 1930s that runs around the north west of Portsea Island). But no, it’s much more than adult Duplo. It has wildflower beds, lookout platforms, info boards on the local wildlife. There are even wooden reclining chairs and picnic benches. I’m actually impressed. (Though The Mathematician does point out that when you look through the Frame onto Nature, out onto Tipner Lake, it’s mostly filled with the M275 flyover. Can’t please everyone.)
It has a marina, fancy shops, a cinema complex, and a stack of eye-wateringly expensive apartments. It also has a Weatherspoons.
We meet the parents at their new favourite local by the Lido for flapjacks, coffee, and chit-chat. I’m still current-bobbing: the motorway — loud and lairy — doesn’t bother me. My zen’s later jiggled by talk of the evening’s plans: a clan moot.
Here’s what’s decided. Team Leipzig and Team Parents will meet The Sister and Her Brood at a place most convenient to half of us: Port Solent. For those not in the know, the Port’s a place of great swank for the area’s well-to-dos(**). It has a marina, fancy shops, a cinema complex, and a stack of eye-wateringly expensive apartments. It also has a Weatherspoons. (“If the beer were any cheaper, we’d call it water.”) What it doesn’t have is a bus stop. So, so, so, in shifts we go, ferried by the only two people with cars.
Remember how I started this piece? Well nieces and nephews do grow. And hunger. It seems (incredibly) that everything we order from the menu is unavailable. After attempt number four, one of the staff apologetically says: “Oh, the menu’s new, so, that’s why we’re having a few problems, I think.” Perhaps we could have the menu the chef is using then?
The evening goes like this. The ten of us sit and talk in the gaps between songs. The teens go out. The teens come back when the food arrives. The ten of us sit and shout past the gaps between songs. We all go out. We walk to the western edge of the port and watch the sun set over Fareham Lake. We behold the ancient splendour of Portchester Castle. We chill. Those of a certain age chill more and head back to one of the cars to get warm. The rest stay and chew the fat, goof around and gossip. Good times that go too fast.
When we get back to my parents’, we all head to bed early. Tomorrow’s the big day, the golden wedding anniversary party. The whole clan’s coming for this one: fifty family and friends from all over the Isles. A lot of faces I’ve not seen in a long time.
I’m rather looking forward to it.
—
() For more on Arbuste, read Part 3 (https://urbanmole.is/?p=54651) (*) The less-well-to-dos happily remind them that before it was a swanky port, it was a massive landfill site.
Next week: The clash of clans, the calm of the Downs, and the Gentle Giant.
