Boatman’s Holiday

In Week 18 of 1661, can Sam's post-coronation depression be lifted by a jaunt away from home in the non-stop company of... his wife?

After the exuberance of last week, normal life seemed incredibly dull indeed. Overseeing officers at work, overseeing workmen at home. Barely seeing my wife, barely seeing any pretty women. Even theatre shows drew more snores than applause.

I greatly needed a break. And, as is often the way, work provided one: a trip to Portsmouth, our finest dock outside of London, to sell provisions from old voyages and pay off the sailors from the same.

Hendrick Danckerts’ wonderful panoramic painting of Portsmouth – Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

Yes, it would mean missing the reestablished May Day parades at Hyde Park for the second year running. But it gave me the chance to enjoy several sights of historic importance, while among the merriest of companies.

But could that really include… Elisabeth, my wife?! Having spent so long apart of late, I was not sure it was wise to bind ourselves to one another so constantly for an entire week – especially after my father taught me of some recent animosity between him and my mother…

Apparently mother is not letting father share her bed, having grown jealous of the ugly wench that lived there lately as their maid – and the fact that father showed the wench favour when mother expressed displeasure with her work.

Father has asked me to intercede with mother on his behalf, all of which troubles me very much. Since moving in together fully, Elisabeth and I have managed to avoid such jealous squabbles, despite the favour we’ve often shown to others.

Is that because our regular requirements to be apart ensure that the joys of reuniting overcome any upsets caused by our occasional sharings of affection beyond each other? And if so, would being closer result in similar jealousies as have befallen my parents?

Sir William Batten and Sir William Penn persuaded me otherwise. So it was that I sent for Elisabeth to join me at home on Monday night – where she had not lain a great while due to the works being done to our house – and the very next day, we set off to Portsmouth together.

With Mr Creed also, of course, my colleague in my cousin’s employ. Along the way, our coach also collected Mr Hayter and his wife. At first I thought the latter old, in her travelling mask – but when she came to remove it, she proved to be really rather pretty.

It quickly became a joyous voyage, with plentiful mirth and pleasurable meals at every stop – not least because Mr Creed considers himself a connoisseur. He can be exceedingly unmannerly with how he goes about it, but his refusal to dine on anything but the most epicure-like tastes did admittedly benefit us all.

Our first stop was in Petersfield, where we slept in the exact same room where lately lay the King himself last January.

At least, that’s what they told us. I suppose they could say that to all the guests…

Playing bowls outside our tavern – Alexander van Bredael, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

We played bowls whilst drinking ourselves quite merry – though not so merry as to prevent us comfortably riding the rest of the way to Portsmouth. The coastal town seems to me a very pleasant and strong place, with its surrounding city wall, fortifications, and many burly men.

There we lay at the Red Lion Inn, the very same one where Haslerigg, Scott, and Walton held their council (and indeed the city) against Lord Lambert and his army, preparing the way for General Monck’s march from Scotland – an action which soon led to the King’s return.

Alas, those three heroes of the Restoration were also regicides, and so did not live to see last week’s celebrations. Killing the King’s father meant you lost more than just your ticket to the coronation – you lost your head too.

It wasn’t all pleasure, of course – Mr Creed and I had work to do. But now I reflect on it, even that was a delight. All the officers of the Yard showed me great respect, and I walked with them to the dock to see all the stores.

I was much pleased with the sight of the place, and took it upon myself to bring them all to dinner and treat them handsomely.

We saw The Montagu, and no finer ship could be named after my cousin (except that named after His Majesty, of course). And we saw the room where the Duke of Buckingham was killed by Felton, whose death sentence made him a martyr in most men’s eyes for doing away with that rogue.

Mr Creed told me he had spoken to the Mayor of Portsmouth, Mr Lardner, about getting me the freedom of the town – but alas, the Mayor was unwilling. Fair’s fair – I’m hardly a well-known personality.

Although, on our return voyage via the inn in Petersfield, Elisabeth and I were given a different room to the one we had on the journey down, which they told us was the exact same room where lately lay…?

…the Queen Mother herself, last January.

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In return for these words of mine, please pay just one word of yours. Where have you been for business, personal or employed, that turned out to be something of a pleasure trip?

Speak with you again soon – and may the Lord bless you and keep you till then!