Kent House

Kent House

Seventy years later

East Cowes, Isle of Wight

Although over seventy years ago the Isle of Wight had been my birthplace I felt no heart aching attachment only vaguely familiar memories, there had been little enough love, few good times.

Surprisingly I noticed little outward change, the sea was still as I remembered it and nowhere in the world is the sea such a beautiful colour, a rare glass green.  The town of Cowes still stepped back in orderly tiers from the sea, the long jutting peninsular of the breakwater still held a safe, calming arm around small bobbing craft moored out at the mouth of the Medina.  The safe welcoming smell of the wide Medina's estuary was, as it had always been, a discerning concoction of fish and diesel fuel.  Where once blue swirling cigarette and pipe tobacco smoke drifted from the scatter of little pubs that skirted the edge of the river mouth, sadly they are no longer in existence.

All about me the sounds of my childhood drifted out from the side streets like giddy ghosts. The rich rounded brown voices of the locals punctuated by the rhythmic grinding of iron chains endlessly pulling the 'Bridge' frothing and straining to and fro across the Medina.

Close by bobbing sailing boats met the Solent, sheet and canvas sail slapping at the wind while the noise of the shore was lost to the smacking and sucking of the green sea beneath the sun-dried boards of pier and jetty. The shrill sad mewing of swooping seagulls diving from upon high like fighter planes to splash exploding amongst a group of stately river swans, followed by  a screaming tantrumus, a jagged cacophony of all manner of seabirds.  They gathered swooping and shrieking murderous delight as they stole bread from the indignant swans, whilst giggling children sat legs a dangling over the weathered boards of the old slipway.

At the bottom of York Avenue in East Cowes was the umbrella tree, a vine that still cascades a cool green mantle over the radius of wrought iron seating beneath it. We climbed the long tree lined avenue that leads up to my childhood home, Kent House, a large rambling early Victorian house. The grey stone edifice was stained a pinkish hue due to time and aged lichen. Raindrops sparkled like gems upon the leaves of the overgrown dense tangle of yellow wild French dog rose and bay trees still grew in profusion around the once elegant balustrades and trellises. The wide pebble and flint stone drive had long since fallen into disrepair as had its tiled terraces and formal gardens. The stately wide French oak trees that had once heralded a leafy grand entrance to the long orchard and ornamental lake stood proudly, but sadly now,  only adorning a cul-de-sac of small local authority housing.