Week 12 Impressions by Maura Walsh

At the end of last week, I went to Lymington – a small town of about 15,000 located in Hampshire, right on the Southern English coast, south of New Forest National Park and north of the Isle of Wight (a popular English summer holidays destination). As so many locals (rather incredulously) inquired during my trip, ‘Why did you come to Lymington?’ Well, aside from my eagerness to spend every pence of the UK travel stipend LC offered us, I was dying to flee London, flee the bustle of the tube, the consumerism that bombards you during every walk to the tube – and most importantly, I wanted to go someplace small and real, someplace less touristy than the images London, Cambridge, and Bath had offered me – someplace where I would be the only non-local in a pub, and could spy on English culture that is not flashy or exciting, but simple everyday life.

I arrived at Waterloo station 35 minutes early – earlier than I believe I’ve ever arrived for a train. Disorienting but quite pleasant – if you can find a place to sit down, train stations are a wonderful place to kick back and people watch. However, I found that waiting around in train stations also requires a lot of strong-willed resistance, as it’s quite difficult not to give in to one of the many over-priced food kiosks that overwhelm you with their flashy signs and wafting smells – like Millie’s Cookie Shoppe – sinfully tempting. The train ride to Lymington was pleasant enough – save the obnoxious businessman who forcefully, boisterously and garrulously chatted on his mobile phone the entire way, causing another passenger – a salt-and-pepper haired man reading a book in Arabic – to exchange a weary and amused glance with me. No, Mr. Businessman, I don’t think the carriage does care how you handle copper extract details during your next business move…

I had to change trains in Brockenhurst, a small dot of a town where the Southwestern Train (which was immaculately clean and boasted impressive Automatic Everything) line ended. I sat for about 15 minutes in a slightly dilapidated waiting room in between two platforms, musing about my visit ahead, shivering from the cold, and examining the crooked snapshots of new and old-fashioned trains framed on the walls. A group of teens around sixteen years old joined me in the waiting room to grace me with their flirting and joking, letting me enjoy hearing all about the sixth-form (a level of high school) drama of their small English town. Then the Brockenhurst-Lymington train pulled up, which was rickety, barren, and sported manual doors that looked like they belonged to an old mobile home rather than a train (I later discovered that the railroad company decided these trains are decrepit enough to be advertised as ‘heritage’ trains – which is supposed to make them more appealing…?). I was utterly floored by how short the ride was between Brockenhurst and Lymington – furthermore, the two weren’t connected by urban sprawl but separated by veritable town edges with pastureland in between – re-establishing once again just how miniature-scaled the isle of Britain really is.

I was quite discouraged by the Lymington Town station, which apparently closes every day at 13.30 (1:30 pm), leaving me standing in the cold drizzle, waiting for June (the proprietor of the family-run B&B I would be staying at) to pick me up. I stood alone in the rain long enough to begin panicking that the entire town of Lymington would be as unappealing as the dreary brick-building lined street in front of me, and wondering why I keep thinking it a brilliant idea to pick tiny towns – of which I know virtually nothing – off a map and deciding to spend multiple days in them. June arrived (thankfully) shortly, a chatty older woman who began pointing out the modest ‘sights’ of Lymington. To my incredible relief, the town is much more charming than the station. The High Street (that is, the British version of a ‘main street’), rests on a little hill (which, after living in London, my elevation-deprived eyes appreciated greatly), lined with charity shops, businesses, boutiques, and a handful of restaurants. Apart from the obligatory Tesco Metro, Caffe Nero, and WHSmith, most shops appeared refreshingly independently owned and managed. A few beautiful churches and back-alley squares dotted the high street as well. We turned onto Church Lane, also alarmingly inviting and charming. It was lined with curving stone walls, old-fashioned lampposts, high hedges, and a plethora of large ancient houses with tidy front gardens. All the houses displayed stone plaques announcing cozy names, such as ‘Home Mead Cottage’ and ‘Rose Garden Home.’

A few places on the drive from the station to Jevington B&B were scarred by roadwork and building sites, and June explained that they were tearing down some old houses to build many tiny new estates in their places – which I felt was a damn crime, but kept the opinion to myself. Lymington’s well-ordered and charming streets, lined with quite a few rambling homes, combined with the fact that development is taking place, attests to the town’s wealth. Later that evening when I walked down High Street, I noticed quite a few estate agencies (not ‘real estate’ mind you – just ‘estate’) that displayed sundry adverts for homes in the town and surrounding area, none for less than 290,000 pounds, and most for between 600,00 to 1 million pounds. I guessed that Lymington can owe its preserved beauty and success to its convenient location directly between the New Forest and the coast of the Isle of Wight. (Later I discovered that the town is a coveted destination for older English yacht and sailboat owners. Furthermore, the Lymington Town Council avoided Lymington’s addition to the newly established borders of New Forest as a national park, meaning that the town is growing as an English holiday spot but not protected under park regulations that would curb exorbitant town development – such as the recently added Caffe Nero and the knocked down historic homes).

After enjoying the B&B’s complimentary tea and biscuits, I ventured back out into the dreary cold to find supper. The High Street was eerily deserted at 6:30 – apparently all the shops closed at 5pm – another shock after the bustle of London. I settled on dinner at Caffe Uno, and I amused myself while sitting in the cozy golden-painted restaurant by trying to inconspicuously watch the tables around me. One quite intriguing table consisted of four well-dressed and joyful older women – old age, I later learned, is a theme in Lymington. While the majority of Londoners are in their 20s and 30s, Lymington reminds me of my home town of Des Moines, Iowa, with a conspicuous dearth of 18-35ish year olds, and a plethora of young children, parents and elderly citizens. Discussions later with some of the few uni (university) students I came across revealed that, like Des Moines, most young people flee town after graduating from high school – and with Lymington’s wealth, it is becoming less feasible for young people to move back after uni.

My second day in Lymington, I spent the afternoon eavesdropping on chatty old ladies while browsing in the surprising number of charity shops on Lymington’s High Street – seven charity shops on one block, including the omnipresent ‘Oxfam’ and smaller charities such as ‘Help the Aged’ (which seemed appropriate for Lymington’s population). Charity shops, which are found all around England, are run by – surprise! – British charities, who receive donations of clothes, books and bric-a-brac, and then use the proceeds for their cause. A charity shop’s fare reveals a lot about its location – some shops, such those in London’s Kensington and Notting Hill neighborhoods, contain fancy displays of designer and vintage clothing; shops in less affluent boroughs are full of jumbled cast-offs you would find in the US in consignment and thrift stores; the Lymington charity shops are full of items that upper-middleclass seventy year-old women would buy and trade – sweater sets, children’s Wellingtons, doilies, and kitschy ceramic poodles to sit on said doilies. (I found out later that while the Lymington charity shops are well-supported, there is also a blazing drama about whether charity shops have a place on the High Street, or should move to side streets to make space for more up-market boutiques – quite the heated debate for locals to consider over their Hampshire cream tea at the many tea shops that also line High Street.)

Later in the afternoon, I rambled around the city to the ‘Old Town Quay,’ which, while chock full of buoyed white sailboats, was deserted on this gray afternoon during the off-season. I sat on a bench, wrapped up against the wind, drinking in the solitude that is so scarce in London. I listened to the accusing caws of the seagulls, the tinkling of tied-up sails whipping against their masts, the lapping waves, one lone fishing boat motor, and a small crew of fishermen loading and unloading gear.

The rest of the weekend continued to be wonderful in the same enlightening and pleasantly unadventurous manner. I went out with some local students home from uni on Easter holidays (which can apparently last the entire month of April). The students generously bought me multiple rounds of pints, which is a British custom (upon meeting a new person) that I thoroughly support. The next day I again wandered the High Street, which was now festively full of stalls for the Saturday market, which I learned is The Thing To Do in the area on Saturdays, attracting residents from all the neighboring towns and villages. I also wandered into one of the High Street churches, which was hosting a table sale advertised by hand-painted signs proclaiming the enticing ‘Free Admission! Bric-a-Brac! Books! Food!’ Apart from two ten year-olds selling home-made jam, I was the only person under 70 years old – buying or selling – in the entire church hall. After scoring some English-version Asterix comic books from the ‘60s for 50p each, from a timid, pearly-haired gentleman, I headed to the train station.

As soon as I reached Waterloo, I was swept back up into the crowded London chaos. Waiting for my District Line Tube home, I smiled as a jumble of languages hit my ears (British-accented English was the only language I had heard in Lymington), and a diverse mix of skin colors, hair styles, and clothing choices danced across my eyes (I had only seen one non-Caucasian person while in Lymington, a floppy-haired youth of Asian descent whose accent revealed he was actually a British native). While my three-day respite from London was much needed, I appreciated returning to this city where every wait for the tube presents a fascinating array of lifestyles and cultures.