My mum moves out of Southsea tomorrow. She has been busy with the emotional task of chucking out what needs to be chucked out, and putting into storage what needs to be put into storage, as she continues to look for somewhere new to live in the old, familial lands of Nottingham.

Last week I headed back to the house for one last time, to be handed some final sentimental possessions: a grand-parental side table to attach to the back of my bike to take back to Brighton, one final plastic bag full of my Dad’s books to stick on the handlebars.

Our family’s association with Portsmouth and its environs is coming to an end, and we’re grateful for all the friendship, love and care we experienced there – especially from the volunteers at Boathouse 4, to whom we bequeathed a bunch of military history books for the mess room.

We’ve been gradually saying goodbye to assorted Solent haunts, and this time – quite on a whim – we took the ferry across to Gosport. This was one of my dad’s favourite time-killing afternoon trips – provided it could be combined with a walk to the excellent Powder Monkey Brew Pub in Priddy’s Hard. [1]

My first time on the Gosport ferry would have been many decades ago, with my dad’s father, my namesake Jim, a lifelong railwayman who spent his retirement taking his grandchild on day trips on the trains he could always ride for free.

The excitement of arriving at Portsmouth Harbour station, and seeing the sea between the wooden slats beneath the platforms built over the water, is a feeling that’s never left me.

Interchange stations by the sea are an avatar of infinite romance and possibility. Where to, sir? The ferry to the Isle of Wight? Or perhaps the one to northern France and its trains to unknown lands beyond?

For the less adventurous, there is always Gosport.

There has been a ferry here since at least the 16th century. In the mid 19th, the old watermen and their wherries were superseded by the “floating bridge” – a chain ferry [2] – and a steam-powered ferry service.

Heading down to the floating pontoon just north of the station, you find the distinctive, green, current ferry, today easing its way into position around a departing cruise ship. This service, after many mergers and takeovers, is now owned by some dodgy conglomerate based in The Falkland Islands.

A local tourism website lists the famous figures who have ridden the ferry over the years: “Timmy Mallet, Robert Pugh, Timothy Spall, Jayne Middlemiss, Neil Ruddock, Hugh Dennis…”.

Back in the present, a sign tells us that the night ferry – run by some opportune local boat owner to help drunks home after a night out – no longer operates, so if you arrive here after midnight, be ready for a long walk home.

Gosport, like many places, has seen better days. Its growth came from the burgeoning navy across the harbour, especially when the ordinance base was moved across in the 1760s, Pompey locals increasingly non-keen about the eternal possibility of being blown up by the huge amounts of gunpowder stored around and about.

The old armaments depot at Priddy’s Hard is now a museum, and the naval buildings are now gradually being converted into aspirational housing, though vegans might not enjoy renting a flat in the former slaughterhouse.

Closer to the ferry itself, deprivation is everywhere. The old, optimistic, modernist bus terminal and tourist information centre is to be imminently demolished, and the High Street is on its last (sea) legs. There are still some alleyways that capture the spirit of the old town, where drunk locals would be pressganged into a life a sea, and an old naval pub is now a nightclub catering to young, student seamen.

The Powder Monkey – now, you see, that name makes sense – was a worthwhile and calm destination for a half of ale, and provided views back over to the remnants of the British navy, its infamously pointless airplane-less flagship aircraft carrier looming hugely over everything else in view, a sea-grey white elephant reminding everyone that money is always available if the purpose is war, stupidity and violence.

I’ll return to Gosport one day. I’ll have to: beyond it, I am told, lies a hovercraft museum…

[1] A hard is an old Hampshire word for a firm, or paved, beach which is handy for hauling boats out of the water. It has nothing to do with erections, disappointingly.

[2] The rusting hulk of the Cowes ferry can be found just by Gosport ferry port – thanks to those who corrected my assertion that this was the old chain ferry!