The enduring nature of the New Forest

A much-needed week off for the both of us saw us pack up the car and head east, through lovely Dorset and into the wilds of the New Forest.  I've always loved the New Forest - the peace, the ponies, the important opportunity to reconnect with nature.  And nature is all around, as we found when we took a walk around the Hawkhill Inclosure, between Brockenhurst and Beaulieu.  The walk is a classic bit of New Forest, with strolls along pony paths cut through bracken, areas of dense forest, and sunlit clearings along the way.  An old Irish gent, an ex-military man and his dog Magoo started us on our way, by pointing out that it's hard to get lost - "just listen for the trains" he said, speaking of the nearby railway, " and you'll always be able to work out where you are."  Mr Magoo honed his skills on the northern slopes of Dartmoor, where the mist can descend at an alarming pace, but since retirement as walked the many thousand acres of the New Forest, even drawing up his own maps.

There's a fascinating history to the forest, beyond its creation as a hunting ground for William the Conqueror.  At one point on this first walk, we happened upon a long, straight stretch of asphalt.  This is RAF Beaulieu, a former RAF station.  The Royal Flying Corps used an aerodrome here in the First World War, but we were walking along the Second World War section, built on the opposite side of the main road, and used by both the British and American airforce, as both a bomber and fighter airfield.  The aerodrome closed in the 1950s, and the associated buildings demolished, but the airstrip lives on, fittingly used by flying aircraft model enthusiasts.

Of course, the New Forest's chief historic concern lies in its royal connection, and one of my favourite historic sites of all is the Rufus Stone.  Now, as a monument it's nothing remarkable, but as a sense of place it cannot be underestimated.  Here on 2 August 1100, King William II was killed when a hunting arrow, shot by Sir Walter Tirel / Tyrrell, when it entered his lung.  What has followed has been one of English history's most enduring mysteries - not so much a whodunnit, but more a question of tragic accident, or murder?  Some Chroniclers point out that Walter Tirel was a crack shot with a bow, and most unlikely to make such a fatal error.  Others, however, quickly surmised that the incident was an act of God, one which brought a swift end to a wicked king.  Walter Tirel fled to France after that incident, whilst William's brother Henry, who was in the hunting party that day, rode off to Winchester where he had a row over whether he should succeed the throne (for the older brother, Robert Curthose, was abroad on a Crusade) and eventually occupied Winchester Castle, seizing the royal treasury.  A hastily-arranged coronation followed.  Well, I think I know what I think.

I feel that in a way, the New Forest never really shook off this episode, and as we travelled around the forest, you could almost feel the ghost of Tyrrell lurking in the trees.  It's also got an interesting parallel in my own family history, as reported previously.  Perhaps it's because the forest feels so little changed from all those centuries ago - it's so easy to look out on a silent view and see William's hunting party galloping over the heath.  I felt it throughout our stay here, most notably at Kingston Great Common Nature Reserve, where after a short walk from the roadside we appeared to escape every form of human life and effectively step back in history.  This unchanging character is what I love most about the forest - I know it'll be this way next year, or in ten years, or in another fifty, and in our ever-changing, fast-paced world, this is a source of comfort to me.