An island nation, Britain is famous for its coastline. Hampshire, however, is not. One might go west to the sweeping sands of Dorset, one might go east to the seaside towns of Sussex, but no-one asks what lies in between. With a preponderance of oil refineries and container shipyards, it’s easy to see why. But the Hampshire coast has one distinct advantage for me and that is, as my home county, no portion of it is more than 25 miles from my front door. And, in lockdown, that advantage proved decisive.
Many of the more scenic parts of England already have coastal trails, and the government is hoping to get all 2,795 miles into public hands over the next few years. Unfortunately, the Hampshire section remains a work in progress. In my favour, the Solent Way covered a good majority of the route. Working against me, the ferries skipping over awkward inlets were cancelled due to Covid.
Like many travellers compelled over the last year to re-appraise lands close to home, I found my local patch to be a hodgepodge of familiar haunts, undiscovered gems and some grim sections I’m glad to see the back of. Over eight weeks and eight hikes, I hugged the coast from the tumbledown sands of Highcliffe to the elegant marina at Emsworth. There were surprise wildlife encounters and choking exhaust fumes, secluded wetlands and bustling ports, unseasonal warmth and winter chills. Hampshire, this is your coast.
Leg 1: Highcliffe – Lymington
Length: 14 miles
Weather: misty
Lunch opportunities: the chip kiosk at Milford-on-Sea
Cold mist lay over the gothic turrets of Highcliffe Castle as our boots crunched over the gravel driveway. We were behind enemy lines in the neighbouring county of Dorset. Scenting salt on the air, we took a footpath down to a narrow beach where I had spent countless hours sandcastling in the hazily remembered summer afternoons of early childhood. Nobody was building sandcastles that morning, and the view seaward was an impenetrable grey wall.
This first stretch of the route takes in a long line of cliffs terminating at Hurst Castle spit, then turns north-east over the mudflats and salt marshes of Pennington. Somewhere close to the start, the Dorset sands give way to Hampshire. I scoured the beach for evidence of this illustrious territorial divide and eventually stumbled upon a warning notice put up by New Forest District Council. As the council lies under the jurisdiction of Hampshire County, I knew had crossed the border. Game on.
Leg 2: Lymington – Lepe
Length: 16 miles
Weather: winter sunshine
Lunch opportunities: sausage baps and a Mars bar crunch at the tea rooms in Beaulieu
After Lymington, there is no continuous path along the coast, so we opted to follow the Solent Way to its river crossing in Beaulieu. The route runs through a benign succession of fields and copses, and you are practically guaranteed to bump into some adorable New Forest ponies along the way.
Less adorable are the ravening donkeys that terrorise the public parks of Beaulieu. 11 miles into the day and sans breakfast, I was thoroughly ready for a sausage bap, but my equine ambushers had other ideas. Like an Old Testament plague, they swarmed over the bench and began to nip at anything wasn’t nailed down. I held my ground bravely for a few seconds, but my sausages were in danger, so I stood up and spirited them to safety. In my haste, I left behind their polystyrene box. The donkeys fell to it with frenzied chomping and moments later there was nothing left. Picnickers you have been warned. These beasts are savage.
Leg 3: Lepe – Eling
Length: 15 miles
Weather: clear and crisp
Lunch opportunities: Philpott’s fish and chips, Hythe
There’s a fine stretch of sand accessible from the country park at Lepe, and the sun shone brightly as we set out on our third leg. Unfortunately, we found a completely impassable section of barbed wire blocking the connection through to Calshot, so were forced to retrace our steps and head inland along roads. From Calshot, you must follow the long tongue of Southampton Water until you reach a crossing point. In happier times, there’s a ferry from Hythe to the dockyards, but during pandemics the only option is to continue for another five miles to the road bridge over the Test.
Gone were the nature reserves of the first two days, and instead we found ourselves in the midst of heavy industry. The ubiquitous horses and wading birds could still be seen, but here juxtaposed with concrete chimneys and belching smoke. In spite of the endless fences topped with razor wire, I strove to stay as close to the coast possible. My reward was an interrogation from an oil refinery security officer about my presence in the area. It seems traversing your county’s entire coastline remains a niche pursuit.
Leg 4: Eling – Hamble
Length: 12 miles
Weather: dull and breezy
Lunch opportunities: chicken Caesar wrap from the Jolly Friar in Netley
Another hard to love day; we were still dealing with the consequences of missing the Hythe ferry. We made a long trek into Southampton along the traffic clogged Millbrook Road. While there is technically a pavement, it’s not somewhere I’d recommend to pedestrians. To spice things up, we made a short-lived attempt to enter the container port, but once again security arrived to crash the party.
Among the classy apartment blocks of Ocean Village, I recalled nights on the town as a young professional with money in my pocket, but all my old haunts were now firmly shuttered against the plague. Without the lights and the people, the city seemed diminished in stature, and there was no alcoholic glow to hide its rougher edges. We crossed the hulking concrete pillars of the Itchen Bridge, a favoured jumping spot for Southampton’s most desperate residents, and saw the Samaritans hotline plastered on signs every dozen paces. Beyond, it was a straight run down the wind-lashed shores to our next challenge: the River Hamble.
Leg 5: Hamble – Gosport
Length: 14 miles (plus a bit of kayaking)
Weather: volatile
Lunch opportunities: Leon’s Waterfront Bistro, Lee-on-the-Solent
Bridge Road fords the Hamble about two miles upriver from where we finished the fourth leg. There’s also a tiny pink motorboat that operates a shuttle in normal times, but the service had been abandoned until spring. The third option was simple. Kayak across.
In dense and freezing mist, my father and I paddled out from the western bank into the pull of the river. The tide was going out, and in the main channel there was quite a current. Though the river is scarcely more than 300m wide, we couldn’t see the far side. Miles out in Southampton Water, a mournful foghorn sounded. It was so cold that I could scarcely feel my fingers. Fortunately though, I was wearing a heavy drysuit and soon warmed up with the exertion of paddling. We reached the far bank in no time and swapped neoprene booties for hiking leather. Late morning sun burnt away the mist, and by lunchtime in Lee-on-the-Solent, I was in my shirtsleeves munching ice cream.
Leg 6: Gosport – Portsmouth
Length: 17 miles
Weather: arctic
Lunch opportunities: Avocado, feta and crispy bacon on toast at Salt Café
Where the previous leg finished with ice cream weather, this time we remained firmly in the chiller cabinet all day long. The beast from the east was in town, bringing biting winds all the way from Siberia. As we laced up in a nondescript Gosport car park, an elderly gent lifted his face from a thick scarf to remark “you’re brave.” The road up to Fareham was mercifully sheltered, but when we struck out along the northern edge of Portsmouth harbour, the beast hit us with full force.
We sought sanctuary in the warm glow of Salt Café. Built to serve the well-heeled patrons of the harbour, this is a pricey yet superb little eatery. I still have yet to try the hot chocolates, but I’ve observed their preparation with keen interest, and they appear suitably decadent. We were permitted inside to place our order, but restrictions dictated we must huddle on a brick wall to eat. It’s almost unheard for the sea to freeze in the UK, but that day I could see pellets of ice churning in the wavelets. We hastened south to Portsmouth’s historic dockyard, home to Nelson’s Victory, and prayed for spring to come.
Leg 7: Portsmouth – Hayling
Length: 13 miles
Weather: classic British
Lunch opportunities: Lukewarm panini at a petrol station
Walking along the parade at the south end of Portsmouth island, I remembered pounding the pavements in the opposite direction four years previously for the Great South Run. Then, as now, the wind was blowing right in my face. Perhaps it was some kind of Eeyore effect, I mused philosophically.
At the end of the parade, we were treated to our first sight of Hayling, tantalisingly close across the choppy waters. A narrow concrete ledge ran around the headland and out of sight. Above lay rusty strips of barbed wire with signs showing angry canine silhouettes. Below were turbulent seas where the Solent merges with the English Channel. The tide was in, and every few seconds a wave would burst over the ledge in a shower of spray. Unless we wanted a drenching, we were obliged to turn back. Reluctant to let us off the hook, drizzle dogged our footsteps up the east coast of Portsmouth, around Farlington Marshes and finally across the Langstone Bridge to Hayling Island.
Leg 8: Hayling – Emsworth
Length: 18 miles
Weather: Mediterranean
Lunch opportunities: Coastguard Café, Eastoke
We had our fair share of winter conditions traversing Hampshire’s coast, but the final day dawned cloudless and remained glorious throughout. Had you dropped me into the scene at random, erased my already patchy botanical knowledge and asked me the month, I would have thought it the middle of May (it was actually February). The British are highly attuned to meteorological irregularities, and even the most curmudgeonly folks we passed were grinning like Scrooge on Christmas morning.
On euphoric wings, we flew along the hammerhead shaped terminus of South Hayling, pausing only for banoffee ice cream and some fresh cooked chips. Then it was back to the only bridge via the quiet lanes and palatial properties adorning the east side of the island. Even the cloying, curse-word worthy mud flats lining the edge of Sweare Deep could not dampen our spirits as the miles clicked away to journey’s end. Close to sunset, we reached Hermitage Bridge where the weary baton passes at last from Hampshire to West Sussex. Beyond lay the Roman city of Chichester and the windswept Wittering dunes. But that is a tale for another time. Hampshire’s coast was at an end.
Want to read more dispatches from lockdown? Check out my article about walking the South Downs Way.