New Worlds on the Plymouth Horizon

Sculpture looking out to sea on the Barbican

Plymouth was as far west as we traveled this trip but it was the spot where thousands stepped off to travel west and south, to unknown lands, for the remainder of their lives. Today global travel is an everyday occurrence but for those folk seeking the new world, stepping into the overcrowded, under provisioned Mayflower off the Plymouth sea wall would have taken great optimism and courage. I imagine that heading for Mars would be our generation's comparison.

By now we knew all about summer traffic on the south coast so a warning went out the night before that departure time would be 8am. This squeezed out a few good natured moans from Willow and Petal who had been protected from Charlie's early morning wake ups all week and were enjoying the luxury of holiday time rising. There are no dual carriage motorways in this part of the county so when farmers take their tractors and harvesters out of fields and meet caravans and mobile homes with their side mirrors folded in order not to get scratches from the hedgerows, the narrow roads soon clog up. We surprised ourselves though by arriving in Plymouth at nine.

Outside the car park reading a map to find the direction we needed to walk

A tug coming in, sails heading out - tour boats to the right

We headed for the Barbican. This was a word I had never heard before but the signs were tourist brown and the address for the Mayflower Museum included it. I now know that it means the outer defence of a castle or walled city - we came across it a few more times looking at French Medieval Chateaus. We were so early that the only option was a cafe on the Barbican for breakfast, poor us. The cafe overlooked the pedestrian drawbridge of the marina (a cantilever) that we had waited to cross over as a pod of racing yachts motored out to the Atlantic. Most had La Rochelle pennants and tricolours flying so we wondered if that was where they were heading. M suffered pangs of envy as we watched them hoist their mainsails at the end of the headland.

Sutton Bay Marina

Mayflower steps

 Close to this bridge are a set of stone steps that allow you to get right to the waters edge. Plaques proclaim this as the place where those now called the Pilgrims (they called themselves the saints) finally left England for the last time on September 6, 1602. It must have seemed like a lifetime of set backs for the Saints. They were disgruntled with their attempts to set up a commune in the Netherlands and decided the only way they could live in complete harmony with their beliefs was in isolation. They had already made one attempt at crossing the Atlantic but had to pull into Plymouth for repairs, The company were billeted out among the townsfolk who generously cared for them as things were made shipshape.  Compromises dogged every matter and in the end they left with only one ship instead of the two planned for plus unwanted extra passengers that the boat owners insisted upon because the saints couldn't pay all the costs. These non saints were dubbed the 'strangers' and when things got tough in the new land they revolted against the puritan rule. 

Memorial Lookout to the Mayflower departure

Celebration of local heroes deported by the Crown
for standing up for their rights and making it back home again. 

The Mayflower Museum is not far from the steps and is full of interesting history about these folk as well as Plymouth's development into a significant port. As descendants from people that signed up with the Canterbury Association as colonists to South New Zealand on the 'Randolph', second of four ships that left Plymouth September 7 1850, we were really disappointed not to find a single word on this event. There is a plaque on the sea wall close to the Mayflower steps that acknowledges the Canterbury Association but no details beyond the date of sailing from that point. All four ships arrived safely in Lyttleton harbour in December. Apparently my Great x3 Grandfather Matthews, was a oraganist in England and took a portable organ with him.  He carried this off the Randolph over the Port Hills to the plains on his back. His daughter meet a lovely young Mr Smart on the three month crossing, they got married and became the first to export wheat, grown on their Sefton farm, from Saltwater Creek. One of their 16 kids was my Great grandfather. How young is NZ! The emigrants (those who couldn't afford to buy land) laboured to drain the swamp land that the C.Association had decided was the perfect plot for the capital of the province - Christchurch. The recent horror of earthquakes has seen these swamps reclaim the eastern quarter of the city.

Brekky at 'The Boathouse Cafe'. Beautiful view, great vegetarian choices, yummy hollandaise on my Eggs Florentine.
The gangway to the Boat trips back right, the booking office along the quay to the left. Bridge and Aquarium left rear.

A statue of Drake in the National Trust run
Buckland Abbey - Once owned and lived in by him

The Museum did have plenty of information about one of its favourite sons - Sir Francis Drake. Most would know of his exploits in securing Spanish gold for Elizabeth I treasury after successfully circumnavigating the globe and the legend of his response to the alert of the Spanish Armada bearing down on the green isle. It was pointed out that finishing the game of bowls was not unreasonable as Drake knew that his preparations were complete and nothing more could be done until the tide turned and allowed his ships to set sail. I didn't know that Drake was Mayor of Plymouth for a considerable time. Together with some entrepreneurial buddies he extended his fortune of pirate treasure with a bit of insider trading and manipulation of resources to benefit the town and his businesses. This development saw Plymouth become the International Port of the area instead of Dartmouth on the other side of the Devon peninsula.

After his successful leadership of the Spanish trouncing, Drake was knighted upon his ship - The Golden Hind - moored in the Thames. I always believed the Victorian painting of Queen Liz dubbing him but apparently she stood aside and invited the French Ambassador to do it which was a wily political move making the Spanish allies acknowledge England's victory. With his 'Sir' intact, this local chap done good went home to Devon to search for a property that reflected his rise in society. He persuaded his friend Grenville, to sell him his mansion.  It is a strange tale because Grenville had renovated an Abbey that had languished in ruins since the dissolution.  He was so pleased with the beauty and success of this project that he'd announced he would never part with it. The notes supplied by the National trust on our quick visit to Buckland Abbey, never really explained how Drake managed to wrestle ownership from him and still remain friends for the rest of their lives.  Drake designed his own coat of arms - luckily the craftsmen who made his seal were much better artists than him, the original Drake drawing is on display in the Abbey. Drake was certainly an opportunist who made money from the slave trade and in later years made several unsuccessful attempts at looting Spanish strongholds in the Americas.  In one of these battles he was wounded, then developed dysentery and asked to be dressed in his armour to die a warriors death on ship returning to Plymouth in his mid 50s.

Drakes seal and motto: 

Looks like more fun than another old house

Front door of Buckland Abbey

A genuine Rembrandt Self Portrait
on display in the Abbey

The feasting room - in Drakes time only the blokes were allowed to eat together.  To keep us off the antique chairs around the room they had prickly cones and teazles.

This is a detail from the plaster molding in the corner of the room. It is a picture of Grenville relaxing under a tree and looking at his resting horse and thrown off armour. Apparently it announces his intention to retire and live happily in this house for the rest of his life - yet Drake purchased it from him - very strange. Notice the skull in the tree hollow - its cavities are peep holes that may be used by the ladies of the house to spy on the men below, I bet a few poor serving girls got the sack after particularly riotous banquets.

The styles may have changed but the palette, patterns and lace remain.

Petal trying out the scribe tools in the Abbey display.
The monk's timetable was horrid, only 4 hours allowed for sleep every night.

Granny in the broom cupboard - I think Devon is still too far east for witches!
Certainly less comfortable than Singapore airlines!

The kitchen gardens. The old world still makes good use of companion gardening. All through the Perigord we saw sweet peas, daises and marigolds planted among the vegies to keep bugs away and to fix nitrogen in the soil.
I don't think this display was inviting visitors to have a leak.

Gramps stayed out in the carpark to give Charlie a run in the Abbey's parkland.  He loved sniffing through the blackberry but hates stinging nettle. Lord and lady of the manor?

Back at the Barbican we decided to take advantage of the calm seas and go on a cruise around the port. Shipbuilding, historical sites and nuclear subs being decommissioned, guarded by police patrols, provided a very interesting hour trip.

Gramps is very impressed with the huge shipbuilding yards

M enjoying a look at the many warships in dock

Heavily armed police patrol the sea close to the many Nuclear Submarines that are slowly being decommissioned.
It takes many years for the cores to cool enough to be removed and stored away somewhere secret.

The Tamar river is the boundary between Devon and Cornwell. You can catch this boat from the Barbican to cross over and spend a few hours exploring this Cornish village and Mt Edgcumbe Park (with yet another old house).

I think the island behind this yacht is Drake Island. Our tour guide told us that a very rich man had bought the island and intended to turn the old prison buildings into a 5 star resort but has not been able to secure planning permission.
Brittany Ferries sail to St Malo (Normandy), Santander (Spain) and Roscoff (Brittany) from Plymouth past Drake Is.

Charlie was very interested in the bollards

Before we left Plymouth for Drake's Abbey, Willow and Petal wanted to visit the Aquarium. I took the dog for a walk and found a great glass art gallery and a few local art galleries. There were lots of ice cream palours, Cornish pasty(delivered over the river from Cornwell) shops and restaurants. Charlie embarrassed us no end by straining towards one tall gentleman ahead of us. He seemed desperate to sniff his legs, looked up at his face after passing a little way then dropped back and tried to lick the poor guy. I think some tongue made contact before I realised what he was trying to do and pulled him back. Who knows what kind of magic dog lure this chap was endowed with.

An ice cream stop after the aquarium visit. It is called the 'National Marine' one does this mean it is govt. funded?

Gramps was not keen to put his hand down a dark hole in the interactive display in case a sea spider resided there!
Lots of specimens of jellyfish in tanks.  Taking sketches Petal?
Images from: http://www.national-aquarium.co.uk/

Gramps and his adopted dog.

After the Aquarium we went hunting for Drake's Abbey then trekked back to Corfe through Dartmoor. We were delighted to find mini horses, sheep and goats wandering around at will in places. One hillock had a great view back over Plymouth. I have always thought of this place as dark and scary but the purple heather and yellow broom were blooming, the sunlight rippled as the clouds chased each other east overhead and even here there were tourists everywhere.

Petal 'sure' that an unleashed hound wouldn't chase the ponies.

A Tor is a rocky pile, this one guarding a little lake that the wild miniature horses drink from.

One of the Dartmoor stone bridges - taken through the window of the driving van so a little speed blurred.

An empty landscape - hounds over the hill?

We decided not to detour to Dartmoor prison even though the history of brutal treatment of prisoners, before the policy of deportation to California and then Australia came into effect, would soon send shivers down the spine.

Insert: close up of the heather - I picked a sprig which may or may not be packed for NZ.
Not nearly as beautiful as my aunt of the same name.

Once out of the moor we came across a poor woman running up a narrow winding road trying to get bars on her phone to ring her husband for help.  Her horse float had blown a tyre, was parked on a dangerous corner (it had been remarked upon as we passed it) and her two little girls were standing at an indented farmer's gate. By the time we dropped her back down to her vehicle she had been able to make contact with a couple of friends on my phone and one was waiting with her girls. That kind of dangerous situation is a lot scarier than imagined horrors.

We got back to the cottage rather late that night and agreed that the drive there and back to Penzance, where my Great x4 grandmother's folks came from, was just a little too far for a one day trip from Dorset. If we ever get there mum I'll take lots of photos for you. Safe travel home today, Can't believe the weeks have already passed, thanks so much for spending the effort and cash to come and visit us. xx

Read:

The Millstone by Margaret Drabble 1965 (Penguin Classic)
This book had a tremendous impact on my teen mind when I studied it for School Certificate English with Mr Henderson(this was also the name of my dentist so I hope I have remembered his name correctly - he was the first teacher I had that made more of my comprehension and response than my horrific spelling). He guided my very immature approach to literature through a window of thought that has given me a lot of joy.

Reading the novel now, as an adult, I realise that my teen interpretation was so limited to my time in life. Things that had such a big impact on me then hardly raised their heads as I read from a parent POV. Perhaps that is the sign of a true masterpiece - deep meaning through one text for different stages of life. Definitely the most eye opening reread into a new world that I have ever experienced.

I found this interview with the author and thought it was too good not to share.  Read the entire piece on the guardian website.

...

The Millstone was my third novel and I wrote it while I was expecting my third baby. Its subject, not surprisingly, is maternity. There weren't many novels about maternity in those days, but I don't think I had any sense of entering forbidden or dangerous ground. I was writing about what was all around me, the daily lives of myself and my friends, the struggle to work and bring up children at the same time.

…

The illness of the child sprang directly from personal experience. One of my children had been diagnosed with a heart lesion, or hole in the heart, and Rosamund's anxieties were very much my own. She was braver than I, but I did have a sense of writing on behalf of many mothers as she confronted hospital authority. I dramatised my predicament, as writers do, but I didn't think that dishonest. The issue was real, and I think my treatment of it was useful. I didn't realise until many years later that some of the medical details I invented were way off the mark. I would do that differently now, and the story would be more painful.

…

I wasn't thinking about literary history when I wrote The Millstone. I was writing to exorcise fear, I was writing for luck, I was writing in hope. There are bits of the novel I regret, moments of unwitting snobbery and self-conscious smartness. But Rosamund was what she was, she was of her age, caught at the opening of an era that she didn't know how to enter – on the border between the one-night stand of the ignorant virgin and the one-night stand of Bridget Jones. The sexual ignorance of the young in those days was remarkable. So was the sexual ignorance of the old. My publisher's reader (a man, and middle aged) queried the plot, on the grounds that it was almost impossible to get pregnant during the first act of intercourse.

…

Taken from Guardian book club with John Mullan 19.3.2011 http://www.theguardian.com