Isle of Wight
Wight spirit
Jonathan Ray
I HAD been to the Isle of Wight only once before, about 12 summers ago, for a wedding — an occasion of which I remember very little, except that all six ushers, of whom I was one, spent the weekend in utter disgrace. We had congratulated ourselves on finding a delightful pub. overlooking church and churchyard, and decided to pop in briefly before attending to our appointed tasks, having left the groom safely in the care of his brother. Unfortunately, but not unexpectedly, we reminisced too long over a pint too many, and realised with a shock that we were disgracefully behind schedule. This awkward situation need not have turned into the hopeless one it became had we earlier bothered to inquire whether the church opposite our pub was indeed the church at which we were supposed to be. It was not. A filthy Land-Rover, hastily summoned from a friend of the landlord, ensured that we arrived just in time for the post-nuptial photographs.
Those events now long in the past, I felt that it was safe to return. My wife, the nipper and I had a January weekend spare, and while other mates swanned off to Zimbabwe, Italy, the West Indies, Australia (my sister-in-law, for a month) and Marrakesh (our plumber, for a week), we three headed off for 48 hours of fun and frivolity on the Isle of Wight. We laughed off our friends' astonishment at our destination: 'It's as good as going abroad,' we smiled through gritted teeth, 'and really nice in January — no tourists.' Anyway, we are old hands at this sort of thing: we spent our February honeymoon in north Wales.
We took the 5 p.m. ferry from Portsmouth to Fishbourne, which takes all of 35 minutes, and once at sea. with the briny scent of the Solent in our nostrils, we really did feel as if we were off to somewhere exotic, or at least foreign. This sensation was compounded as Blighty's coastline disappeared behind us while that of the island loomed before us, illuminated by the most bewitching of golden sunsets and rows of twinkling neon lights reflected in the water. If it hadn't been –3°C out on deck, we could have been on a cruise ship in the Bay of Naples.
I suppose that the Isle of Wight is usually thought of as a haven for caravanners, yachties and lovers of cream teas served in thatched cottages, and in the summer there must be much of that. During our two days on the island we certainly saw plenty of twee tea-rooms and pubs with names like the Smugglers' Rest or the Smugglers' Cove Tea Rooms and naff-looking shops called Déjà Vu. One establishment sported a confident sign exhorting potential customers to 'Walk in please. Walk out pleased'. But thankfully many of these places were shut Our hotel, the Priory Bay at Seaview on the east of the island, was anything but twee, and we could quite happily have remained within its elegant confines for the whole weekend. I had heard much about the place, not least because its sister establishment, Roussillon, a Michelin-starred restaurant in Pimlico, is something of a favourite of mine. Both places are co-owned by brothers Andrew and James Palmer — the former, the founder of the Covent Garden Soup Company, the latter an occasional barrister.
The hotel is set in 70 acres of grounds. complete with its own private stretch of sandy beach, the scene in the summer of Andrew's celebrated clambakes. The building itself is a curious mixture of architectural styles, the earliest of which are late mediaeval. There is an imposing 14th-century stone porch, a mural-adorned dining-room and a drawing-room panelled with Jacobean oak, which includes an oddity I have seen only once before (at Chateau Palmer in Bordeaux, appropriately enough): a vast fireplace with a window above its mantelpiece, the flues apparently running up either side.
The hotel was so comfortable, the food so good and the staff so friendly that we felt mightily disinclined to go anywhere else. We pottered around the gardens, nodding to the life-size bronze figures of Churchill and Roosevelt on their bench (the replica of which I pass each day in London's Bond Street) and strolled along the beach. Having the baby in tow slightly curtailed any lengthy outings, but just to show willing we drove to Brading, Shanklin, Ventnor, Newport and Carisbrooke Castle — poor Charles l's prison — to give them a stare. I am probably being unfair, but my overriding impression was of endless Mr Footer Edwardian villas and numerous clusters of bungalows, one of which I swear was called `Dunbonkin'.
On the esplanade in Ventnor, though, is the Spyglass Inn, full of self-conscious nautical junk such as portholes, rudders and rigging; but goodness they cook a decent lunch. The pub was packed, and must be impossible in the summer, but our seafood was as good as you would find 30 or so miles further south on the French coast: lobster, crab, prawns, the works.
A pair of trim, gossipy, middle-aged ladies were seated next to us, and they prattled away, making each other giggle with their memories. I eavesdropped shamelessly, catching the most tantalising snippets, the most intriguing being. 'Oh, no dear! You're quite wrong! I remember most clearly that it was the sister of the trumpet player who wasn't married.' Oh, to hear the full story.
Apart from the luxury of the Priory Bay hotel itself, the highlight of our weekend, as far as my wife was concerned, was the discovery of the garlic farm at Mersley Farm, Newchurch, home during the week before the August bank holiday to the Isle of Wight Garlic Festival, the biggest event on the island other than Cowes Week. Marina is obsessed with garlic and bought jars of pickled garlic with curry, 'refreshing when taken with ice-cold beer' (what?), garlic honey, and garlic, apricot and ginger chutney, as well as fresh bulbs the size of grapefruit. Much against my advice, she couldn't resist tucking in on the ferry home, ensuring that the nipper and I were reminded of our weekend away for several days longer than was perhaps strictly necessary.
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