In Which I Attempt to Visit the Isle of Wight, and Mostly Manage It.

In August 1909, Nicholas II and his family sailed from Russia to the Isle of Wight to enjoy a few days of Cowes Week. In September 2025, I blatantly plagiarised Helen Azar and followed In the Steps of the Romanovs to as many related places as I could cram into a day and a half. We had worse weather than they did, nobody fired off a salute as we sailed in, and the theme of the trip was 'Sorry, we're closed'—despite all of which, I like to think that we had (somewhat) similar experiences. 

The south of England may as well be a foreign country to me. I know my way around London, but all in all I'm a northerner at heart and wouldn't have it any other way. My father/chauffeur/enabler actually came to Wight as a young child, but only remembers his dad telling him to stuff a stolen cassette player into his coat at the Osborne House car park. I was very eager to find out once and for all if it really is grim up north.

We got the ferry from Lymington to Yarmouth. It was a cold day, but clear and sunny so we decided to freeze on the top deck and watch the water. This was the point at which I started to become a teensy bit overexcited. I've visited places also visited by Nicholas and Alexandra, and I've seen belongings in museums, but I've never been anywhere the children might have stood. I remember looking at the silt in the sea and the reeds and thinking "They will have looked out at the coast like this, and it will have been the same colour." Perhaps, as the kids say, cringe. But I'm sure it's a feeling many of you will relate to. 

Due to last minute booking and limited hotel choice, we ended up at the Royal Hotel in Ventnor—the other side of the island from Cowes. This turned out to be one of those happy accidents. Not only has the hotel played host to Charles Dickens and Queen Victoria, but Ventnor is (allegedly) where Ivan Turgenev began writing his masterpiece Fathers & Sons. I could make a crack here about nihilism and the atmosphere of British seaside towns, but having recently promised a friend to be less like Ebenezer Scrooge I will refrain. Also, I got a bit tipsy on Friday night and wandered around the esplanade hunting down dogs to pet. 

Get the house red at the Spyglass

Really, the island is a far cry from what you picture on hearing the words "English seaside" (or, at least, what I picture). There's an almost mediterranean feel to the flora and the sheer quantity of thatched-roof cottages would induce nightmares in any fireman. I was particularly struck by the churches. In my neck of the woods churches are tall and thin, made up of beige bricks now black with age and soot. On the island they're short and squat and often quite pink. It's all very Hot Fuzz. 

And there are white cliffs on Wight! We came across them suddenly after a turn in the road and I felt like we should've started belting a verse of Jerusalem. 

There were few lambs of god, but we did stop at an Esso overlooked by several nosy cows

To get to Osborne House from the car park (where my dad re-enacted the crime of his youth for my benefit) you have to go through the giftshop. English Heritage doesn't miss a trick. But, happily, it started to rain as we reached the exit and most of the crowd stayed behind to wait it out, giving us a clear shot to the house.

I have to admit to being underwhelmed. The building itself is beautiful and certainly unusual for an English country house (and I think Nicholas and Alexandra took a lot of inspiration for Livadia from their numerous visits here), but the interior is...tired? Downstairs is all marble, gold, and opulence. Upstairs is draped with the sort of fantastic chintz that dominates in most of Alexandra Feodorovna's interior decor. But there's such a gloomy, oppressive atmosphere. Even Kensington didn't give me that impression.

That's not to say I was totally disappointed—far from it, I'm a big Winterhalter fan! And for anyone on the Romanov trail there are plenty of objects to look out for:

Heinrich von Angeli's spectacular portrait of the Hessian Grand Ducal family. Victoria wasn't included for the crime of being "too big" and not a word about poor Irene

Some familiar names from a tree of Queen Victoria's descendants at the time of her death 

I believe it's correct that she was Victoria Alix rather than Alix Victoria, but Wikipedia editors are tyrants

And then at last, we came down and out to the terrace. You catch glimpses of it as you're moving through and by the end I was getting a little impatient. Not only is it far and away the best feature of the house, but it's of course where one of the most well-known photos from the Romanovs' trip was taken:

I took two photos here. One at the right angle (though not taken from exactly the right place) for my own amusement:

please sir...may i have some more pixels...

Another at the wrong angle, having been given extensive pose corrections:

The big fence blocking off where the girls were actually walking is in place because the cornices are undergoing repair. I was...peeved—not least because I think English Heritage could withstand the lawsuit if a bit of plaster landed on my head—but I was very happy to finally have a chance to make my own comparison photos. 

 

We then wandered around the lower terrace, which I think in summer would make you feel like you're really in Italy, and started down towards the beach. A lovely winding path takes you there, and all the prominent trees have their own plaques telling you their species as well as when/why they were planted. Being big walkers, I'm sure the children would have loved it. 

The beach at the end is only a little stretch of sand, but am I in a place to criticise? I certainly don't have my own single-family beach. There was a hut selling ice cream and drinks for ridiculous prices, and a tiny grotto looking out at the sea hidden in some bushes. I imagined Alix and Queen Victoria sitting there and sketching the afternoon away. Probably had to bring their own ice cream. 

On our next stroll over to the Swiss Cottage I harboured secret hopes of seeing a red squirrel. Although statues along the trail promised various woodland creatures, I saw absolutely nothing. Then when we finally got to the Swiss Cottage, we found that the upper floor was shut due to "ongoing water ingress". Only one room on the lower floor has its original furnishings so that was another little let-down. 

I really liked the garden plots belonging to Queen Victoria's children. They're very cute and I'm sure made the children feel important. But I then turned around and saw the state of the thatched tool shed at the other side of the plots. It's entirely fenced off, but inside you can see the miniature wheelbarrows which belonged to the children. They are clearly not well-cared for. Full of dead leaves, with several of them so dirty and faded that you can barely read the monograms on the front panels. Even my dad, who couldn't care less about anyone with a title, was quite upset by this. 

On that downer note, we walked back to the car park and set off for East Cowes.

I thought initially that the Romanov memorial is in a strange place. A small park at the edge of the road, much of which is taken up by a children's playground. But when you look at a map of the town there's not really anywhere else for it. The park was built in 1887 so Olga and Tatiana would almost certainly have passed it on their way into town. I'm not sure what feeling that inspires, but the same sort I get when I think of Victoria of Hesse driving by the Ipatiev House in 1914.

Overall, I approve. The cross is big without being overwhelming and the bronze portraits are beautifully done. I was pleased that people are still leaving flowers (possibly some left over from when the Grand Duchess Elizabeth society held a memorial there in June).

Leading up to the memorial, there are two big boards with information about the family and the trip to Cowes, as well as one dedicated to Elizaveta Feodorovna. I believe the memorial was largely paid for by members of her society here in the U.K. 

I will say, if you undertake this trip yourself then steer clear of East Cowes—it's not worth it! I'd hoped to buy a postcard or some other little touristy thing but I don't think I could have found a loaf of bread for sale if I were on the brink of starving to death. We were there about 4pm on a Saturday (by no means an absurd time, I'm sure you'd agree) and found that practically everything there was shut. Even the heritage centre!

Olga and Tatiana got the ferry across to the main part of Cowes for now-obvious reasons. We took a quick detour on our drive back home and found it to be more or less Ventnor on a larger scale. I'd love to go back with some other fanatics and spend a day or two trying to work out where the following was taken, but my poor father had just about had enough by then. 

Unfortunately St. Mildred's Church in Whippingham is closed on Saturdays so I didn't get an opportunity to poke around. When we booked I was glad to be going at all and tried to put it out of my mind, but on the day I was sad to miss it. Victoria of Hesse is buried here, and tucked away in a corner is a modest cross and plaque put up by Victoria in memory of her sisters. I did get to look at the church, but this is another thing I'd like to go back and see properly on a less bodged-together trip. 

My final night was very pleasant. Further drinks were had, further dogs were petted, and I thought a lot about Turgenev. I thought about the Romanovs on their final night, the Solent lit up by English ships arranged for a special display. They sailed back quietly the next morning, as we did, and the weather took a turn for the worse, as it did for us. If Wight seemed like a foreign country to me then it must have been another planet for the children. 

Is it grim up north? I don't think so. The south is bleak to me and I don't much like the seaside to begin with. I like moors and hills and lakes. But I'm beyond glad to have seen all these things and, as I say, am already gearing up to go back. Hopefully after the despotic monopoly of Wightlink has come to an end and those of us who aren't members of an imperial family can afford to take the ferries.

Can it be that their prayers and their tears are fruitless? Can it be that love, sacred devoted love, is not all powerful? Oh, no! However passionate, sinful or rebellious the heart hidden in the tomb, the flowers growing over it peep at us serenely with their innocent eyes; they tell us not only of eternal peace, of that great peace of “indifferent” nature; they tell us also of eternal reconciliation and of life without end.

        -  Fathers and Sons, Turgenev (tr. Richard Gilbert Hare)