Young's Park Goodrington

At the northern half of Goodrington seafront and about a very determined stone’s throw away from the beach is “Young’s Park”.

   Looking at what goes on there from the vantage point of our hotel window it is close to impossible to believe that this vast expanse of lawn is consecrated ground. During the day it is traversed with people, people with dogs, people with children and people with dogs and children all heading to or from the beach. It is no surprise that while we were staying there during the heatwave of June 2026 that the park, for those of our species whose DNA or genes with heliotropic strains, that this open area was a magnet for them.

  Residents of Goodrington can be referred to as “Goodringtonians”. There is some logic to that but a further step in that logic would reduce their collective noun to “Goodies”. No doubt in the dusk and dark there will have been a few preparations to make more “Goodies”.

   The hotel we were staying in was a purpose built naval hospital to care for the sick and wounded during the Napoleonic Wars. Of the men who came to the hospital over three hundred of them died and were buried in Young’s Park. None of them have headstones to commemorate their time on earth or their service to King and country apart from one.

   At the edge of the consecrated ground and near the boating lake is a single solitary headstone and grave plot. It stands out from the surrounding neatly manicured lawn because it has been wilded. Poppies, drying grass, buttercups and dandelions tussle with one another in the breeze for attention. When I explored Yong’s Park there was a fresh bouquet resting against the headstone.

   This is the grave of Major Thomas Hill who died on 22nd July 1815 before he could return home to Helston in Cornwall where he was born. He served in the 47th Lancashire Regiment of Foot whose exploits were with the Duke of Wellington during the Peninsula War which forced Napoleon Bonaparte to retreat to France and then back to Paris.

   Major Hill’s regimental battle honours included The Battle of Barossa (1811), the siege of Tarifa (1811), the siege of San Sebastian (1813) and the Battle of Bayonne (1814).

   There are no records detailing when Major Hill was repatriated to the hospital. The Battle of Waterloo too place on 18th June 1815 so there is a remote possibility that he may have been injured there and shipped back to England for treatment.

   A bit of a mystery.

   Despite my best efforts it was not possible to find out why the Major was the only soldier of the three hundred who died at the hospital to have the only headstone. It could simply be as a result of his rank unlike modern war graves where the tradition is to be remembered as a name on a headstone or memorial in a way that ignores rank.

   A bit of a mystery.

   In the 1980’s the Major most definitely could not serve his country but he did serve the community of Goodrington with full honours. Back then the owners of the nearby pleasure and theme park cast their eyes over Young’s Park as somewhere they could expand their business. The residents formed a pressure group to fight the plans and won. They attributed some of their success to the three hundred men buried there and in particular the grave of the Major which signified the ground was consecrated. That could be a reason for the bouquet of fresh flowers. The area was destined to be for “quiet recreation”.

   There is a small expanse of water in the park called “May’s Pool”. Centuries ago parents of local children told them that it was bottomless to discourage and scare them away from diving in or pushing someone in as a prank. This myth was given more credence when in 1667 Richard Thorn fell off of his horse and drowned in the pond.

   It took until the 1980’s for this myth to be totally debunked and busted. The area was being revamped and the so called “bottomless pool” was found to be only two feet deep. This revelation made me wonder at the veracity of Richard Thorn’s story. If he did fall off of his horse into two feet of water surely he could have got back to his feet and sludged and squelched his way to safety. That is unless he was injured badly enough, couldn’t get up and subsequently drowned. If that was the cause of his soggy ending then when his body was recovered why didn’t anyone notice the depth of the pond? I am tending to believe that the demon drink had some part in his demise.

   A bit of a mystery.

   Apart from people sitting on benches or stretched out across the unmarked graves one of the quietist activities taking place was yacht racing on May’s Pond.

   When we reached the pond on our walk we sat on a bench overlooking the pond and near to the Major’s grave. The swan pedaloes were moored up for the night in the centre. In the corner nearest to where we were sitting a model yacht race was taking place. We watched the squadron of six yachts manoeuvre around a fairly simple course.

   The leader had a distinctive blue hull and was well in front to become the eventual winner. In second place and a country mile away was a yacht with a yellow hull. The other four were well and truly out with the washing. No sooner had all of them crossed the finish line then the countdown for the next race started. The competitors jibed and tacked behind the start line for best position and then the call to start echoed around an otherwise peaceful part of the park.

   “Which one are you backing?” I asked Heather.

   “The blue one. Which one are you backing?”

   “The yellow one.”

   Heather’s choice by now was streaking ahead leaving the yellow well back in second and the other four looking like they were in a race of their own. The blue yacht took an approach to the first marker well away from the shortest line hoping to gain more ground by straightening the first turn as much as possible. It was a good tactic until it ran aground. As it rocked back and forth the yellow one, following a more prudent course rounded the corner with consummate ease. As it approached the second turn the blue one became free of the silt and returned to the race. It even passed the other four and began to close the gap on my choice but alas not quickly enough. My choice won by a healthy margin.

   “I was doing alright until it ran aground” Heather said with a note of despondency.

   “Shall we stay for another race…best of three?” I asked.

   “I don’t think so, shall we go back to the hotel. That sun is still burning. Did you put your factor fifty on before we came out?”

   And so, we headed back to the hotel with the sound of the ten second countdown to the next yacht race fading with each step we took and leaving our friendly competition as a draw.