Stephen Roberts

What connects Lakes’ poet Robert Southey, artist Edmund Wimperis and retail magnate Mr. Selfridge? Answer: They all lived in Christchurch, in the traditional county of Hampshire, at one time or another. Wimperis and Selfridge are buried here. Here, pithily stated, is what I love about both England and the town where I hang my hat. History abounds. For a modest borough of some 40,000 souls, Christchurch punches above its weight in terms of historical clout. Twentyodd royal personages set foot here in days past: everyone from King John to Princess Victoria. John simply couldn’t stay away, rocking up here no fewer than ten times. Why, we even had the German Kaiser here in 1907 (Wilhelm II). An Anglo-saxon fortified burh under Alfred the Great, Christchurch profited from the Norman Conquest with a mention in the Domesday Book and its feature building, the late-11th century Priory (right), reputedly England’s longest parish church at 311 feet head to toe. It also has a classic motte and bailey castle, besieged more than once in its eventful life and left ruinous on the orders of Oliver Cromwell. The town has stored up smuggling tales in the same way the perpetrators would have stacked up barrels of contraband. If you believe all the tales of secret tunnels we must be living atop a veritable warren of subterranean passageways. We even had a battle here in 1784 between smugglers and revenue men. It’s not just history that makes you fall in love with a place though, it’s also the vista and here we are blessed with sea, harbour, two rivers (Avon and Stour), a mill stream, venerable bridges, a pair of quays, and beaches.