I went on the last hovercraft in Europe – and I felt like James Bond

HURTLING across the Solent, I’m travelling in what feels to be one part plane, one part boat –  and one part vintage James Bond aqua-craft machine.

The huge Union Jack flag painted across the front of the hovercraft, plus the 1970s-style leather airline seats inside, make me feel that I should be sitting next to a polo-necked, chestnut-haired Roger Moore smoking a cheroot.

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But, almost 60 years on from their debut, in a far-off era when they looked destined to replace the ferry as the jet-age method of crossing water in record time, the Southsea-to-Isle of Wight hovercraft is now the last service of its kind in Europe.

Incredibly, the journey from the South Coast to the harbour town of Ryde takes a mere ten minutes.

It also makes the Isle of Wight effortlessly accessible from the mainland.

Leaving London Waterloo at 9.30am, I’m able to travel to Portsmouth and Southsea, catch the hovercraft to the island, walk over a footbridge to Ryde station, take the Tube-size train to Shanklin on the south-east coast and walk to the Fisherman’s Cottage pub for an al-fresco lunch of whitebait, salad and crisp white wine — all by 1pm.

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The diamond-shaped island itself has a serene calmness about it.

Chalk cliffs, buttery sand beaches, sheltered harbours and tapering country lanes make for an atmosphere that feels like the summer holidays of my childhood, though with accommodation options that are distinctly up to speed with contemporary comforts.

The Lakeside Hotel and Spa is just a few minutes outside Ryde and, despite a fairly bland modern exterior, has rooms that exude a funky, 1950s Scandinavian vibe — with warm wood furnishings, giant retro lampshades and a spacious outdoor terrace overlooking the navy waters of a sun-dappled lake.

An excellent (and very cheap) bus service makes exploring the parts of the island not covered by the bijou train line a breeze.

Straw boaters

Queen Victoria adored the Isle of Wight and lived here almost permanently after the death of her husband Albert, in 1861, until her death in 1901.

She lived at Osborne House, an Italianate residence that has, on her insistence, remained unaltered since her death.

The grand dining room is laid out as if guests of the late monarch are expected any minute.

After the grandiose busts, cherubs, mirrors and pillars of Osborne, the village of Cowes is a breezy respite.

Home to one of the world’s most prestigious sailing regattas each summer, it doesn’t surprise me that the narrow lanes around the high street are filled with expensive boutiques offering an array of red trousers, straw boaters and espadrilles.

A final walk along the Egypt Promenade takes me from Cowes to Gurnard.

The village is lined with vintage green chalets and grassy expanses where, on a cloudless spring morning, an hour spent reading a book, soaking up the rays and watching dogs catch Frisbees on the beach seems infinitely more pleasurable than queuing in an airport for yet another budget flight abroad.

Victorian splendour, 1960s-style waterborne tech and modern, chic hotels — reaching the Isle of Wight by hovercraft gave me at least three different phases of time travel in 48 hours.

I suspect the late Roger Moore would have approved.

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