A rotten borough

At reference 1 I touched on the once rotten borough called Newtown, on the north west coast of the island. A day or so following we thought it was time we paid the place another visit. So off to a flying start at 0930, some hours earlier than usual.

Negotiated the tricky junction which took us around the north of Newport, thinking that it was quite likely that we would not be able to manage the same trick in the other direction. On to Newtown to find a significant National Trust compound guarded by a start of the art parking machine, fully the equal of the one to be found at Polesden Lacey. However, BH knew the ropes and managed to convince it that we were fully paid up members, to the extent of it giving us a free parking ticket.  

One of the two wings of the huts

A compound containing what looked like barrack huts, complete with chimneys, which, as it turned out, was what they once were. Note also the corrugated iron roof, in good condition, and the good quality layering of the boundary hedge. There was also a pile of wooden ladders by the exit.

The ladders

We speculated about the source of the ladders. I plumped for ladders up to the hay lofts which would once have been around, an upstairs part of many houses.

The Morgan

Thoughtfully, the National Trust complemented the old huts with a car of the same vintage, at least in appearance. I don't think Morgans are actually old, they just look old - although, to be fair, the decorative badges might be old, with the AA badge looking a bit old style, the sort of thing you can be charge a lot for in car boot sales.

The husting

BH trying out the husting at one end of the town hall; the husting from which the candidates harangued the assembled voters, all twelve of them, in the case of a contested election. At the other end was a nice impression of a couple of local worthies sitting inside, adjudicating a boundary dispute between a couple of poor cottagers. From whence I associated to the Ainsworth novel about the Lancashire Witches, which involved, as I recall a lot of messing about with boundary stones at the dead of night.

Nearby hedges seemed to be full of small birds, singing away unseen. Far more than we have come to expect anywhere near Epsom.

From the town hall onto to the parish pump.

The pump

Made by J. Tylor and Sons of Newgate Street in London, a reminder of the days when London was an important manufacturing town as well as a port down, and manufactured things as well as moving money about for a percentage. I associated to the hated money lenders of the far east, for example of India and Burma. People who sucked the life out of those around them, with the small farmers there being terribly vulnerable to the visits of pests & plagues and to the vagaries of far eastern weather. Also to the testing facility, now a museum, in Southwark Street, noticed at references 5, 6 and 7. And Bullingdon Boris thinks he can bring it all flooding back again. Two words ending in 'at' come to mind.

From there to the parish church of the Holy Spirit, not particularly grand or old, dating from 1835, but handsome and dignified for all that, with (according to Wikipedia) even Pevsner managing to say something nice about it. Probably a bit older than the parish pump above. To be covered properly in a post to come.

From there across into the salt marshes, taking in one of the two bird hides maintained there. The one we chose was manned by a very knowledgeable trusty, knowledgeable both about eyes and about birds and we learned something about both. We suspected that she had been some kind of eye flavoured medico, not that long retired. She also knew all about the birds of Snettisham, going there to participate in ringing weekends. And about the birds of North Norfolk more generally. And she claimed a few seals for the marshes of Newtown. Marshes which were very pretty and well stocked with water birds. We now know some of the differences between two sorts of black headed gulls.

The hide was well stocked with public binoculars and telescopes, and I got on very well with a heavy monocular of naval flavour, possibly once associated with a gun. I did well for bird spotting with good field of view and not too much magnification. And being both heavy and mounted it was very steady, far steadier than my own hand held monocular.

In a little office adjacent to the hide proper (which had, if you please, two stories), they kept careful records of the sightings of birds and butterflies. With most of the records in the sort of meticulous handwriting that I could never manage, never mind now. We were told that some of the records were destined for the county record office and so it was important that they be nicely written.

A ladder in use

Carrying on across the marshes, we learned that the ladders mentioned earlier were used to get down onto the mud from the causeways, possibly because you had business with the salt pans, which I think we worked into the 20th century.

Then back through the reed beds and meadows to the village, meeting on a way a couple of older people who had sailed across from the Netherlands, taking a few days and a few stops about it, ending up in the estuary at Newtown. We explained that if they wanted to shop, which seemed to be the case, they had to go to the next village as rotten boroughs did not run to shops, just heritage. They did not seem to be too bothered by the prospect of the five mile round trip. Perhaps it is good to stretch your legs after being cooped up in a boat for a bit, however pretty the trip.

BSRA

Rotten borough or not, the prettiest cottage in the village, the one with the best floral display, was occupied and brass plated by one D. Flannagan M.B.S.R.A, practitioner of body stress release, listed by the organisation to be found at reference 8.

Flower

Body stress release clearly worked on the flowers, some of which were very pretty indeed. No less than two practitioners on the island - but I very much doubt if either of them are caulkheads - with most of the cottages in Newtown looking to be occupied by rich immigrants of one sort or another. But not the hide trusty who came from a neighbouring village, having done time at an eye hospital in Liverpool. So almost certainly an immigrant.

Picnic in church, followed by a short wander about what had been the strip farm, with evidence of same still being visible in the layout of the fields and hedges.

Then back home, managing to miss our turning at Newport, as expected. Refused access to the café attached to the garlic farm, but got back to Brading in time to get access to the part-time café in front of the auction rooms, mentioned previously at reference 9.

PS: the nearest I have come to Newtown in the past is the post at reference 4. Another new town full of heritage.

Reference 1: https://psmv3.blogspot.com/2018/07/old-book-2.html.

Reference 2: The Lancashire Witches - William Harrison Ainsworth - 1848.

Reference 3: https://www.gracesguide.co.uk/J._Tylor_and_Sons.

Reference 4: https://pumpkinstrokemarrow.blogspot.com/search?q=Nizhny+Novgorod.

Reference 5: http://www.testingmuseum.org.uk/.

Reference 6: https://psmv3.blogspot.com/2018/01/fake-23.html. It took me a little while to track this post down, discovering on the way that Windows 10 does not index those files in a OneDrive folder which are not online, not actually present on the device on which the search is being conducted. For the purposes of search, it is as if they were not there. Not good enough at all. Not helped by the two varieties of Kirkcaldy and my uncertain spelling. Furthermore, when, a few days later, on 3rd February and as noticed at reference 7, I went to check in Tate Modern, the girders were not embossed as I had thought at all.

Reference 7: https://psmv3.blogspot.com/2018/02/steel-day.html.

Reference 8: http://www.bodystressrelease.org.uk/. A touching therapy from South Africa.

Reference 9: https://psmv3.blogspot.com/2018/07/fake-41.html.

Group search key: nta.