The history of the premier Yacht Club, in which His Majesty King Edward VII has taken so great an interest, and of which in the past more particularly he has been so active a member, may properly fill a volume by itself. There is plenty of romance in the story; just as the record of the Club may be said to be a history of English yachting in miniature. It is the ambition of every wealthy yachtsman to belong to the Squadron (comparatively few realize it) and beyond the éclat which attaches to membership there are certain privileges which are valuable from a monetary point of view. One is that of entering foreign ports free of dues. A more sentimental privilege, shared by no other Club, is that of flying the white, or St George’s ensign, which is carried by vessels of the Royal Navy.
The old blockhouse or castle of Henry VIII, the present home of the Club, had long ceased to be of strategic importance, and even in the time of the Commonwealth had been chiefly used as a prison rather than as a defensive work; but during the French war a small garrison occupied it. The Restoration dramatist, William Davenant, the author of amongst other plays “The Temple of Love,” acted at Whitehall on Shrove Tuesday, 1634, and “The Wits,” his comic masterpiece, produced at a private house in Blackfriars in 1633, wrote a portion of his “Gondibert” whilst a prisoner in it.
Nowadays the uses of the castle and the character of its frequenters are as far apart as the poles from those of long ago. Now in place of the garrison of old, “fair ladies and gallant men” make the place alive in summer with chatter, gossip, and laughter; and though naval and military uniforms are occasionally seen within its precincts, the sartorial attractions are rather the toilettes of the ladies from the salons of Paquin, Redfern, Doucet and Marescho Soeurs than the tailoring of naval and military outfitters. The frequenters of the castle lawn during Regatta week form a crowd almost as cosmopolitan as it is brilliant. As a fair American off a “Yankee” yacht once said, after a London season, “It’s a sort of Hurlingham by the sea with a dash of Buckingham Palace garden party thrown in to steady things.”
There is only one other building of any great antiquity in West Cowes, the old Church of St Mary. It is, after all, however, not very ancient, for it only dates back to the middle half of the seventeenth century; but it has the distinction of being one of the four churches erected during the Protectorship of Oliver Cromwell. Though built in 1653 it had to wait for its consecration till after the Restoration.
The principal feature of the town of Cowes itself which remains in the mind is the narrowness of its main street (which in reality is its sole business thoroughfare of distinction), and the almost metropolitan beauty and costliness of the goods displayed in some of its shop windows. The High Street, however, is always fascinating during the yachting season by reason of the crowd of well-dressed and famous people who throng it; making it appear more like Bond Street in the merry month of May than the rather mean and narrow thoroughfare it actually is.
There is little to interest one at East Cowes, which is chiefly given over to fine houses and villa residences. Whippingham Church possesses attractions for most American visitors, and for those to whom a pretty church with sentimental memories, rather than distinguished architecture and antiquarian interest, appeals. Though originally one of the oldest churches in the island, it has (from the time of Nash’s vandalism) suffered much in the way of alterations, restorations so called, and additions. So that nowadays little remains of the original building or of antiquity.
Most yachting folk take a trip up the Medina to Newport, and historic Carisbrooke. It is well worth doing, although there is nothing of interest in Newport itself. But a description of the castle and its engrossing historical story and associations does not come within the scope of the present volume.
Few, save the “butterfly” type of visitor and yachtsmen, we fancy, after all regret the time for departure from Cowes when it comes. The town has little interest save its modern side of seafaring life, and fashionable amusements. And in this circumstance presents a sharp contrast to the fascinating and historical havens along the coast of the mainland both eastward and westward of it.
Along the coast westward, past pretty Gurnard Bay beloved by those who picnic, and Newtown haven, where, hidden away—much as is Buckler’s Hard across the Solent in Beaulieu River—lies the decaying Francheville, once an important harbour and town, rivalling in prosperity and population Newport itself, and then Yarmouth comes in sight almost at the extreme north-western corner of the Island.
It is a quaint, quiet, foreign-looking old place, lying low with a fine sweep of hills for a background, where a day or two can be pleasantly enough spent. In its past history one catches a glimpse of stirring days and sea-roving life such as distinguished the many ports of Devon and Cornwall in those far-off times when to go a-pirating was to show one’s enterprise and patriotism, and exhibited as well sound commercial instincts which would do credit to the average company promoter of the twentieth century. Yarmouth still possesses some standing as a port of embarkation and debarkation between the island and the mainland. It was so distinguished in its more prosperous days, and indeed as far back as the twelfth century, when it was incorporated by Baldwyn de Redvers, Earl of Devon. It was very probably in those remote times addicted to piracy, and that on a fairly extensive scale, for the town appears to have earned the vengeance of the French on several occasions. The latter were over at Yarmouth “much to the towne’s hurt and loss, and the people’s affright,” in the year 1377, when so many other seaports on the south-west coast suffered severely from Norman and Breton marauders. The place on that occasion was burnt almost to the ground and sacked. The inhabitants fleeing inland towards Newport, to return later to find their homes destroyed, the best ships in the harbour gone, and the smaller boats scuttled.