The Sights of Basingstoke

Those readers who reside outside the UK (and I think there are a couple) may not appreciate at once the resonances of the name Basingstoke. Within these islands, the Hampshire town is one of a select group of places whose very mention summons up associations of soulless blandness, of modernist weariness of spirit, coupled with a resentful defiance of this image by the governing bodies of the locality. My experience of Basingstoke has been confined to the journey from the railway station to the old church on the high street where I went to a couple of meetings some while ago. I find the excursion through the covered malls and small squares that punctuate them strangely exciting, but it's true, there isn't much to it.

My day off, however, took me to this unglamorous town to find the ruins. Within sight of the railway are the remains of two medieval chapels now surrounded by the understated necropolis that is Basingstoke cemetery. They're good, the ruins. You can see why Basingstoke's heritage organisations puff them a bit, because there's not much old stuff around otherwise. There's not a lot to delay you, even in pleasant sunshine. But they're fun. Really.

The entrance lodge is a fine example of 'rogue Gothic': Victoriana doesn't get much more freakish.

Chapel Hill didn't delay me long, so I took that journey through the malls once more and went to the Willis Museum. There's a display on about Jane Austen at the moment, and an exhibition by an artist who makes tiny cut-out images from railway tickets, which is a brilliant idea. I enjoyed that, and the transgressive thrill of looking out of the upstairs window and observing the good citizens of Basingstoke about their business.