Yesterday I had a trip down memory lane; I went to visit my parents at their home in Catisfield. It's been two weeks since I last saw them making it the ideal time for a catch up. Dad picked me up from Fareham railway station and we decided to take a detour on the way to see Mum, driving to my old childhood home, where I grew up forty seven years ago. I have been back since I left there in 1981, but only briefly, in passing. Yesterday we parked the car and had a walk around the area I once called home! Like so many times before, my past has become a great source of comfort during a particularly challenging time in my life.
I have spoken about my childhood home before and written about my experiences in a number of short stories, but today I want to go into a little bit more detail, about a place that holds some very special memories for me. It is important that I spend my time in the UK as positively as possible, after all I have no idea how long I will be living here. Revisiting my youth, is all part of a process, rekindling bonds with family and places that I have ignored for far too long. Seeing the maisonette I grew up in, was just the tonic I needed to carry on pushing forwards while I am here.
My parents moved into Nashe House in 1971, the year I was born. They were the first occupants of a newly built social housing estate on the outskirts of Fareham. The flat was modern, spacious and even had a garden for me to play in, it was the perfect home, after the birth of their first child.
I remember this place with fondness. It was a five minute walk from my school in Tewkesbury Avenue and looked out over a huge, endless expanse of playing fields opposite. Going back yesterday, that particular view has been obscured, fenced off and surrounded by shrubs and bushes. The green gardens that used to be on our doorstep felt smaller than I remember and run down compared to the 1970s. I recognised my old home of course, but it didn't feel the same, it had turned into something different, something alien and a little bit tired.
These maisonettes used to be council owned and were well kept and neatly looked after, painted in the same basic colours, sporting the same metal fencing outside and a shed for every apartment, just beyond the communal washing area, where we used to play as children. Today most of them have been bought by owner occupiers, their individuality visible as Father and I walked around the estate. Paneled fences, austere walls, trellis and a variety of contrasting windows and doors were proudly on display, showing the personality of those who lived inside. The uniformity of the local authority estate had been lost during the intervening years; Nashe house looked jumbled, confused and uncared for, despite now being privately owned.
Nashe House and Hillson House opposite were a revolution in social housing during the early 1970s. Unlike other tower blocks of the era, these four story developments were built of brick, not concrete and were designed to sit sympathetically into the semi rural location it occupied in the Highlands area of Fareham. The spacious homes were designed for small families in mind and are twice as large as similar dwellings today. These were times of innovation in house building, modernity dictated design and although these places lacked character they did offer functional living for the baby boomer generation, rebuilding after the Second World War.
My parents moved into Nashe House in 1971, the year I was born. They were the first occupants of a newly built social housing estate on the outskirts of Fareham. The flat was modern, spacious and even had a garden for me to play in, it was the perfect home, after the birth of their first child.
I remember this place with fondness. It was a five minute walk from my school in Tewkesbury Avenue and looked out over a huge, endless expanse of playing fields opposite. Going back yesterday, that particular view has been obscured, fenced off and surrounded by shrubs and bushes. The green gardens that used to be on our doorstep felt smaller than I remember and run down compared to the 1970s. I recognised my old home of course, but it didn't feel the same, it had turned into something different, something alien and a little bit tired.
These maisonettes used to be council owned and were well kept and neatly looked after, painted in the same basic colours, sporting the same metal fencing outside and a shed for every apartment, just beyond the communal washing area, where we used to play as children. Today most of them have been bought by owner occupiers, their individuality visible as Father and I walked around the estate. Paneled fences, austere walls, trellis and a variety of contrasting windows and doors were proudly on display, showing the personality of those who lived inside. The uniformity of the local authority estate had been lost during the intervening years; Nashe house looked jumbled, confused and uncared for, despite now being privately owned.
Nashe House and Hillson House opposite were a revolution in social housing during the early 1970s. Unlike other tower blocks of the era, these four story developments were built of brick, not concrete and were designed to sit sympathetically into the semi rural location it occupied in the Highlands area of Fareham. The spacious homes were designed for small families in mind and are twice as large as similar dwellings today. These were times of innovation in house building, modernity dictated design and although these places lacked character they did offer functional living for the baby boomer generation, rebuilding after the Second World War.
The most enduring aspect of growing up in this area was the community in which we lived. The photograph on the right is a picture of my Fathers old childhood home in Nashe Way, just a few yards around the corner from our flat. This was a larger family home and was one of six original houses built long before Nashe House. My parents had lived in this location all their lives, never moving more than a mile away from this neighbourhood. Even yesterday when I went back, the environment was as quiet as it used to be, just a few more cars parked on the side of the road, but essentially the same kind of atmosphere. This is in stark contrast to the Council estates in larger urban areas!
Just to the left hand side of our old flat there stood a row of old peoples bungalows, all part of this diverse neighbourhood. This is a photograph of Mrs Rogers house, the dear old lady I wrote about in 'Short Stories From My Youth' in an article entitled 'The Fence.' Mrs Rogers was a part of this local community that lived and worked together, looking out for one another; all of us getting on well. This model for modern living was the beginning of a change in attitudes towards different generations; divergent groups of people coexisting as one. There was no violence, crime or anti-social behaviour, just a friendly, welcoming climate of trust and reliance; neighbours leaving their doors open, kids playing outside and a future that looked rosy, compared to the problems of the past!
As a child growing up in the 1970s, I was always outside playing. In front of Mrs Rogers house was a small tree, probably just planted, today standing tall. This was the tree I buried 'my treasure' under to keep it safe. I would put my most prized possessions into Mothers tupperware boxes, dig a hole under this local landmark and hide them, covering them with dirt. Even today I squirrel items away, so I guess this was all part of my psyche, who I am and who I was destined to be.
When I saw this patch of green, I immediately recognised it and actually felt a little emotional. This area was a big part of my childhood and it wouldn't surprise me, if there is still a tiny plastic box buried just below this tree. It's memories like this that make me feel glad to be home, especially in my old stomping ground. There was something comforting about walking around the roads surrounding our old flat, something a tad nostalgic, triggering long forgotten feelings and memories of growing up around the family and friends I once held dear. Each of them were there with me on Tuesday, playing, laughing, fighting and running around, just as they did forty five years ago; my innocence returned as I made my pilgrimage home.
When I saw this patch of green, I immediately recognised it and actually felt a little emotional. This area was a big part of my childhood and it wouldn't surprise me, if there is still a tiny plastic box buried just below this tree. It's memories like this that make me feel glad to be home, especially in my old stomping ground. There was something comforting about walking around the roads surrounding our old flat, something a tad nostalgic, triggering long forgotten feelings and memories of growing up around the family and friends I once held dear. Each of them were there with me on Tuesday, playing, laughing, fighting and running around, just as they did forty five years ago; my innocence returned as I made my pilgrimage home.
A short one minute walk away, was the school I attended as a child. This complex has remained largely unchanged. The same buildings are in situ, the layout, as I remember, a monument to sixties architecture echoing the voices of children who walked through the school gates, during those first important years of education.
I was philosophical, deep in thought, briefly looking around the old school buildings, remembering school assemblies, my old teacher Mrs Brooks, singing hymns in the hall, the playground beyond and school dinners, that I still enjoy making today. These were difficult years, but ones I still recall with happiness as I made my first tentative steps in the World. A place of learning has many stories to tell and this is where my narrative began. The name may well be different, but the substance is still the same, an institution that gently, calmly, encouraged me to play!
I was philosophical, deep in thought, briefly looking around the old school buildings, remembering school assemblies, my old teacher Mrs Brooks, singing hymns in the hall, the playground beyond and school dinners, that I still enjoy making today. These were difficult years, but ones I still recall with happiness as I made my first tentative steps in the World. A place of learning has many stories to tell and this is where my narrative began. The name may well be different, but the substance is still the same, an institution that gently, calmly, encouraged me to play!
This rather ordinary block of flats stands largely unchanged since the early 1970s. The Great Storm of 1987 ripped off the flat roofs, now replaced by a more traditional pitched affair. The decorative open walls separating each garden have gone replaced by stark brick barriers, dividing neighbours, who no longer speak, a sign of the end of community perhaps and the beginning of self identity, a progressive act deeply regressive in nature. The neglected out buildings, car parking areas and communal grounds, nestle awkwardly between the buildings, paint peeling, wood rotting, a shadow of their former self!
My early childhood memories living in Nashe House were positive, full of adventure, surrounded by children my own age. The experiences I had are often the catalyst for my writing; returning home to the place of my birth, gave me further food for thought. Revisiting the past is a calling I have to undertake, so much has happened in between and today I am looking for answers. Why did my life turn out the way it did? What could I have done to change my situation today? and what role, if any, did my childhood growing up in Fareham, have on my future direction? So much has happened since I lived in this space, the blemishes of time clearly etched on its face, marks of a life all of us have led navigating the streets we continue to tread!
My early childhood memories living in Nashe House were positive, full of adventure, surrounded by children my own age. The experiences I had are often the catalyst for my writing; returning home to the place of my birth, gave me further food for thought. Revisiting the past is a calling I have to undertake, so much has happened in between and today I am looking for answers. Why did my life turn out the way it did? What could I have done to change my situation today? and what role, if any, did my childhood growing up in Fareham, have on my future direction? So much has happened since I lived in this space, the blemishes of time clearly etched on its face, marks of a life all of us have led navigating the streets we continue to tread!
