Stepping Into History at the King Charles

If you turn off the main promenade of the Quay and wander down Thames Street, you’ll find yourself standing before one of the most historic and atmospheric corners of Old Poole. King Charles Poole Click to open side panel for more information isn’t just a pub; it’s a living piece of the town's Tudor and medieval heritage that has stood its ground for centuries.

A Building with Two Souls

The pub is fascinatingly divided into two distinct historical sections. The main bar area is a classic example of Tudor architecture, but the adjoining Kings' Banquet Hall is even older, constructed from original oak ship beams and once serving as a medieval wool house.

• Ancient Roots: While it became a public house named "The New Inn" around 1770, the building itself dates back to the 14th century.
• A Royal Connection: Despite the name, it’s actually named after King Charles X of France, who landed at Poole Quay while fleeing his country in 1830.
• Original Features: Inside, you’ll find low-slung roof beams, wooden wall paneling, and a stunning 15th-century stone fireplace that was hidden behind a Victorian one for years.

Spirits and Sea Shanties

King Charles Poole is legendary for its "extra" residents. It is widely considered one of the most haunted buildings in Poole, with tales of a tragic landlady named Emily who is said to still wander the upper rooms.

• Vibrant Entertainment: The medieval hall hosts live music every weekend, and the pub is a hub for local traditions like sea shanty nights and Irish music sessions.
• Traditional Fare: It remains a favorite for its home-cooked comfort food, particularly its fresh local seafood and popular Sunday carvery.
• Community Hub: Unlike some of the more tourist-heavy spots directly on the water, this "cosy tavern" maintains a strong local community feel where you can still find a game of bar billiards or darts.

The Back-Cover Classroom: Remembering the Arithmetic Tables

For those of us who grew up in the era of the Beano Book and the weekly trip to Bright & Son for Nanny’s bread, the back of a school exercise book or a daily planner wasn't just cardboard—it was a definitive guide to the universe. Printed in tidy rows of black ink were the Arithmetic Tables, a dense grid of numbers that we were expected to memorize until they became as second nature as the lyrics to a Slade anthem.

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A Grid of Certainty

Before the age of the digital calculator, these tables were our "Magic Wand," allowing us to navigate the world of commerce long before we were old enough to enjoy a pint at The Portsmouth Hoy.

• The Times Tables: From the simple "two times two" to the dreaded "twelve times twelve," these columns were the backbone of our education.
• Weights and Measures: Often found alongside the multiplication grids were the conversion tables—telling us exactly how many ounces were in a pound or how many inches made a foot.
• The Design: There was a beautiful, functional simplicity to them. No colorful characters like Bertie Bassett or Basil Brush here; just the raw, logic-driven facts of life.

Practicing by the Fire

I remember sitting on the rug by the gas fire, the blue flames flickering as I tried to recite my sevens and nines. While the Philips portable radio played quietly in the background, I would trace the lines of the table with a finger, hoping the numbers would sink in.

It was a quiet, tactile pursuit, much like assembling a Meccano crane or painting the fine details of an Airfix model. There was a reward at the end, of course—perhaps a few licorice Allsorts or a yummy pink wafer from the Huntley & Palmers tin if I got the answers right.

Beyond the Classroom

These tables weren't just for school; they were for real life. You needed that mental math when you went to The Broadway in Broadstone to buy your first 7" single. You used it to count your change after buying a 1966 Christmas stamp at the post office or a ticket for the Poole Park Model Railway.

Even as we grew older and the "Parfum de Caractère" of Brut replaced the smell of pencil shavings, the rhythm of those tables stayed with us. They were a shared language of the 60s and 70s, as ubiquitous as The Clangers or the sight of a Red Robin on a winter bird table.

A Legacy of Logic

Looking at a set of arithmetic tables today is like looking at a map of a simpler time. In our current world of 2026, where everything is instant and digital, there is something deeply grounding about the "twelve times twelve." It represents a time when we carried our knowledge on the back of our notebooks and in the front of our minds.

The tables remind us that while fashions change and buildings like Corfe Castle may crumble, the logic of "two plus two" remains as solid as a Purbeck stone.

The Winter Visitor: A Splash of Red in the Garden

In the quiet, frosted mornings of a British winter, there is one small bird that has captured our collective hearts more than any other. With its vibrant chest and inquisitive nature, the European Robin is the undisputed star of the garden—a tiny, feathered icon of the season that has fluttered through our Christmas cards and childhood memories for generations.

A Symbol of the Season

The image of a robin perched on a snow-covered branch or a garden spade is a timeless touchstone. It’s no wonder that when the Royal Mail released the landmark 1966 Christmas stamps, the robin was a contender for the most beloved festive symbol, appearing alongside the hand-drawn snowmen and kings of the era.

For many of us, the robin represents a connection to the natural world that feels incredibly personal. They are famously bold, often following gardeners around in hopes of an upturned worm—a sight as common in a Hamworthy backyard as the smell of fresh bread from J. Bright & Son.

A Childhood Companion

Growing up in the 60s and 70s, the robin was part of the fabric of our lives:

• The Literature: We’d spot them in the pages of our Beano Books or in the background of the adventures in Look-in magazine.
• The Hobbies: While we spent hours inside by the gas fire meticulously building Meccano cranes or painting an Airfix Hovercraft, the robin was our constant companion just outside the window.
• The Treats: Every winter tea time, featuring a tin of Huntley & Palmers Family Circle biscuits and a plate of yummy wafers, felt more complete if a robin was visible on the bird table.

From the Quay to the Woods

Whether you were taking a stroll past The Portsmouth Hoy on Poole Quay or exploring the historic woods near Corfe Castle, the robin’s cheerful whistle was the soundtrack to our walks. Its song is as distinctive and comforting as the crackle of a Philips portable radio tuning into the latest hit by The Sweet or Slade.

There is a whimsical quality to the robin that makes it feel like it could belong in the stop-motion world of The Clangers or share a joke with Basil Brush (though Basil might have found a way to turn it into a pun—Boom! Boom!).

A Lasting Legacy of Color

In a world that has moved on to the digital age of 2026, the robin remains unchanged. It is a "Magnetic Personality" in its own right, drawing our eyes to the garden just as surely as Wooly Willy drew our wands.

The robin reminds us of the simple joys of a British winter: the crunch of frost, the warmth of a shared bag of licorice Allsorts, and the vibrant splash of red against a grey sky. It is a little bird with a big history, and it remains a cherished part of our neighborhood story.

"Boom! Boom!" – The Everlasting Wit of Basil Brush

For anyone who spent their Saturday evenings huddled in front of the television in the 1970s, there was one fox who reigned supreme over the airwaves. With his impeccably tailored tweed suit, his signature laugh, and a wit sharper than a Meccano girder, Basil Brush was the undisputed king of children's entertainment.

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A Dapper Resident of the Living Room

The Basil Brush Annual 1976 captures the character at the height of his fame. Seeing that bushy tail and mischievous grin on a bright red cover brings back the specific excitement of a 1970s Christmas morning. Basil wasn’t just a puppet; he was a personality with "Magnetic Appeal" that rivaled even Wooly Willy.

While the adults might have been out at The Portsmouth Hoy on Poole Quay or splashing on some Brut for a night of glam rock featuring Slade and The Sweet, the kids were safely at home with Basil.

The Soundtrack of Tea Time

Watching Basil usually involved a specific set of sensory cues:

• The Snacks: A plate of yummy wafer biscuits (usually strawberry or chocolate) and perhaps a few licorice Allsorts from a paper bag.
• The Atmosphere: Warming your toes by the gas fire as the blue flames flickered.
• The Puns: Every joke followed by that legendary "Boom! Boom!" and a shake of the tail.

Basil’s humor was sophisticated enough for the parents but silly enough for the children. He was the "Gold Medallist" of banter, much like J. Bright & Son were the gold medallists of bread in Hamworthy.

A World of Imagination

Basil belonged to an era of wonderful physical media. If you weren't watching him on the BBC, you might be using your Give-A-Show Projector to see him in still frames on your bedroom wall. He shared the limelight with other icons of the time, from the knitted charm of The Clangers to the suburban anxieties of Butterflies.

Even a simple trip to Old Poole or a walk past the Poole Park Model Railway felt like it could be part of a Basil Brush adventure. There was a sense of mischief in the air that Basil perfectly embodied.

The Legacy of the Brush

Today, in 2026, the world looks very different than it did in the pages of that 1976 annual. We no longer rely on a Philips portable radio for our only source of music, and the cars on The Broadway in Broadstone are far sleeker than the Citroëns of old.

However, the charm of a well-timed pun and a raucous laugh remains timeless. Basil Brush reminds us of a time when the biggest thrill was a new Beano Book and a tin of Huntley & Palmers biscuits. He remains a beloved fox for all seasons. Boom! Boom!

A Pint on the Quay: The Timeless Call of The Portsmouth Hoy

There is a specific kind of magic that settles over Poole Quay as the sun begins to dip below the horizon, reflecting off the water where fishing boats and pleasure craft bob in the gentle wake of the passing harbor traffic. For generations of locals and visitors alike, the true heart of this waterfront experience is found within the blue-washed walls of The Portsmouth Hoy.

Standing proudly with its distinctive red-tiled roof and towering chimneys, "The Hoy" is more than just a pub; it is a landmark of maritime history and a sanctuary of local character.

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A View Steeped in History

The building itself tells a story of Old Poole, back when the quay was a bustling hub of international trade and rugged sailors. Its sturdy architecture, braced by metal supports, has weathered decades of coastal storms, standing as a silent witness to the town's evolution from a fishing port to a beloved tourist destination.

• The Facade: The pale blue exterior is an unmistakable beacon for anyone walking along the harbor.
• The Location: Positioned right on the quay, it offers the perfect vantage point to watch the world go by—much like the slow, rhythmic journey of the Swanage Railway as it snakes past Corfe Castle.

The Soundtrack of a Saturday Night

In the 1970s, an evening at The Portsmouth Hoy felt like the height of social sophistication. While the kids were at home huddled around a Philips portable radio listening to Slade, T-Rex, or The Sweet, the adults were down on the quay, soaking in the atmosphere.

The air would be a mix of salt spray and the "Parfum de Caractère" of Brut aftershave. Conversations flowed as easily as the pints, often topped with the iconic Guinness harp. It was a time of shared laughter, where every stranger felt like a "Magnetic Personality," even if they didn't have the "Magic Wand" of a Wooly Willy card to prove it.

Simple Pleasures and Local Flavors

Before the era of elaborate gastro-pub menus, the joys were simpler. You might stop by for a drink after a morning spent watching the Poole Park Model Railway or shopping for "Gold Medallist" cakes at J. Bright & Son in Hamworthy.

Inside, the pub was (and is) a cozy retreat. Imagine a rainy afternoon by the fire—perhaps not a modern gas fire, but something with that same comforting orange glow—sharing a few licorice Allsorts or some colorful wafer biscuits with family.

A Lasting Connection

The Portsmouth Hoy remains a vital thread in the fabric of Poole. It connects us to the days of the 1966 Christmas stamps and the whimsical television magic of The Clangers. Whether you’re sitting outside on a summer day watching the sun sparkle on the water or ducking inside for shelter from a Purbeck gale, the pub offers a sense of continuity in a changing world.

It’s a place where history isn't just in the museum; it’s in the rafters, in the stories told across the bar, and in the very stones of the quay.

The Irresistible Crunch of the Wafer Biscuit

If there is one treat that defines the colorful, textured landscape of a British childhood, it is the wafer biscuit. Whether they were tucked into a school lunchbox or served on a floral plate for Sunday tea, these light-as-air snacks held a special place in our hearts—and our biscuit tins.

A Symphony of Layers and Colors

The beauty of the wafer biscuit lies in its simplicity and its variety. Looking at a fresh batch, you’re immediately struck by the vibrant hues: the deep cocoa of the chocolate layer, the soft blush of strawberry pink, and the sunny glow of lemon or vanilla.

• The Texture: Each biscuit is a marvel of engineering, with thin, grid-patterned layers providing that signature "snap" before melting away on the tongue.
• The Cream: Sandwiched between those crispy walls is a smooth, sweet filling that brings the whole experience together.
• The Ritual: Everyone had their own way of eating them—some would bite through all the layers at once, while others would carefully peel them apart to save the cream for last.

The Star of the Family Circle

No tea time in Old Poole was complete without the appearance of the Huntley & Palmers Family Circle tin. This iconic orange tin, boasting a massive $3\frac{1}{2}\text{lbs}$ of assorted treats, was the ultimate centerpiece for a family gathering.

While the tin featured heavy hitters like the Nice biscuit and various chocolate-covered rounds, the pink wafer was often the first to disappear. It was the perfect companion to a hot cup of tea, enjoyed while warming your toes by the gas fire or listening to the latest charts on your Philips portable radio.

A Saturday Afternoon Staple

Imagine a typical Saturday in the 70s: you might have spent the morning watching the locomotives at the Poole Park Model Railway or exploring the historic ruins of Corfe Castle. After a quick stop at J. Bright & Son for some fresh bread, you’d head home for a quiet afternoon of hobbies.

As you worked on your latest Meccano masterpiece or carefully swapped slides in your Give-A-Show Projector, a plate of wafer biscuits was the fuel of choice. They were as much a part of the sensory experience of childhood as the smell of Brut aftershave or the quirky, knitted world of The Clangers.

Timeless Sweetness

The wafer biscuit, much like Bertie Bassett or the 1966 Christmas stamps, is a nostalgic touchstone. In a world that often feels as fast-paced as a journey on the Swanage Railway, these simple, sugary delights remind us to slow down and savor the crunch.

Whether you prefer the chocolate, the strawberry, or the classic vanilla, the wafer biscuit remains a "yummy" reminder of the flavors that defined our most cherished years.

The Bitter-Sweet Charm of "Butterflies"

If there was one show that perfectly captured the quiet, suburban ennui of the late 1970s and early 80s, it was Butterflies. While other sitcoms of the era relied on slapstick or loud catchphrases, Carla Lane’s masterpiece gave us something far more delicate: the story of Ria Parkinson, a woman fluttering between the life she had and the life she imagined.

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A Kitchen Table Drama

At the heart of the show was the contrast between Ria and her husband, Ben. Ben, played with a wonderfully dry detachment by Geoffrey Palmer, was a man of routines and lepidoptery (the study of moths and butterflies). He was as predictable as the daily news on a Philips portable radio.

Their kitchen was the stage for most of the drama, usually centered around Ria’s infamously bad cooking. It was a time of burnt offerings and culinary experiments that never quite landed—a far cry from the "Gold Medallist" cakes you’d find at J. Bright & Son in Hamworthy. Yet, there was something deeply relatable about those family meals. We all remember sitting around a table with a Huntley & Palmers Family Circle tin nearby, navigating the small, everyday tensions of family life.

The Temptation of the "What If?"

Then there was Leonard. Where Ben was stable and silent, Leonard was romantic and attentive. Their meetings in the park—often feeling as staged and innocent as a slide in a Give-A-Show Projector—represented the "what if" that many people felt in the suburbs.

The show moved at a gentle pace, much like a lazy afternoon watching the Poole Park Model Railway or the Swanage Railway chugging past Corfe Castle. It wasn’t about big explosions; it was about the small, magnetic pulls of the heart, not unlike the tiny iron filings on a Wooly Willy card.

A Reflection of the Era

• The Music: The melancholy theme song by Dolly Parton set the tone before a single word was spoken. It felt like the soundtrack to a world changing from the glam-rock energy of The Sweet or Slade into something a bit more introspective.
• The Style: From Ria's feathered hair to the "Parfum de Caractère" of a Saturday night out, the show was a perfect time capsule of British life.
• The Humor: It was found in the mundane—the bickering sons, Adam and Russell, who were probably more interested in their Meccano sets or the latest Beano than their parents' emotional lives.

Why We Still Love Ria

Butterflies remains special because it treated the domestic "traps" we all feel with such empathy. It understood that life isn't always as colorful as a bag of licorice Allsorts or as whimsical as The Clangers. Sometimes, it’s just about trying to find a bit of magic in the everyday, even if it’s just over a cup of tea by the gas fire.

Ria Parkinson taught us that it's okay to have dreams, even if they stay as fragile and fleeting as the butterflies Ben kept in his study.