Portsdown Hill (Fort Southwick)

131 Metres

430 Feet

2nd April 2025

Up Pompy – The Wrong Way

The day after reaching the top of Bournemouth, Christchurch and Poole (UA), and a debatable claim to the highest point of Southampton, I awoke in Southsea, and to another sparkling but breezy day. I had some hours to kill before shifting back home, and so, with the couple I had been staying with, took a long and invigorating stroll along the seafront to Southsea Castle. With small, middling and large boats, vessels and ships slipping in and out of the channel, and across to the Isle of Wight – like a south coast version of the Bosphorus – there was so much going on it never crossed my mind to take a photo.

Over a coffee in the attractive Southsea Castle cafe, I tediously blabbed on about recent adventures and reaching the highest points of counties, but that it had now come with the additional complication of the Unitary Authorities. I think it was just about then that they started getting twitchy about when I was actually going to leave. “So,” I asked, “how do I get to Portsdown Hill?” At which point I noticed the life force leaving them both. Almost without thinking they told me it was above the main hospital and gave me what they claimed to be easy and accurate directions.

After bidding them farewell I headed out of Southsea, the same way I had come the evening before, this time without any major traffic jams. I reached the M27 which I crossed, and despite confidence in my directional skills almost immediately ended up on an industrial estate that had me befuddled for over twenty minutes. I eventually discovered the tiny road out and up, more by luck than design. I was relieved to have escaped the labyrinth of small roads, not least because I suspected that the more observant bystanders in the area were concluding that I might have been casing one or two of the units in the pursuit of criminal endeavour.

I knew my way now. Continuing uphill I came to a roundabout and turned left. Almost immediately I suspected an error, and at the first opportunity turned right into a housing estate. Actually, I thought, if I continued up, I might get to the hospital (one of the primary reference points suggested by my friends). Despite the grid pattern estate roads, one way and no entry system had me in another pickle. I surrendered, pulled up and consulted the phone. No, there was no way to get to the hospital without going back down and out. The road I wanted was just above me. I could see it. Vehicles were heading up and down the road cut into the chalk.

Eventually the estate spat me out and I was, at last, on track, passing the hospital and heading up the steep chalk incline on Southwick Hill Road (which judging by its appearance must have once been a long cliff butting up to the sea), and to the top. I crossed over a roundabout heading west and then followed the road (the brilliantly named James Callaghan Drive), for a mile or so before it started to lose elevation. The day before I had stayed in the Nags Head in Lyme Regis, which in 1964 had entertained Harold Wilson. For younger readers, and any wider audience, most will have heard of Harold Wilson, but not so many perhaps of his successor as Labour leader, and then Prime Minister, James Callaghan (Uncle Jim). Two socialist PMs in two days. Maybe this could be a new hobby – seeking out places honouring socialist Prime Ministers (it probably wouldn’t take too long). Callaghan had been born in Pompy. He lost the 1979 election to the Tories. I had voted Labour but to no avail (I was just 21 and it was my first time). I graduated the same year, and (I won’t mince my words) along with millions of others, spent the next three years either out of work or in temporary employment, primarily due to the slash and burn policies that were subsequently implemented. Nice to have a road named after him, I thought, but I had to press on. I was at Fort Southwick, but that wasn’t where I wanted to be. My friends had been quite specific. The highest point was surely Fort Widley, just above Queen Alexandra Hospital. Who was I to argue with the locals? I turned the car round and then set off back the way I had come, and at the roundabout continued over and, soon enough, came to a turning into a small road that I knew was going to get me to Fort Widley.

It was a busy spot. I left the car and walked past the burger van and into some overgrowth where a path hinted at further progress towards the top. The huge 19th century fort came into view, but despite a scout around to left and right, further progress seemed impossible as the entire massive fortification was protected by a modern metal fence with pointy bits on top.

I strolled back to the car, satisfied that as far as I could, I had reached the top of Portsmouth. Buying a coffee (a very good one as it happens) from the Route 66 Burger van, I sat and contemplated the view for the first time. It was entirely familiar to me. Last summer I had camped in West Sussex in the pursuit of Blackdown Hill, the highest point in that county. On the evening of my arrival, I had climbed Beacon Hill a few miles to the south. At the summit I had taken a photo looking southwest towards Portsmouth.

Looking towards Portsmouth and Portsdown Hill from Beacon Hill – August 2024

Now I seemed to be looking at the same view, but just a lot closer. Magnificent. The Solent, picture blue, with the Isle of Wight basking offshore. There was no sign of either of the royal white elephant aircraft carriers in the harbour, which was just as well as on the occasions I have seen them in the past I have just got upset at their sheer expense and lack of justification.

The infamous, In My Imagination Incident

Time to head off, but not before a photo to record the moment

A closer view of Pompy – From Widley Fort

I was out of town and onto the M27 quick time. Heading east the road began to take a slow sweep to the right. I recognised it immediately. The last time I had driven this way the radio was on and, at this point, up popped the then Prime Minister Liz Truss, giving one of the most baleful resignation speeches ever (beaten only by her predecessor Boris Johnson in its lack of sincerity). She had indeed resigned!! I had laughed for at least the next five miles. What on earth would Uncle Jim have made of it all?

The story should end now, but there is a final twist. At home, and with the benefit of technology, it became clear that Fort Widley was less of a height than I had thought. It seemed that my friends may have sent me on a fool’s errand. Where then was the highest point? My luck was in. Getting somewhat lost on the Portsdown Hill ridge I had, as mentioned above, inadvertently arrived at Fort Southwick, which, by a few metres only, turns out to be the highest point. Phew! I hadn’t stepped out of the car and attempted the short walk to the actual highest point, which seems to be to the east of the fort, but I think a drive was enough to make do, and the photo I would have taken, was likely to have been very similar to the one from Fort Widley. It would have to do, for the moment. If I return to Portsmouth, which is probable, I’ll get it right.