Keeping it in the family

As I recently wandered through Winchester town centre I was intrigued by all the ‘passages’ running away; like little brooks of varying interest and activity leaking from a wide mainstream of popular commercialism. Of particular amusement to me was the enjoyably named ‘Hammond’s Passage’. This narrow pathway bearing my family name cut a thin slice between the West Cornwall Pasty Co. and a shop selling over-priced picture frames, and whether or not of historical significance was a nice find nonetheless. However it seemed simply to be an alley to an adjacent street and there was little occupation other than some drifting litter. The only thing to lift my spirits from this disappointment was the plaque fixed to the wall beneath the name sign. It read that by the order of the City of Winchester ‘Anyone committing a nuisance in this passage will be prosecuted’. Too bloody right. I’ll have no one causing any nuisance in my passage thank you. In fact I’d rather they kept out of my passage altogether.

Other passages were rather more intriguing; leading to pokey pubs, patronised by flat-capped old boys and eccentric looking craft boutiques, run by aging hippies or the kind of frightening weirdos you expect to only ever exist as the innkeeper’s wife in films like ‘The Wicker Man’. Then there were those that stretched quickly into deep darkness, despite the bright sunshine of midday. Down these tunnels you dare not tread lest you end up in a Narnian fantasy populated by winged horses, bitter old hags and the odd goat-legged recluse with treachery on his mind. It was charming, amusing and mysterious all at once.

Nipping up one of these more interesting passages I came across The Royal Oak, a cramped old pub with lattice windows and timber-framed walls. It drew me in, as cramped old pubs often do. Inside, the low tar-stained ceiling gave the impression, despite the ban, that there was a canopy of smoke hanging over my head. There were a few old boys dotted around in comfortable looking armchairs they’d probably occupied since returning from the war but other than that the place was quiet.

The pub had a selection of guest ales on and after a brief assessment I chose a pint of native porter – very much a subscriber to the old adage, ‘When in Rome, drink the local booze’. I found a table and sat down with my pint. Shortly however, the porter had readied my appetite for lunch and so I returned to the bar to order a steak sandwich.

‘I’m sorry sir, we’re out of steak,’ the barman explained. ‘But I recommend the sausage and onion sandwich.’ I looked down at the menu: "Our pork sausages are organic and locally sourced."

‘Well, you know what they say – “When in Rome, eat the local sausages”.’

I didn’t actually say this, you understand; I didn’t want to appear a lunatic. It was bad enough I was drinking alone. But I took his recommendation, handed over a fiver and returned to my table and my pint.

Before long the sandwich was brought out to me by a delightful waitress – it’s a peculiarity of dining out that I almost always find the waitress delightful – and after wolfing it down and finishing my drink, I stepped out into the passage and followed it back to the main thoroughfare, muffling a few hoppy organic burps as I went.

Crossing the high street I strolled through a few more passages before ending up, completely by accident, by the cathedral. Winchester Cathedral is simply massive, like an ornately carved mountain of celestial rock plonked down on the earth to a thunderous boast of ‘DA DAH!’ Now, I’m not religious man but I can appreciate the beauty in gothic Christian architecture. In my book, if a city has been afforded the honour of a medieval cathedral then in order to preserve its magnificence it should be left to be the most prominent building in the immediate vicinity. Winchester, unlike some southern cities (namely the unyieldingly ugly Portsmouth), succeeds here with gusto and if I’d had a hat – which would have been advisable considering the relentless sun – I would have taken it off to the city. Alas I didn’t have time to take a look inside, it not being long before my train back to Waterloo was due.

Before I got on my way however, I was determined to find a particular statue. Some many years ago, thanks to a persistent distant relative of my maternal grandfather, we had discovered that our family tree has a line running back all the way to Alfred the Great – yes, he who burnt the cakes. However, when you really think about it and consider just how many others could probably make that claim if only their granddads’ second cousins’ had bothered to get off their lazy backsides and put in the work, you come to realise that it’s not really as impressive as it first seems. Of course this doesn’t stop me bringing it up whenever I feel the need to top some bragger’s claim to fame.

Eventually I found His Royal Bronziness directing traffic from on high, above a roundabout towards the end of town. Holding his upturned sword aloft in one hand and leaning on his huge shield with the other, he stood proudly astride his massive stone plinth, engraved with the singular moniker ‘AELFRED’.

Here’s a smart bloke, I considered after some. He clearly liked Winchester a lot – it was his home – and over the few times I’d recently visited this charming little city I was beginning to see why. It seems therefore oddly fateful that the place is linked to both sides of my family, if only thanks to a much diluted bloodline and the naming of an entirely lesser thoroughfare.

Taking one last glance up at my old Granddad (thirty two generations removed) I felt a rather ridiculous sense of solidarity and admiration. Never in my life had I had such strong feelings for a man a thousand dead. Unlike the pigeon who unceremoniously crapped on his head as took my leave. I mean, come on – he may not have been much of a baker but show a little respect.