The Stories That Inspired The Music
Hardway
The Hayward brothers were two waterman from Point (now known as old Portsmouth). They worked long hard days out on the sheltered waters of Portsmouth Harbour, moving boats and ferrying supplies, equipment and men to various vessels and locations around its shore.
Their luck was graced however by the winds of change, when one fateful day whilst out working they came across a ship adrift being slowly but surely pushed in by the wind. Fearing it stricken, the two brothers rowed hard to catch up with the loose vessel before it could run aground and block the vital narrow waterways and creeks in the northern reaches of the harbour.
They boarded to find not a soul on board and with no claims of ownership coming forward over the following weeks, the two were able to claim salvage rights on the vessel which they then duly sold to acquire a handsome sum. Their new found wealth brought an end to their days on the water, allowing them to purchase a large swathe of waterside land on the Gosport side of the Harbour known as a Hardway Farm, employing the locals to work it. As the years passed by however the land was gradually sold piecemeal for development, eventually evolving into the coastal village of Hardway which today includes the famous Jolly Roger pub.
To this day if your lucky, you can occasionally catch a glimpse of the rare Gilkicker Weevil lurking in the darker corners of this fine nautical establishment.
Kitty Knox
Kitknox hill lies in the village of Curdridge. For many a year tales of ghostly apparitions of a young lady abound in this location which can still heard whispered on the mouths of locals to this day. The unfortunate origin of this haunting belies a classic story of unrequited love.
Legend has it that the well heeled Knocks family once inhabited a moated property on the summit of what is now known as Kitknox hill. Kitty Knocks was the beloved daughter of the family who one fateful summer fell deeply in love with a handsome but poor farm labourer, much to the displeasure of her well to do parents.
Being affluent and influential, the girls father forced the young man to leave Curdridge for good perhaps sealing his fate through one of the many naval pressgangs that once operated in the area. So broken-hearted was the young Kitty at the prospect of never again seeing her true love, she ended the tale in the manner by which many of these kind of tales seem to, by drowning herself in a local pond.
To this day if you go to St Peters church in the village and look on the south east corner of the tower an unusual gargoyle can be seen. However, in contrast with the usual grotesquery often displayed by these sculptures this one forms the face of a beautiful young maiden. Her stony face looking directly towards the summit of Kitknox hill, fuelling the legend that it is a depiction of Kitty Knox herself, forever gazing back towards her final resting place.
Other gargoyles on the church look in different directions, facing approximately towards both the Cricketers pub in Curdridge and the Wheatsheaf pub in nearby Shedfield. Both excellent establishments should a thirsty Weevil need refreshing after a hard day “researching” for song content.
Country Pub
This song is a deviation from the Weevils usual historical fare. It is a homage to a place that is important to us and rather than celebrating history and heritage, it aims to outline a concern that something important and current will soon join the ranks of history if voices aren’t heard and changes aren't made.
The local pub has been at the heart of life in our nation for a thousand years and the Weevils believe that these fine establishments have a far bigger and profound role to play in our society then merely providing a place to drink. We firmly believe that pubs lie at the heart and soul of our communities and continue to perform a vital social lifeline for millions to this day.
When the Weevils research a song we first walk the coastlines, fields, forests, streets and churchyards that pertain to our subject matter. We then find the nearest pub which we deem most representative of the time period and lifestyles of the people we wish to write about. Through this we are able to better connect with the feelings and mindset those people may have had (indeed many of the pubs we visit were the very same places where the lives of the charachters within our songs played out).
This process has given us a deep insight into the value of an old pub and a passion to try to conserve them. A well preserved historical pub can truly reach through the ages, giving guests an insight and connection with real lived history and cultural heritage in a way that’s far more real, visceral and effective then any Castle, Stately home or ancient ruin is able to provide.
These vitally important cultural and community assets however, have been under nothing less than economic attack over recent years being choked beyond the threshold of affordability. These financial pressures have been forced upon pubs by external agents, and are not the result of uncontrollable changes in trends as is often portrayed. When pubs struggle to make 19 pence profit on a drink which they sold for a fiver, with brewing and distribution accounted for, up to 90% of the money on a pint is lost elsewhere. Its therefore clear that excessively applied financial pressure is a far more truthful explanation for the decline of the pub then the narrative that a place that has been at he centre of life in our nation for over a thousand years has suddenly out of the blue become unfashionable in the space of decade.
Sadly, due to this, a busy packed out pub nowadays is not necessarily a successful one and vast numbers of these important cultural, historical and community assets have ultimately been forced to close there doors for the last time, in many cases after serving their community for centuries.
Pubs are some of the most important artefacts of cultural heritage in this nation.
A village without a pub is a soulless dormitory.
The Weevils support the local pub.
Long live the local…..
Betty Mundy’s Bottom
Nestled in the beautiful Hampshire countryside betwixt the villages of Corhampton and Bishops Waltham lies a pleasant shallow valley known as Betty Mundy’s Bottom. For many a year tales have abounded regarding the namesake of this secluded beauty spot.
A popular tale has it that Betty Mundy was a kind of fairy or local nature spirit who inhabited the local woodlands, granting wishes to those who were fortunate to cross her path and take her liking (we are told that Hampshire fairies were quite different to the dainty slight variety seen in other counties but rather buxom sturdy lasses who can handle their cider).
Another tale has Betty Mundy as a witch who lived alone in a nearby cottage which was for years locally known as Betty Mundys cottage (this was sadly knocked down in the 1970s and replaced with a large modern house). From here she would cast spells, curse local cattle with disease and sour milk and the like.
Perhaps a less magical but no less interesting take on her tale is that Betty Mundy was in cahoots with Navy press gangs, aiding them by drinking with local farm labourers before tricking them into taking the kings shilling, pressing them to a life at sea.
The tale adopted by the Weevils is a darker one. Legend has it that once upon a time sailors, once paid off from their ships in Portsmouth would occasionally take the quiet lane that passes Betty Mundys bottom as part of their Journey northwards to London and beyond (Indeed this road is called Sailors Lane to this day). However, those unfortunate enough to take rest at Betty Mundys Bottom would find themselves seduced by a buxom and alluring young lady who would encourage them to drink with her by the fire. Once suitably intoxicated, the ruthless maiden would dispatch the lustful drunken sailors before stealing their well earnt pay.
This song serves as a precautionary tale to young sailors who may inadvertantly find themselves adrift in the Hampshire countryside. Beware of Betty Mundy’s bottom, lest it lead you astray.
Should you find yourself adrift near Betty Mundys bottom and in requirement of safe refuge, their is a trail eastwards that takes you down into Exton where you can head downt to the Shoe pub. Here you can enjoy a pint in safety, with the tranquil River Meon passing by your feet and the majestic Old Winchester Hill filling the distance.
First Fleet
If you find yourself walking the iconic fortifications that lie at the entrance to Portsmouth Harbour, between the round tower, the square tower in the section known as the hotwalls, you will see a number of monuments which refer to Australia. These memorials serve to remind us of the first fleet of settlers who left these shores in the years shortly after Captain Cooks discovery of that mysterious southern landmass.
Many of these were held prisoner within the walls of those very fortifications before their voyage departed, a stay which was delayed further due to the sailors initially refusing to embark due to pay a dispute. However, on the 10th of June the fleet of sailors, rogues and thieves set sail for their first destination, resupply in Santa Cruz, Tenerife. From here they crossed the mighty Atlantic leaving the northern hemisphere forever before landing at their next stop in Rio Di Janiero. Many would not make this leg of the jouney succumbing to the arduous conditions on board. Once resupplied in September of that year they headed south east to their last stop, Capetown. The last port in the known world.
From here the fleet was challenged by the roaring southern ocean. For weeks the vessels were jostled by some of the largest seas on earth whilst supplies gradually dwindled as they searched for a land that did not exist to them not a year before.
Fortune finally became however, when one of the vessels, HMS Friendship, spied a wild untamed shore. The fleet finally entered Botany Bay and became the first colony of what was to become a nation.
.
The harrowing story did not end there with the settlers facing many trials and tribulations once ashore which included the establishment of first contact with the Indigenous peoples of that land but that’s for another song.
Before embarking on a long sea voyage the Weevils like to ensure they are suitably hydrated and victualed for the Journey ahead. Old Portsmouth (Point) was historically the centre of debauchery for Portsmouth’s Sailors and many suitable establishments, remain to this day where this can be achieved. You may find us the Duke of Wellington, marvelling at the Iron Dukes great victory against the French via the artwork on the walls, or in the Dolphin which is perhaps one of the friendliest and finest remaining examples of the once numerous Pompey boozers.
The Gosport Tragedy
Maybe a reimagining rather than a cover song, this tells the story surrounding the fate of a young local bride to be known as pretty Polly, her cruel murder at the hands of her betrothed, a local sailor called William.
Divine justice was served however, when William who whilst attempting to escape the noose by disappearing to sea, encountered a raging storm around the back of the Isle of Wight. This resulted in a fitting end for the ruthless young sailor as he and his ship were wrecked before being dragged down into the inky blackness of St Helens deep.
Strangely this song is generally unknown in the town of its origin. It has survived however, in the far flung mountains of Appalachia where the descendants of Gosporters have kept the tale alive (interestingly whilst most probably not having a clue where on earth Gosport actually is).
The Weevils salute our Appalachian cousins for preserving our homegrown tragedies throughout the generations. It is time however for us Gosport lads to return this tragedy to its place of origin, and to keep the memory of Pretty Polly alive in her home town.
The Weevils have never been to Appalachia and cant speak for the pubs there, although we hope to sample them one day. Until then, good old Gosport has loads where you’ll often find us, if you see us at the bar we’ll surely except a drink!
Kate Hunt
In the years following the end of the English Civil war fear of witchcraft in England was high. This tale is the story of and Old lady from Curdridge called Kate Hunt who was unlucky enough to arouse the suspicion of her community.
Kate Hunt was a widow who lived in the village of Curdridge. She was not a rich woman however she did own a small plot off land from which owing to her formidable knowledge and skill as a gardener she was able to grow enough food for her to survive on.
One day however a local landowner was having trees felled which landed across the verdant garden she needed to sustain herself. However, villagers were perplexed when the following morning the enormous boughs had been relocated to a location in the lane nearby.
The impossibility of a single human, let alone a frail old woman such as Kate to move such a load over a single night led to speculation that Kate was in fact a Witch.
Through the following months chins wagged and tales grew tall, with people explaining that they had seen Kate riding through the sky to nearby Bishops Waltham upon a bewitched wooden gate, or that at night they had seen her change form into a white hare.
One fateful night a local hunter returned from the local woodlands. He claimed that he seen a large white hare moving around in the undergrowth. He split a silver coin, loaded it into a musket and a shot rang through the Hampshire night wounding but not killing the creature as he watched it scurry frantically into the dark. Back in Curdridge the next day however the body of Kate Hunt was found, the victim of a gunshot wound.
Nowadays there are other ways to get to Bishops Waltham than upon an enchanted garden gate. However, should you find yourself there, pop into the Barleycorn, a favourite haunt of the Weevils. You could also visit the former prison of the French Admiral Villeneuve who was held at the Crown pub after his defeat at the Battle of Trafalgar.
The most skilful and lucky pub hunters however, may get to feature in a real piece of Hampshire folklore. The Grapes is a most rare and beautiful pub, however, it’s opening hours are so mysterious, legend has it even the owners don’t know what they are.
Cider on the Bridge
The fate of Polly Crook was an unfortunate one. She was an elderly, easy going kind of girl who had a penchant for smoking fine pipe tobacco and strong distilled Hampshire cider. Her favourite place to pursue these noble pursuits was on a bridge along Coal Park Lane in Bursledon where she could sit , smoke, drink and watch the the sleepy Hamble river go by in the distance.
An unfortunate end came to this idyllic scene however, when one fateful day, in her sun and cider induced haze she dropped her pipe onto her frock which being partially infused with strong alcohol quickly caught fire and was soon ablaze.
The tale of Polly has survived in the area for generations with reports of her ghost being seen upon that very bridge even up to this very day. The Weevils like to think that maybe now Polly can happily enjoy her cider in piece for ever more.
To save the Weevils from the aforementioned risk associated with drinking copious amounts of cider atop an old railway bridge, they generally like to focus this activity in one of the many great local establishments. The Old Ship in nearby Swanwick is a great historic pub built in the 16th century. Alternatively there is the Jolly Sailor across the water (of Howards Way fame for you oldies) or the Weevils favourite, the locally run Vine over in old Bursledon.
Hook on the Grave
Its was once an old tradition in rural Hampshire to leave a fag hook (scythe) upon the graves of the recently departed. It was believed that this would prevent their corpses reanimating, trapping them forever on the earthly plain and preventing them from reaching the kingdom of heaven.
This tale tells of a young man from a Meon Valley farm who was sent away by his father to go make himself. However, at a fork on the trail not far from where he started, he encountered one of the poor unfortunate souls who did not receive the sacred rite of having a hook placed on their grave.
The undead old crone then proceeded to jump onto the young mans back, forcing him to find a place to bury her lest he be stuck with her forever. In his frantic effort to find consecrated ground within which he could bury and be rid of his macabre burden he visited all Meon Valley Churches north of Wickham in a single night, however his panicked excavations were thwarted by the angry cries of the dead he had been inadvertently disturbing.
In a last ditch effort he circled back to his starting point at Corhampton. Corhampton Church (otherwise known as the church with no name) is unusual in that it holds no dedication to a saint, regardless to this fact, the young man dug frantically at the southern side of the nave and when deep enough he through the old ladies corpse in, packing the soil as quickly and as tightly as he could. He then ran back to his fathers farm to grab an iron hook which he returned to place firmly atop of the grave of the newly buried crone ensuring her days of haunting the living were over.
After a hard evening burying reanimated corpses in a darkened Corhampton graveyard, the Weevils work up a thirst. This problem is always solved across the road at the Bucks Head in Meonstoke, where we like to accompany our refreshment with one of the best Pizza’s you can find in all of old Wessex.
Nancy Johnson
The tale of Nancy Johnson (aka Gosport Nancy) has been told by contemporary and traditional folk singers alike. However, there is a darker side to this tale.
Nancy Johnson was a Gosport girl, who’s formidable skills in festivity, hospitality and ”intimate company” were famous across the fleet. She regularly picked up her customers in the local Gosport pubs such as the Fox, the Queens Hotel and the India Arms. Her caring nature, magnetic personality and “attention to detail” endeared her to the hearts of sailors in way which is seldom seen by other members of her profession. Whilst many a sailor, might find their pockets lighter then anticipated after a dalliance with her, such was the quality of the service that most would turn a blind eye and just chalk it up to money well spent.
However, the oldest profession in the world can be a dangerous one and this certainly proved true for Nancy. One fateful night she picked up a punter from the Fox pub trying her usual pocket lightening tricks before he left in the morning. Catching her in the act the punter flew into a rage dispatching poor Nancy with a pocket knife before running to escape.
Word got around the fleet that Nancy Johnson was no more and many a heartbroken jolly jack tar decided that her death should be avenged. Gosport sailors rallied round and tracked down the killer ensuring he received a fate befitting of his actions. However, Nancy was never to return, remaining in the heart of the Gosport sailor now only through song.
The oldest profession in the world is (perhaps) not practiced to the scale it once was in Gosport. However the Weevils may still be found in one of the establishments Nancy Johnson once plied her trade. The Fox still remains on North Cross street, and the Queens Hotel is perhaps the most pristine example of a Gosport pub from Nancy’s era. The Weevils have been lucky enough to perform our music there and it definitely firmly remains a favourite haunt for the band.
The Owlers
The historic coastline of the Solent around the entrance to Southampton water is characterised by low soft cliffs interspersed by narrow chines and various creeks, marshes.
In the days of sail, these secluded spots in such close proximity to the bustling merchant port made fertile ground for the Owler’s to practice their nocturnal trade. A local name for smuggling gangs who made their living liberating contraband from these great ships before transporting them into the Hampshire countryside and beyond.
One family who was known to be involved in this activity was the Hinxman family of Titchfield who owned a swathe of some coastal farmland on the shores of the Solent (now the site of the Solent Breezes holiday park). They would turn a blind eye to goods being landed on their quiet shores by night, allowing its movement across their land on carts, no doubt for a healthy cut.
Once safely ashore, the contraband was moved through Titchfield where its route joined that of the river Meon, being taken up through Funtley and up through Higgler’s farm before reaching Wickham. There are even tales of tunnels and vaults underneath Wickham square where contraband could be secreted through the day. From Wickham the goods then were pressed on by the Meon up to Soberton, where quiet drink with the vicar in the White Lion pub could secure stowage in a vault beneath the nearby St Peters Church.
At the northern end of the Valley around East Meon, local wells were used to hide contraband through the day until nightfall when locals would place themselves at vantages points in the surrounding downs (one known spot was at East Down Farm) to keep a look out for the revenue men who scoured the countryside through the night for signs of this lucrative but illicit trade. They would alert the Owlers to the presence of the lawmen by shining gas torches down to the roads below.
From here goods were moved into the north of the county and onwards into Berkshire, Surrey or onwards to London.
After coming ashore along the dark and quiet Titchfield coastline the Weevils like to warm their toes at one of the villages fine hostelries and can regularly be sighted in the Queens Head. However, should you wish to strike a bargain with a vicar to secrete your smuggled contraband you still cant go wrong with a visit to the White Lion in Soberton. The Weevils can frequently be seen enjoying an ale in a cosy corner of this pub. Even when were having a day off the smuggling.
Up the Creek
Up the s%!t creek without a paddle, as the saying goes. Its a term that Weevil members find themselves using alot to describe the various situations they manage to get themselves in.
It became apparent however, that the Weevils connection to this globally used saying maybe more then merely its suitability to describe our general circumstances. It seems the term has its origins in our home town of Gosport.
The Naval hospital of Haslar was built in 1745 to service the requirements of thigh numbers of wounded sailors returning from their deployments at sea. Upon arrival back to old England, the stricken men would be taken off their ships and placed into rowing boats where they were rowed up Haslar creek to the hospital jetty where they could be taken into the care of the Hospital. The term originates from the fact that if you were in the boat and not paddling, it meant you were therefore a patient and likely in a poor state.
Medical care in 18th century Naval hospitals was archaic with many not surviving. It is though up to 8000 bodies were locked up in the walls of the hospital. In fact, conditions could be so hard that many deemed their chances of survival would increase outside the hospital walls and so took their chances trying to escape to freedom through a network of pipes that led them back out to sea .
Those that were lucky enough to survive long enough to heal however, would find themselves heading back up the creek once again, this time towards the re-join their vessels and face the guns once more.
When the Weevils find themselves up this particular creek (with or without said paddle), we usually stop in at the Fighting Cocks. A most welcoming old pub with a fantastic folk scene.
The Glorious First of June
You don’t grow up in the on the shores of Portsmouth Harbour without picking up a little bit of Naval History, so the Weevils thought they’d write a song to commemorate a largescale Naval battle known as the glorious first of June.
The year was 1794 and the French revolution was in full swing. Britain’s plan was to subvert the new government of Maximillien Robespierre by intercepting vital shipments of grain transporting from America, triggering a food crisis and instigating civil unrest within France.
A fleet of ships under Admiral Lord Howe left Portsmouth to execute to seek and destroy the French convoy which was under command of the Admiral Vilaret-Joyeux.
For the month of May the British fleet scoured the bay of Biscay but were skilfully evaded by the French Admiral, however, on the morning of the first day of June, the French fleet appeared from the mist of the coast of Ushant.
The British plan was to come alongside the French line but at the last minute turn hard between the French ships to align their guns with the unarmed bow and sterns of the French ship. The efficacy of this bold tactic however was stemmed slightly by communications failures which led to only seven of the British ships undertaking the manoeuvre.
A bloody battle ensued with the British finally taking the military victory. Despite this however, the grain which was the target of the operation was able to escape rendering the apparent military victory a strategic failure.
Three Tree Hill
Though you wouldn’t think it now with all the superstores and industrial estates, but the village of Hedge End was once in the heart of the Hampshire countryside. It once came with all the folk and fairy tales that some of more picturesque areas of the county have been lucky enough to preserve.
This story centres around a hedge end farmer upon who’s land was located a hill with three beautiful old oak trees located on its summit. Every midsummer the man would walk to the top of the hill around dusk. He would place a primrose on the ground and then quietly sit. Before long he would hear movement followed by green flashes in the corner of his eye. Eventually these flashes would reveal themselves to be three beautiful green ladies who would then dance and twirl in the fading light.
As the man aged he passed the farm onto his three sons but not before declaring a dying wish to continue the tradition in the midsummers when he was gone. As the years moved forwards the old superstitions began to lose their hold on the minds of Hampshire folk and the fathers dying wish was not upheld by the now aging sons, and the green ladies of three tree hill were slowly forgotten.
This brings us to the 1970s when the requirements of a changing Hampshire made the value of the land increase. The surviving son sold the land to accommodate the m27 motorway and trading estate that characterises the place today and the old oak trees were removed. Legend has it that when the old trees were felled the screams could be heard as far away as Botley.
For the Weevils, this is more than a mere children’s fairy story. Rather it serves as an analogy to the death of a way of life, the folk traditions and ways of old Hampshire. The Weevils however are passionate about breathing new life into this very thing and aim to help preserve the tales, stories and cultural identity of our fair county for all the generations to come.
Spanish Seas
The pleasant coastal village of Hamble le Rice today it serves as one of the nations hubs of yachting and recreational boating, however it has been a haven for sailors and watermen for more than a thousand years. The picturesque church of St Andrews can be seen at the top of the hill which from their descends down to the bustling river bank and remnants of the lives of these sailors can be seen literally inscribed into the ancient oak of the Church door.
It was a local tradition for the superstitious sailors to scour a line on the door before they left on a voyage. They would then resolve the cross upon their safe arrival home. The story the Weevils tell focusses on one of the lines that can still be seen this day that never received its resolving cross. It tells the tale of a local sailor who was tragic lost whilst working far from home in the warmer waters off the coast of Spain. It try to capture the thoughts of his love back home in the village, for whom his line will now never cross again.
Being keen sailors and watermen themselves, the Weevils have frequently found themselves enjoying the hospitality available in Hamble-le Rice. Whilst we have never felt the need to scour our line into the Church door before we started, we have however, on occasion found it quite difficult to get back up the hill after we've finished.