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Netley
Guide: This & That |
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Odds and ends and interesting tit-bits about Netley Abbey
and it's environs. This is the place for the inside info
on what really goes on - just check out the anecdotes (more
of these will be added in due course). There are three sections
to this page:
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Did you know?
- Howard's Way (a dodgy
mid-80s yachting soap opera) was filmed in the neighbouring
village of Hamble-le-rice (Paul, Rich and The Wee Man
all went to Hamble Comprehensive School). The pub The
Jolly Sailor is just down the river in Bursledon.
- The name "Netley"
derives from "Latelie", as featured in
the Domesday Book. And although the abbey dates back to
the Thirteenth Century, "Netley Abbey" wasn't
used as a place name until 1861 (these facts and figures
came from the excellent NetleyAbbey.info site that seems
to have been lost to the mists of time)
- The ITV Police drama "Inspector
Wexford Mysteries" once filmed part of an
episode in the middle of Netley. The rest was filmed in
the Hampshire market town of Romsey.
- Hampshire Police
have based their Training HQ in the old Asylum building
of the Royal Victoria Hospital (the only other building
besides the Chapel to survive the fire)
- The Royal Victoria Country
Park is home to the annual Hampshire Show each
summer. Despite it's grand title, this pales into insignificance
compared to the gargantuan New Forest Show in Brockenhurst
a few weeks later.
- Netley lays claim to at least two
ghosts. One "lives" in the Abbey -
a ghostly treasure-guarding monk; the other is the obligatory
Grey Lady, who haunts the RVCP Chapel. Some even claim
that this is the ghost of Florence Nightingale, who criticised
the hospital back in the 19th Century.
- Despite being one of the giants of
Hampshire League football in the 1980s, Netley
Central Sports FC were (and still are) prevented
from entering the FA Cup, FA Vase or FA Trophy as they
do not play on an enclosed ground and therefore cannot
charge admission fees. That's why you've never seen them
at Wembley.
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Famous Netley Residents
Iwan Thomas - The Welsh
400m runner actually lives in Netley Abbey, and is probably
the most famous recent resident (and certainly the one most
referred to on the local news), apart from Rich and The
Wee Man. Visit his official
website - you can leave a message on the guestbook saying
we sent you!.
The Men They Couldn't Hang
- Well, two members at least. The seminal 80's punk-country-folk-crusty-rock
band did sing a lot of songs about Southampton (and the
song "Island in the Rain" mentions "Netley
Bay"), and apparently I even unwittingly served two
of them whilst working as a barman in the Station. Yes,
they were that famous even then!
Mungo Jerry - Just the
one member this time, the keyboard player from the hit "In
The Summertime" was a regular white wine spritzer demon
at the Station when I worked there, and even performed on
occasion with his keyboard, sadly belting out Take That
cover versions.
Petula Clark (?) - Possibly
- I think I delivered papers to her! Around the time of
the re-release of "Downtown", my paper round took
me to the really posh houses behind the Abbey (an exclusive
area know as Fountains Park), and a woman who was the absolute
double of Petula was one of the daily recipients of The
Echo. You never know...
Dr Watson - Sherlock
Holmes' mate did his medical training at the Royal Victoria
Hospital - one of the Sherlock Holmes books starts off with
his sidekick in action in the hospital. Can't remember which
one though.
Dorcas Henry - BBC South
Today's oddly monikered weather girl (courtesy of Chris)
Barbara Cartland - The
famous novelist attended Finishing School in Netley (thanks
to Jason)
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Anecdotes about Netley life
These are mainly stories from Paul's,
Rich's and the Wee Man's younger days, growing up in the
village. They are purely subjective accounts and for entertainment
purposes only - some of these stories may offend, but you
don't have to read them! Also, some of these stories are
being recalled from some time ago, so apologies if they
seem a little vague in places.
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A tale of Two Villages
Once upon a time, before Ingleside was
built in the late 1970s, Netley Abbey and Butlocks Heath
were two distinct villages within the Parish of Hound (served
by the ancient Hound Church on Hound Lane). Many of the
signs of this are still in existence: both were distinguished
by separate Recreation grounds, different village halls
(Netley's Jubilee Hall was demolished, but a brand new Abbey
Hall went up in the early 1990s) and separate Post Offices.
The first sign of the amalgamation of
the villages was the combining of the separate primary schools,
ostensibly to accommodate the influx of children from the
newly-built Ingleside. Netley Abbey Primary school was saved
and converted into the village library (corner of New Road
and Victoria Road, facing the bank), however Butlocks primary
was demolished and more houses built in its place (School
Close, of Woolston Road, next to the Cottage Inn).
Over time, the distinction between the
two became blurred, and over the past few years the road
signs also began to change, causing confusion between Hound,
Butlocks Heath and Netley Abbey until, near the turn of
the Millennium, the residents of Butlocks Heath were informed
that the village no longer exists and they all now officially
lived in Netley Abbey. Despite this, a Butlocks Heath sign
can still be seen on the road from Weston (past the tip).
Incidentally, Old Netley, which is sometimes attributed
to Netley Abbey, in truth belongs more to the separate and
larger village of Bursledon (home to Junction 8 of the M27).
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The day the Chapel almost burnt down (again)
The Royal Victoria Hospital burnt
down in suspicious circumstances in 1966, leaving the Chapel
as the only remaining piece of the original hospital building.
Many years, and several cans of cheap
cider and lager, later, a few of us were messing about down
the Vicky Park (aged around 16). It was definitely a Saturday
evening, as one of the boys had a Sports Echo. After telling
each other ghost stories, in particular about the Grey Lady
that haunts the Chapel, we went for a nose around. As you
look at the front of the chapel there is a small flight
of stairs to the right hand side, leading down to a door
with a metal grille above it. Winding each other up that
this was the door to the crypt, and where the grave of the
ghost lay, we all crammed down the stairway to look in.
As dusk was closing in, and the view through the grille
was of pitch black, we decided in our wisdom to make the
Sports Echo newspaper into a lighted spill and use it as
a torch. On holding it up to the grille we were shocked
to hear a loud whooshing, and even more terrified when the
lighted newspaper practically exploded. Beating a hasty
retreat, after stamping out the burning paper, we fled up
the hill behind the Chapel, convincing ourselves that there
must have been some kind of gas leak down there.
The night's entertainment didn't end
there, as boosted by the adrenaline rush, Mark had bounded
up on to the roof of the train shack (the Vicky has wee
model trains that run around), suggesting that the rest
of us join him on the roof to enjoy the view. No sooner
than he had stood up straight than a woman in the adjoining
caravan site shrieked "Arghhh, there's a man on the
roof", and then a bloke shouted "right, let the
dogs out". Mark dropped like a stone to lie flat on
the roof while the rest of us sprinted back down the hill
and climbed up on a low wall next to the Chapel, laughing
and buzzing with adrenalin. Mark joined us around half-an-hour
later, visibly shaking but still cracked up at the look
on the screaming woman's face.
All good, clean fun. As you will know
from elsewhere in the guide, NATA does not condone underage
drinking, as it sets a bad example. Now you know.
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Netley New Years
New Year's Day in Netley always
managed to be a wee bit chaotic. As Billy Connolly once
said, "New Year is to the Scots as Christmas is to
the English, but without God to knacker up the proceedings"
- and this was the philosophy my family adhered to - Christmas
for the family, Hogmanay for my father. With my Mum working
Hogmanay in The Roll Call, and my father more than paying
her wages from the other side of the bar, the potential
for catastrophe was always there.
One memorable New Year involved me walking
down the pub around 12.30am, "to help my Mum get Dad
back home". We made it back around 6am, with me having
been introduced to the twin pleasures of Tia Maria and stubby
bottles of lager, my Mum cut her finger on the door key,
and the next morning our white front door looked like a
scene from the Passover. Later on New Year's Day my father
and I had gone to a Saints game, my dad baffling the bus
driver by asking for a return, "Where to?" asked
the driver, "Back here, of course" came the reply,
with my father claiming to have regained consciousness at
half-time, having no recollection of getting there, or what
he was doing with a cup of Bovril in his hands.
The following year the landlord of The
Roll Call had moved further into deepest, darkest Hampshire,
taking on a pub called Sam's Hotel in the Meon Valley. A
coach was laid for the old regulars to take the 30-minute
journey, and being 17 it was decided that I was invited
along with my parents. Taking along a then-female acquaintance
(not at the time a girlfriend) called Sally, we had a pretty
good evening, in a olde country pub style. However, when
the bus dropped us back at 2am we both still had some reserves
of energy, and leaving my parents to go to bed, we grabbed
the 3-litre bottle of cider and a bottle of very cheap and
nasty white wine (fizzy vinegar) from the fridge, and off
to The Wee Man's we went. Knocking the door at around 2.30am,
the Wee Man and his step-brother Chris were dozing in front
of the telly, babysitting the younger siblings. It didn't
take us long to tear into the cider, and when the Wee Man's
folks came back we simply took the party back to mine.
On hearing the racket downstairs around
4am, my Mum came down to crack open the Twiglets and crisps
(like I said, we took New Year seriously). By now, Sally
and Chris were flagging, and the cider finished. Not a problem,
as the Wee Man and I moved on to the wine, downing it by
the half-pint. My downfall came after I had popped out to
the garden for some air. A storm a week previously had blown
down our back fence, leaving us open to the Ingleside main
road, and as I was kneeling over a low patio wall, a lad
draped in a duvet wandered past and bade me a "Happy
New Year". My father was in the loo at the time, and
promptly returned to bed to send my mother down to end the
party. By the time she made it downstairs (around 5.30am)
I was lying unconscious under the dining room table. As
the Wee Man and Chris made their way to the front door,
the Wee Man downed the last remaining half-pint of wine,
later reasoning that if I had seen it, it would have killed
me.
The fun didn't end here, however, as
my mother had to put me to bed. As Sally was the guest,
she had my room and I was to sleep on cushions on the living
room floor. The chain of events that follow are based largely
on deduction and on the evidence left in my wake:
- Some time in the middle of the night
(or morning, depending on your interpretation), I've felt
too hot, and after struggling with the double glazed windows
(knocking over a lampshade), I've gone for the easy option
and thrown open the front and porch doors.
- This being January 1st, I've quickly
got cold and stormed up the stairs, collapsing into the
bed that Sally is occupying, announcing "I'm cold"
and falling asleep. Sally, terrified that she's going
against my parents wishes that we don't sleep in the same
room, climbs out of bed and sits on the floor.
- My father wakes up mid-morning, walks
downstairs, witnesses a scene of devastation - lampshades
knocked asunder, bedclothes tussled, curtains half open
- sees the empty bed and the wide-open front door, and
runs back up the stairs to wake my Mum with "Paul's
run away".
- He then walks back down the stairs,
sees the pile of clothes I had thrown in the corner before
going to bed, and runs back up the stairs again "He's
run away. And. He's. NAKED!"
- A frantic but fruitless search of the
local footpaths and ditches around Ingleside takes place,
before deciding on the last possible option - disturb
Sally and ask if she knows anything.
- As the door is pushed open just a crack,
revealing my bloated sleeping mass, my mother sighs with
relief "Thank God, he's here", then "Oh
no, Sally's missing!". Sally then pipes up from behind
the door.
End result - a very expensive taxi fare
to send Sally back to Chandlers Ford on New Year's Day,
and years of ridicule from my family. At least the Wee Man
and Chris say that they had a great night. I've never been
able to eat Twiglets since.
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for the end of the tunnel?
(Thanks
to an anonymous source for this one)
Since the closure of the "cottages"
(toilets) in Beach Lane and Archery Grove, the Conker Field
has become the mecca for gay sex. You will often see camp
men mincing around in tight little shorts!! Following the
usual preliminaries the actual business is done in the bushes
on the castle side of the field.
I WISH I'D KNOWN THIS SOONER...
As you probably know there is an underground
tunnel carrying the stream through the Abbey, the monks
were said to use it as an escape route. With a length of
rope you can get down into the tunnel and armed with a torch
and wellies make your way down the conduit it goes under
the road and into the castle where it fills the pond. However
the conduit becomes too small just before the pond, at this
point there is a large steel plate like a manhole cover
on the ground in the woods.
One evening at dusk I was in the woods
trying to find the steel plate that marks the end of the
tunnel, I needed a leak and availed myself of a nearby tree,
suddenly I was startled by a man appearing from the bushes,
in fact I was so startled (knob in hand) that my opening
words were "Are you looking for the end of the tunnel?"
I then realised that my comment may have been dangerously
misconstrued as his very camp looking mate emerged too!!
I disappeared quickly clenching my cheeks!
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