Portsmouth Historic Dockyard

In a way, a day of mishaps.

We set out at 8:15 for the Newhaven Town railway station, just two roundabouts away. A crystal clear, sunny, blue day: not a cloud in the sky, the promise of very warm temperatures indeed. We all wore shorts.

Now, Mark had warned us not to try to travel from the Newhaven station: "There's not really any parking," he'd said. Either we didn't believe him or we forgot, but in any case when we got there, although we could drive around it, there was no parking. We'd never seen a station with no parking; but the next station we went to topped that: it didn't exist. We drove a few blocks looking for Newhaven Harbour Station, and although there was a clear chain of signs to follow there, there was no station. Frustrated, and unable to find parking near Newhaven Town station, we decided to drive to Brighton & take the train from there. (The 9:04 from Newhaven was to take us anyway to a 10:30 from Brighton anyway.)

Thirty minutes later we were pulling into the car park at Brighton Station, having followed signage only (no maps!). I got a bit frazzled because the ticket machine refused three of my credit cards and a debit card, and there was a horrendous line for the ticket window. Kate came to my rescue with her credit card, which had a cleaner magnetic stripe, and for £30 we were all four of us on the 9:33 to Havant; change for Portsmouth Harbour.

At first all we were able to find were seats together facing backwards. But it was a very pleasant journey, stopping every few minutes at a different station. At Havant we got out and the train to Portsmouth came along on the same track a few minutes later. It was really crowded, and we had to stand for the three stops to Portsmouth Harbour. Which is an exciting station: right on the water, ferries to Gosport leaving from the side, the HMS Warrior moored just across from it.

We walked first to the Co-op across the street to buy three big padded envelopes, and mail our accumulated booty of the week home. They had what we needed, but it was awkward stuffing and addressing in the tiny shop.

The Portsmouth Historic Dockyard is right next to the rail station, but before we got there Will said he was hungry (it was 11:30), and poor Galen, who had woke up with a sore throat and was now beginning to resemble the walking dead, also needed something. It was frustrating, but just short of the dockyard entrance we stopped at a pub called the Ship & Castle. Actually it was very nice inside: a kids menu, roomy, and almost empty. Kate and I split a salad, and Galen and Will split some chicken nuggets, and I had a ginger beer because that's what you do in pubs. It gave us all a good rest. But let's face it: we have reached exhaustion.

(I got to try salad cream, It's not bad: I take back the aspersions I was casting on it. I also got to try Brown Sauce. It was bad.)

Now we entered the historic dockyard and found it was £55 for the family: to see the Warrior, the Victory, the Mary Rose Museum (minus the hull of the Mary Rose, which has been removed for refurbishment), Action Stations (a kind of recruitment festival put on by Royal Navy for kids, except you pay them to participate), and a Harbour Tour. We got over the sticker shock by reasoning we'd come all this way (across the Atlantic, as well as from Newhaven). Nonetheless the Portsmouth Historic Dockyard was in the end perhaps the only museum we've been a little disappointed in.

We went to see the Victory first, becaue that was at the top of Galen's list (and he looked like he might expire any minute). It was very magnificent, very dark, massive, and very crowded with other visitors. However, a great moment: at the spot marked on the deck by a brass plaque where Nelson fell, shot by a French sniper, Galen asks me to turn on the video camera, and he very dramatically collapses on the deck with a loud THUMP! You'd have thought a dead body had been dropped on the deck. People turned around and gasped. I was killing myself inside, but I kept a steady hand on the camera. Oddly we were not thrown out for our irreverence on the holy site.

We visited Action Stations next, drawn by the lure of "simulators,", but it was really just a big warehouse full of science-museum crap: some of it quite good, it must be said, but nothing that you would see only in Portsmouth. Will was so excited that he walked into a pillar. Poor guy! Good black eye coming up tomorrow.

(It appears that in England spreading excitement about the military comes without the nefarious overtones it would carry in the USA. Small island, must be defended, actual threats out there--that sort of thing. Indeed, even weapons contractors seemed to have a free hand to present and explain their stuff in this exhibit, something that in the US would raise eyebrows and invite cynical commentary.)

Galen was now pretty exhausted (and did he have a fever?) and it was hot and sunny, so we decided to peruse a couple of gift shops and sit down for the Harbour Tour. The gift shops (there are at least three in the dockyard, along with three restaurants, further contributing to the Disneyland-like impression that you have, in the end, really just been lured here to be parted from your cash) were nice, but ultimate just more stuff.

But the Harbour Tour for 3:00 p.m. was now full! So instead we went out on the wharf next to the Warrior, a steel wind & sail warship from 1860. Will and I explored the Warrior while Galen and Kate sat on a bench and watched the fantastic & varied water traffic in the harbour. Ferries going to the Isle of Wight, to Gosport, to the Channel islands, to Brittany, and of course all sizes of military craft. Inside the Warrior (which was vast and far more comfortable than the Victory, and never took put in an actual naval engagement) Will encountered a station for making a paddle-wheel boat from cardboard, paper clips and a rubber band. (Another half-term bonus!) He made one and it was really fun. Just his thing.

Also kept encountering a group of children speaking what might have been Ukrainian, and wearing hats that said "Chernobyl Children's Lifeline."

Tottled to the railway station to catch the 4:29 Southern train to Brighton. Nice ride home. Had forward-facing seats and decent air. Galen seemed to be sleeping on his tray table. At one station I saw a confident Oxfam ad out the window that I'd like to see in Canada: Climate Change is killing people--"Let's sort it here and now." Also saw two great examples of the British use of a plural verb with a collective noun: "When England win, you win!" and "We are an agency that become excitable when..."

Drove home, still not a cloud in the sky. Beautiful blue sea on our right hand. We decided as we approached home to fill the car with petrol, as we have to return it tomorrow morning, so we pulled into the Sainsbury's near our cottage. Guessed correctly on which side the fuel cap was! Filled up with unleaded ("the green one"), and the price, for those of you interested in the price of fuel, was about what we would pay in Canada per litre if you simply substitute the £ for a $. (This is a recurring impression we have: that prices here are the same numbers they would be in Canada, but with a £ instead of a $.)

I go in to pay, and while I'm in there Will comes running in and says, "Dad, I need the key! The car alarm is going off!" With me and the magic key away from it, the car had decided it was in danger, and when Will, who had helped me fuel up, bumped the door on the outside, it slammed on all the door locks (locking Galen and Kate inside) and began honking the horn! Not very snazzy behaviour from an otherwise snazzy car. They were great and kept their heads: they sent Will to get the key from me. It was the best mishap of the day.

Home, dinner of mac and cheese to use up the pasta, Galen lay on the couch and watched British Talent on the telly, which was an education for both him and Will.

Tomorrow we leave to return our car, and take the train: Brighton--Clapham Junction--Exeter--Barnstaple. Not sure when we will be back in Internet land again.