Freedom, boundaries and trespass

29 March 2015

“So, where are you going walking this weekend?” Elaine asked me between calls on Saturday.
“I don’t know yet,” I said, “I’ll probably have a look at the maps and see if I can find somewhere that looks interesting.”
“Maybe you could look for another one of those boundary stones. I’m quite curious about them myself.”
“Actually there is meant to be one down by the river somewhere on Mansbridge Road, I’ve been meaning to check out.”
So that was that, I had a plan.

Before I went to bed I did a bit of research, trying to pin down exactly where the stone was. At least a third of a mile of Mansbridge Road runs directly beside the river and there is only so much rummaging around in undergrowth you can do before someone wants to know what you’re up to. Not only did I manage to narrow the search down to about a tenth of a mile but I also discovered there was another, older boundary stone in the vacinity. The hunt was on.

When I plotted my route I’d envisioned sunshine and blue skies so I was more than a little disappointed to wake up to wind and rain, not my favourite walking weather. Even so, I wrapped up and set off into the blustery wetness. There were signs of spring along the way, the first kerria of the year in a garden on the hill, leaf buds about to burst on trees along Cutbush Lane along with some waterlogged lesser cleandine.

As usual my mind wandered. Walks are thinking time where my brain goes on random chains of thought while my feet pound the ground. Maybe it was thinking about the old stones but my mind turned to age and how fast the years seem to fly. The middle of my fifties is fast approaching and, on the face of it, it’s quite unsettling to think I have more of my life behind me than before me. As I bent to take a photo of a posy of beautiful fungi on a log my knees creaked in protest, underlining my thoughts.

Then it occurred to me that every decade has its rewards. My twenties and thirties were taken up with sticky little fingers and school runs. In my forties, it was my career and teenage tantrums. This decade seems to be about freedom. Now my boys are grown, much more of my time is my own, giving me the freedom to get up on a Sunday morning and go wandering off along lonely trails in search of boundary stones while Commando is off running. Maybe the fifties aren’t so bad.

My ruminations had taken me to the top of Gaters Hill and I was getting close to the place the boundary stone was supposed to be.  Originally I’d thought it was on the edge of Marhill Copse, probably hidden in the boggy brambles but research told me it was actually on the oppose side somewhere between Gaters Mill and the White Swan. As I’ve walked that path countless times over the years I expected it to be well hidden, perhaps amongst the wild tangle of trees and shrubs. While I waited to cross the road though, I thought I spotted something on the grass that looked very stone like. Surely it couldn’t be right there in plain view?

Eventually I found a gap in the traffic and got across, fully expecting to be disappointed by a drain cover. Closer inspection told me my search was over before it had even begun. The boundary stone was exactly the same as the other two I’ve found, a little less weathered than the one on the shore path  and more lichen covered than the one at Cross House. It had the date, 1988, when the stones were made, the same S within an H, for Southampton witin Hampshire and the barrel, if that’s what it is.

It’s hard to belive I didn’t see the stone before. In fact it’s a wonder I haven’t tripped over it at some point in the last twenty seven years, given the number of times I must have passed it. In my defence, the river and the swans are a powerful distraction. With more time on my hands than expected, I strolled towards the pub. The trees I’d thought I’d be scrabbling beneath had other secrets to share, fluffy yellow catkins, bedraggled by rain, sticky leaf buds on river bank saplings and blossom on the blackthorn, tinged with pink. The path was covered in fallen petals, like confetti after a wedding. Each of the old fence posts along the river was a miniature garden and I could have spent an hour examining them in turn but I had another stone to find and this one might be more tricky.

Despite the rain the pub was busy with lunch time trade as I passed but the river bank was strangely empty of fishermen. By Mansbridge the hum of a pump told me the water board are still trying to drain the flooded ground, at least I think that’s what they’re doing. Information about the second stone was thin on the ground. In fact I only knew about it from a post on the Southampton Heritage Facebook page. A member said her son, who sadly passed away this year, stumbled upon it while playing at Woodmill as a child. At first he thought it was a pet grave. Apparently it was in thick undergrowth near a car park. This didn’t narrow things down much. There’s a car park behind the pitch and putt, another in front of the mill and one in the Activity Centre.

A protracted Googling session told me it was ‘in waste ground south of Woodmill Lane on the west bank of the River Itchen, between the river and the railway.’ As far as I knew that area was bordered by houses but the satelite map showed the University Water Sports Centre at the end of a small cul de sac. It looked as if I might be able to get onto Saltmead and back to Cobden Bridge from there so I thought I’d take a look although it might mean a little trespassing.

Not all that hopeful of success I crossed the green bridge, passed St Mary’s Church and took Wessex Lane to the back of Woodmill. At the end of the cul de sac, just as I thought I’d made a mistake and would have to turn back, I saw a narrow cutway beside two large buildings. The signs told me this was private land but I walked on, expecting to be challenged at any moment and thinking I might take a leaf from Piglet’s book and say I thought the sign was a name.

There was no one about so, cautiously and more than a little nervous, I carried on to a tarmac area filled with boats. In front of me was shaggy grass bounded by trees and a slipway. Looking around I made my way to the top of the slipway and looked across the river to Woodmill and riverside park. A swan powered towards me, the only other living thing in sight. For a while I forgot all about the stone, I was so transfixed by this new view of the river, trying to spot all the places I knew on the opposite bank.

When I finally remembered why I was there the enormity of the task seemed daunting. The trees and scrub covered a large area and the stone could be anywhere, I’d have to be systematic, start at one end and work my way through, hoping all the while I didn’t get caught. Almost as soon as I turned my eyes from the river though, the stone was in front of me, just a few yards from the slipway. At first it all seemed too easy and the stone didn’t look all that old. Maybe it was something to do with the water sports centre. When I got closer I couldn’t believe my luck to see the bronze plaque telling me this really was the Haven Stone or at least the spot where it had once been.

The Haven Stone was one of three stones along the north east boundary of Southampton, placed on this spot in 1488. Sadly, the weathered old stone I’d been looking for was taken and used at South Stoneham Mill (possibly Woodmill) back in the 1800’s. Court Leet records show the stone was removed by Thomas Betts who was fined the sum of £5 and told to put it back, obviously he did not. When the Alderman of Portsood noticed this he had a new stone erected, maybe the one I was looking at. Certainly the plaque was placed there in 1970. It’s thought that Haven comes from Afon, meaning river, so this is actually the river stone.

With my mission completed and feeling rather smug, I set off towards the woods where I thought I’d be able to cut through to Saltmead. Quite quickly I spotted a wire fence blocking my way. It looked as if there might be a gap close to the river so I struggled through the undergrowth towards it. What I found was the huge sluice I’d seen from the reedbeds across the water. With a quick look around to see if anyone was about I climbed up onto the wall of the sluice and squeezed through to the other side of the fence. Now there could be no doubt I was trespassing and no amount of protestation that I was a little lost or thought it was a name would get me out of it if I was caught.

With a pounding heart  I looked into the sluice and climbed down on the other side. Trespassing is something I never usually do so I took the opportunity to take photos of the sluice and the view across the Itchen knowing I would not be coming back. Still waiting to be caught, I ignored the signs that told me this land belongs to Southern Water and made my way across some grass wondering what the penalty for trespass is these days. When I came to some huge round water treatment tanks I was sure I’d be spotted. There was a high metal fence ahead. Maybe if I’d gone a little further I could have found a way round but my nerve went completely at that point and I scurried back to the sluice in terror.

With one last look at the reedbeds and a speculative glance along the river bank to see if there was another way through, I climbed back down to less dangerous trespassing ground. Perhaps if I was a twelve year old boy and it wasn’t a drizzly March day I might have attempted the slippery riverbank. Then again, there may have been another fence or I could have got stuck in the mud. It would have taken a lot of explaining from a fifty four year old grandmother.

There was one last heart in mouth moment as I went back towards the boats and the sheds when a man appeared. Luckily he didn’t seem to notice me standing there like a rabbit caught in the headlights and I made my escape. For the rest of the walk home, past Woodmill and the daffodil filled slope out of the park I couldn’t help wondering if I could have made it along that river bank though.