My first grievance with the town of Poole is the name. ‘Poole’ is not the easiest name to say to people when describing where you live. It either comes out as Pewl, and you sound like you’re trying to be posh, or it sounds like you’re just talking about your dear friend, Paul.

My second is how the town is displayed on train journeys. When looking up train times, where each town is abbreviated to three letters, my journey tells me that I am travelling from London Waterloo (WAT) to Poole (POO) – as if the ticket machine is telling me it’s own disgruntled opinion of the town before I venture home. I do not like thinking that I am travelling to Poo, that I will find my car parked in the Poo train station, and that I’ll drive home, to my house, in Poo. 

Grievances aside, I like Poole. It has a certain charm about it, like an elderly man who has many tales to tell you. Every time I go there I find out a little bit more about it – I notice one more historic building I’d never noticed was there, or I discover a different street I didn’t know about.

My morning today, however, hadn’t started particularly well. It was raining, for one, I was running late, and I’d accidentally drawn with pen onto my white t-shirt whilst packing my bag – but I wasn’t going to let these dampen my day.

As I arrived at St James’ Church in Poole Old Town, I realised I was the youngest there by about thirty years. It’s Dorset Architectural Heritage week, you see – so Google had told me yesterday – and as a result, there were free historic tours taking place all over the county, many at places which were usually closed to the public. I picked a few I liked the sound of in Poole and set out for a day of learning.

Everyone around me was wearing an array of different coloured fleeces, had parka jackets in pouches hanging from their bags, and were wearing open-toed sandals. I, in contrast, was wearing denim hot pants, leggings, and a white t-shirt with pen on my boob. I felt slightly out of place, I must admit, but I was quickly assumed to be a history or architecture student, and was left to get my notebook out of my bag.

Being totally truthful, the area of Poole Old Town that St James’ Church was in was an area I didn’t even know existed, which was strange, really, as it’s only two roads away from the High Street. But there it was, full of Georgian houses, with a regal air of tranquility about it. It was nothing short of magical, and I found my admiration for Poole was growing. Poole was suddenly more than just a few pubs on the quay – it had a life.

St James’ Church, Poole

Our tour guide was the History Manager at Poole Museum and had previously lived at Poole House, a grand Georgian house opposite the church, and when he lived there in the 1980s had excavated the grounds only to discover a medieval boatyard 2 metres below the ground surface – the only medieval boatyard to have been discovered in northern Europe, in fact. Now why he decided to break apart the floor to see what was beneath it, I don’t quite know. Perhaps eating his dinner one night he thought his dining room was a bit too dull and needed to instead be filled with archaeologists holding tiny spades.

Poole House, where a medieval boatyard was discovered.

West End House, opposite St James’ church. I’ll take it!

The original church of St James dates back to the 12th century, but the church that stands on the site today were late additions by James De Havilland, the mayor and richest tradesman of the town in the late 1400s. His father, Thomas De Havilland, had acquired the trading privileges for Poole in the 15th century, bringing a wealth of opportunities to the town. The famous actresses Olivia De Hallivand and Joan Fontane, famous for the films Gone With The Wind and Alfred Hitchcock’s Rebecca from the 1930s were actually descendants from the same family.

As we entered the church, I noticed the weathered Poole coat of arms in stone at the entrance. I knew that it had a dolphin in it, the ‘king of the sea’, but I’d never noticed the three scallops that sit above it before. They’re the emblem of St James, an apostle of Jesus, apparently due the fact that when he died he was taken to the hole city of Santiago de Compostela in Spain, and in a big storm his body was lost overboard, when it was recovered it was covered in scallops. In the Middle Ages, pilgrims departed on licensed ships from Poole on pilgrimages to Santiago de Compostela, and funnily enough, one of the ships captains who was granted a license by the King to carry pilgrims was none other then Harry Paye – the infamous Poole pirate. Quite a juxtaposition of day jobs isn’t it – ferrying pilgrims by day, pillaging ships for gold by night, but each to their own.

Inside, the Church was beautiful. It wasn’t as old as I’d pictured from the outside, though; our tour guide told us that it had a refit in 1819 due to prosperity from the Newfoundland Trade to the tune of £11,700 – about half a million in today’s money. His exact words, which made me stifle a laugh and had to pretend I was coughing, were:’ The Georgians had money, and boy did they like swagger.’ The big pine columns stretching up to the vaulted ceiling, made up of 4 smaller pine columns, have been reported to be made from Newfoundland, or were masts from the very ships which sailed there. But, as rumours generally happen, they’re a distortion of the truth – it was more likely that they were simply made from the same timber which is used to make the ships masts heading to Newfoundland, though I prefer the rumour. It’s quite nice thinking that the ships that helped bring wealth to Poole are now inside the most important church in the town, isn’t it?

Inside the church. Quite pretty, isn’t it?

The original church was apparently very worn down – in 1515 an account of the church had said that there was water to the depth of 3ft found beneath to main aisle, many stone slabs were broken and needed removing, and many of the floorboards under the pews were loose. They’d tried to remove some so they wouldn’t be a hazard for people to walk on, so they wouldnt kneel to pray only to lose their feet down the gaps, but on removing them, they discovered there were several coffins beneath them with nothing more than the boards covering them, and the smell that erupted up into the church was apparently so foul, so pungent, so rancid, that they decided to put the boards back and leave it exactly as it was. They’d just pave over them instead – problem solved.

There were apparently many squabbles in Church, which I found rather strange. There was me imagining prayers to be a very peaceful and calm affair, but there were reportedly lots of arguments. Families ‘rented’ box pews, you see, often screwing name plaques onto the door of the pew to mark their territory, and usually had them for their entire lifetimes. If a family moved away and returned back, they often wanted to have their same pew back, even if a new family had moved in. There are no box pews downstairs, but upstairs in the gallery, which we were kindly given access to, was an assortment of box pews in the most odd colour I’ve ever seen painted in a church – pea green. Churches are usually regal, very holy, lots of gold or red or dark wood to emphasise the opulence. This church looks more like a hospital. But, perhaps that’s exactly what it was. When we asked our friendly tour guide why the pews were such a, well, interesting colour choice, he said that the mostly likely option was that it was the leftover paint from World War 1, the hospital green of the soldiers wars. Why no one has ever repainted them, I’m not sure, but it brings a sense of individuality to the church which I actually rather like. There are even holes dotted about in the pews to place small candles so people could better read their hymn books on a dark Sunday morning.

The ‘hospital green’ pews – look a bit strange, but quirky, don’t they?

And the Church itself is made up from bits and pieces from other places. There was intricate oak panels that had come from the old St Paul’s church, which is now demolished and a roundabout (though the burial ground is still under it), while large oak panelling near the alter had come from Canford Magna church, the oldest church in the area. Even the flags hanging above the pews have their fair share of history – the faded Union Jack flag hanging up was actually the very first flag to fly over Paris when France was liberated from the Nazis in 1944.

Now, the idea that I was a history student must have spread in little whispers around the group, as they wondered who that young girl on her own was, because, on no less than four occasions, I was asked in a quiet whisper what I was studying, and why I was taking notes. I was the only person there with a notebook, which I found rather odd – surely no one here could remember everything being churned out at us from our guide. So, I simply replied ‘why aren’t you taking notes?’ to which they shrugged in a ‘touché’ sort of way and smiled at me. In the end, I just smiled and nodded, yes, yes I am a student – it was far easier than admitting I like doing this sort of thing, on my own, for fun – and the very sweet old couples would let me shuffle to the front in order to get better photos.