Finding the Old New Forest

Welcome to the New Forest, where Lyndhurst, Lymington and

Beaulieu are listed in the top 10 of ‘The happiest places to live in

the UK’ list. Yet an exclusive view over a potentially dangerous

power station doesn’t make for a particularly pleasant view.

Emily Biggs is sent to discover the skeletons in the forest.

The New Forest tourism website states: “There’s something for everyone

in the New Forest. Whether you’re looking to relax, explore, or just enjoy,

the New Forest is the ideal location.” I repeat this to myself as I stand,

lost, somewhere close to Lyndhurst, on a bleak and cold Saturday in

February. I hear smashing glass, a lone howl of an angry dog, and distant

wails of a mother at her bored, confused offspring. As panic builds I trace

my steps, quicken my pace and walk a straight line, avoiding the offers of

a ‘cuppa tea’ from passing hoodies. Though I’m tempted, considering the

weather.

Walking briskly towards the top of the hill, I feel icy tears on my cheek,

wondering if I’ll ever be able to see my family again, to hold my baby

cousin’s face in my hands, to pass another Christmas with loved ones. But

then I take a left and am faced with the bright lights … of the Maserati

garage. Ah, I’m back on Lyndhurst high street. Panic over.

Last week, I indulged in a heated debate with my partner, Rich and friends

Shaun and Beth. It was I against three born and bred ‘New Foresters’. The

debate began with a brainstorm of possible eco-friendly holiday

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destinations. I suggested the New Forest; and in turn a volcano erupted.

As I argued their luck to live in an area of the country which many British

citizens would consider ‘idyllic’, their counter-argument surprised me.

Shaun, a stout, outspoken character of the Dibden province insisted, “The

New Forest is a big façade for summer. It’s the perfect getaway…for the

two days of British summer.” Nodding in agreement, Beth added: “The

problem with the New Forest is that you can’t see it unless you take a

nature hike …. Trees take up over half of the Forest. Going to Lymington

for an afternoon provides a completely idealistic and objective view of the

forest.”

Rich and I fill the Saab’s tank for a day of New Forest tourist fun. A

stubborn determination rises within to prove Shaun and Beth wrong.

We begin our day at the furthest location. Fordingbridge is a small village

known as the northern gateway to the New Forest. Although the smallest

town in the forest, we chose the busiest day of the week. Unfortunately

the locals seem to work on a ‘continental’ weekend itinerary – we arrived

at 2pm do discover the once-a-month arts and crafts fair was mid-packing

up. So we instead took a beautiful (but short) walk over the medieval

bridge to admire the view over the river Avon, adjacent to the sculpture

and former house of artist Augustus John. Overall, a nice village to begin

our tour, but the size and facilities of the village underwhelms me.

Walking back to the car, we pass a sign reading ‘Fordingbridge: the future

of environmentally friendly travel, welcoming the organic traveller’.

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Back in the Saab, we drive through a mass of forest planes. For miles we

pass nobody; I’m drawn to the memory of the scenery in Lanzarote.

Sprawling areas of flat, black earth; like a scene of a post-revolution

atomic bomb. We’re alone amongst a mass of exquisite nothingness.

Groups of wandering wild ponies provide the only 3D dimension across

acres of sprawling, black, soily earth. There is no noise, only anxious

silence, like the eerie calm before the storm. The gothic towers of

Fawley’s infamous power station loom in the distance like the scarecrow

to a vulture, but I don’t let this interrupt my enjoyment of this fascinating,

space-like scenery. I open the sunroof and let the icy air chill my bones,

for in summer, this place would be heaven. Rich closes the sunroof and

reminds me that we’re in Southampton, not Surinam.

Arriving in Beaulieu, I’m pleased to be reminded of what visitors flock to

the forest to experience. Twinned with two quaint villages of the French

Loire province, the town is built around a dam of the Beaulieu River. It’s

the village clock for the 2000 residents: “Ooh, tide is down, darling, it

must be dinner time” I hear one lady say. Too bad she’s yet to notice the

roaming donkey already tucking into her and her grand-son’s sandwiches

behind her.

The largest tourist attraction here is the Beaulieu motor museum, home to

250 vintage and modern cars. Rich discovers his first interest in the forest;

despite living here his entire twenty-three years, this is his first visit to the

museum.

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I talk to Kelly, a preservation worker at Beaulieu centre. “Beaulieu is a

jewel amongst what has come to be seen as rubble,” she says. “Fifty

years ago, the forest as a collective was a rustic, safe haven for the over-

fifties. With the emergence of eco-friendly, domestic holidays, the New

Forest council really need to step up now promote this area as an organic,

clean family holiday…like the Centre Parcs of today.”

We discuss the social divide. “It’s disappointing to see such poverty

amongst the wealth. We don’t want to give visitors a false view of the

area. Government schemes are being integrated into communities to

encourage employment within the New Forest, as they don’t want to

alienate any groups from the area.”

I’m pleasantly surprised to learn about the ‘go-green’ initiatives within

Beaulieu: “Our recycling rates are amongst the highest in the country, and

we encourage hotels and guest houses to take eco-friendly initiatives. My

parents own a hotel just outside Brockenhurst, and in the last three years

they’ve installed solar roof panels, eco-flush toilets, natural wood-burning

fires, and thicker insulation throughout the foundations. Fortunately, the

British population is becoming wise to the importance of reducing our

carbon footprint, and with promotion and word of mouth, the New Forest

will become first on holiday makers’ travel lists.”

Her words resound in my ears as we approach Lyndhurst, home to

Southampton’s premier footballers, though I’m aware that the deprivation

of the town is the fire behind Shaun’s argument.

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The New Forest website declares: “Visitors can expect a right royal

welcome to the delightful village of Lyndhurst.” Known as the capital of

the New Forest since 1079 when William the Conqueror established it as a

royal hunting ground, I wander across to the pre-Raphaelite church of St

Michael and All Angels. Here lays the grave of former Lyndhurst resident

Alice Liddell, inspiration for Lewis Carroll’s ‘Alice in Wonderland’. Struck

with a sudden craving for traditional cream tea, I hope to stop in one of

the many, extortionately priced tea shops lining the high street, but

Richard, being a capitalist, insists on a well-known, mainstream chain.

Generic and un-inspiring, it rhymes with ‘foster’. They don’t serve cream

tea.

Warm and in good humour, we stop to admire the Chryslers, Ferraris and

Romeos at the infamous Maserati garage, but it’s the looming housing

estate in the distance that captures my attention. I propose a leisurely

walk through the estate, to no response. Rich is left to his ignorance and I

brave the dark side of the New Forest alone.

I’m a convert; this area certainly isn’t advertised in the eco-tourism

articles in the glossy travel magazines. It’s unfriendly, cold and

dangerous. I want to be back in the black forest planes, safe in the

comfort of wild ponies.

I decide the research can wait, and turn to run for cover, but there is no

cover. Lost in Lyndhurst’s prison, I follow signs camouflaged by graffiti

until I reach a dead-end. Who could allow this poverty to grow amongst

such beauty and wealth? The sheer ignorance of the New Forest council

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angers me, and I realise the time and efforts made to promote the New

Forest as an eco-holiday haven should probably be invested into helping

their own communities who are struggling on the poverty line.

Deflated and angered, I leave for Brockenhurst, home of Rich’s college -

possibly the most innovative, exciting building in the town. Although

advertised as the biggest of the New Forest towns, “Whilst retaining all

the old world charm,” the town is surprisingly bare. We swiftly pass the

charming Brockenhurst hotel and stables, and fly down the Georgian high

street, homing three expensive hotels, a post office and a cosy pub.

However, the picture-perfect street quickly gives way to another large

estate of houses not so applicable for the pages of Fine and Country.

Reaching desperation, I ask Rich what exactly there is in the New Forest

to attract a young family for more than two hours. He shrugs and grunts.

Although lacking in personality and size, Brockenhurst is perhaps the

access hub of the forest. A trip to the Victorian rail station offers easy links

to Portsmouth, London and the West. I manage to over-come the

temptation to escape back to the city, and instead oblige Rich to take me

on a horse-drawn wagon ride around the neighbouring stables and horse

tracks. £18 provides thirty minutes of old world romance and tranquillity;

a definite recommendation for a romantic, authentic way to catch a

glimpse of the forest.

Today has given me a new perspective to the New Forest. Although

advertised as an eco-haven and an ideal family holiday destination, the

fact remains that wherever there are communities of families who remain

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in one area, there will inevitably be boredom and negativity towards the

subjective monotony. Kelly and her team are working to alleviate these

problems by encouraging the pride of eco-friendly tourism: “By finding the

old in the new, we as residents can celebrate the raw beauty of the

forest.” Conclusively, the towns are just one element of the forest. By

renting a bike and exploring the forest trails, you can enjoy a thoroughly

organic tourist experience. After all, no matter how boring or depressing

your hometown, do you have wild ponies roaming your high street?

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